give it a try. They only do the pureshit here now, since the tobacco banthree years ago.”The two men were speaking inhushed, secretive tones, but Nigelhad little trouble making out their conversation from across thesparsely populated Amsterdam café,even with the ceiling fans whirringand clicking away. They were fromhis neck of the woods, these two. Hewasn’t familiar with their faces butrecognised their voices from some-where.The sceptic, Jonathan, was middle-aged, with a round, stubbly face,topped with dark, wavy hair that hadwon its morning battle with hiscomb. He was dressed in a plain butrumpled pastel blue shirt, baggy black trousers and a pair of sensible black brogues.His cheeky companion looked agood twenty years older. Hiswashed-out hair was neatly trimmedand slicked back, but the twinkle inhis eye and his rosy cheeks gave theimpression of a youthful spirit. A bright, ill-fitting ensemble con-firmed this suspicion. The light or-ange t-shirt with black sleeves, andmatching black shorts were em- bossed with the letters ‘BFC’. Thekit was completed with a pair of black stockings, pulled up to theknees. On his feet sat a pair of brightgreen sandals. Nameless was polishing what turnedout to be a pair of thick-rimmed sun-glasses with his napkin. He lookedeven more pretentious than hesounded when he put them back on.Returned to their station they now perched themselves on the end of hisnose. What was the point of dark lenses when the dim light barely punctuated the dense smoky air?The conversation became more ani-mated as Nameless tried to cajole astill unconvinced Jonathan.“I dunno. Really? You having meon?”“Well, I better just say, in case thereare any pesky gutter press listeningin, this is all made up and in no wayrepresentative of my professional be-liefs.”Jonathan looked relieved. “Oh.