“Hey, you’re late. Morgan, isn’t it? The English guy? Chesney told me about you.”

Morgan stepped inside. The door closed noiselessly behind him. A bad start, but he’d have to make the best of it.

“I’m sorry. I always get Chesney coffee and sandwiches from a place round the corner.” He followed the other man through to the reception area. “Where is he?”

“The way I heard it, his gallbladder’s playing up again, so they rushed me over from South Street.”

“What do I call you?”

“Smith will do.” He sat behind the desk, took out a pack of Marlboros and lit one. “A busy night out there, but at least there are a couple of good movies on TV. So you’re from London, they tell me?”

“That’s right.”

“So what are you doing over here?”

“Oh, pastures new, you know how it is.”

“Lucky you got a green card.”

“Well, I’d been doing this kind of thing over there. It helped.”

Smith nodded. “Anyway, let’s see what you’ve got in that bag.” Morgan’s stomach turned hollow and he hesitated. Smith reached for the bag. “I’m starving, and what with them rushing me over here at the last minute, I had no chance to get anything.”

Morgan hurriedly pulled the bag up, put it on the desk, opened it, produced coffee and sandwiches and passed them over.

“What about you?” Smith asked.

“I’ll have mine later. I’ll do the rounds first.”

“Suit yourself.” Smith started to unwrap a sandwich.

“I’ll get started, then. I’ll just drop my bag in the rest room.”

He moved to the other end of the foyer and did just that, then called to Smith, “See you later.”

“Take your time.” Smith switched on the television, and Morgan entered the elevator and pressed the buttons that took him down to the vault.

He checked it thoroughly, giving what he’d put in the coffee time to work, although the effect was almost instantaneous and good for five hours, or so they’d told him. He trawled the vault, hundreds of steel boxes behind bars, went back to the elevator and ascended to the fourth floor.