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While some were pressing forward to get a better look, others were trying to move away. Mary stood with her back against the platform wall taking in what was going on around her.

  “What happened?” Asked an elderly man.

  A woman in a red coat was holding her head in hands. “I saw it all,” she said between sobs. Mary held her breath. “It was awful,” she went on, “a little coloured chap, jumped under the train.”

  “Did he really jump?” Someone else asked, “or was he pushed?”

  “Oh no, I was standing right by him,” the woman in the red coat replied. “Saw him clear as day. Waited ‘till the train got right up to him and them jumped in front of it. I’d say it was suicide, no doubt about it.”

  Mary made her way out of the station. “There’ll be no tubes for hours.” She heard a man say. “God knows when we’ll get home tonight. Selfish bastard, why didn’t he top himself somewhere else?” There was commotion everywhere. She came out in Trafalgar Square, in the distance she could hear sirens. It was still raining.

  Mustafa sat balanced in his chair, his feet propped on his big, new desk. He surveyed the room around him and smiled with satisfaction. It was altogether more in keeping with the aspirations of a warrior for the cause. There was a knock at the door, Iqbal poked his head into the room.

  “Mrs Mulcahey to see you,” he said. Mustafa leapt to his feet and stood respectfully behind the desk as Mary was shown in.

“Welcome, welcome, a thousand welcomes,” he seem pleased to see her. “Mint tea for our honoured guest,” he told the man.

  Mary held up her hand. “No tea for me thank you Mustafa,” she said. “If you have anything stronger, I wouldn’t mind a proper drink.”

  Mustafa smiled apologetically. “Alcohol is forbidden to the true believer,” he said piously.  He dismissed Iqbal with a wave. “No tea and make sure we’re not disturbed.” When they were alone he unlocked a draw in the desk and took out a couple of glasses and a bottle of single malt. He poured some into each glass and carried them over to another corner of the room. They sat in easy chairs facing each other across a smart coffee table.

  “Things seem to be looking up,” she said brightly.

  “Thanks to you good lady, thanks to you,” Mustafa replied. She smiled graciously. They made small talk for a few moments before he got up and went back to his desk. He dug around for a few seconds then drew out a package wrapped in a Marks and Spencer’s bag. He presented her with it and bowed demurely. “For services to our great cause,” he said.

  She opened the parcel and drew out two bundles of fifty-pound notes. “Two thousand?” She queried, her eyebrows raised. She had a good idea how the new furniture had been acquired.

  He was anxious to explain. “An initial payment dear lady, an initial payment,” he reassured her. She thought for a moment then nodded approval. Mustafa was clearly relieved.

  They were onto their third scotch. “You have a truly unique talent,” he told her. There was awe in his voice.

She smiled and looked away with a sigh. “Yes,” she replied, “It does seem as though I have some ability.”

  Mustafa was on his feet again. “I have a special treat,” he said eagerly. “Gori came back from Brussels yesterday and he brought back the most delicious chocolate truffles. Here, please have some.” He held out the box.

  Mary shook her head. “Never touch the stuff,” she said emphatically.

  It was some years later. The man stood a moment, letting his eyes get accustomed to the low light. The place was almost empty. Standing at the bar, her back to him, was a woman. Even in the half-light he could she was well dressed, her clothes showing off her neat figure. Her skirt, perhaps a little short for her age, showed good legs and trim ankles. Her hair, not its natural colour he guessed, was cut in a fashionable style. The barman had seen him come in and said something to the woman. She turned to face him and he noted her regular features. He put her in her early forties, maybe younger. There was no doubt he found her attractive. In other circumstances he might like to get to know her better.

  This surely wasn’t the person he had come to meet but she seemed to be expecting him. He went up and introduced himself. “I’m Azul Rachman,” he said, “Are you………?”

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence. “Yes,” she cut in, “It’s good to meet you Mr Rachman I was expecting you. Let me get you a drink. We can talk in private over there.” She gestured to a table in a corner, set well away from the others.

  They sat side-by-side facing the room. “Mustafa Hakim put me on to you,” he said. “He speaks very highly of you.”

  “Yes, I know,” she replied then quickly changed the subject. “Are you aware of my charges and my terms and conditions?” He nodded. “And they are acceptable?”

  He smiled. “Of course.” He reached into a pocket, drew out an envelope and laid it on the table between them. “Would you like another drink?” He asked. She thanked him and he looked up to catch the barman’s eye. When his attention turned back to her, the package was gone.

  Their drinks arrived and it was clear she wanted to get on with things. “I’ll need all the detail you can give me,” she told him. “Habits, schedules and places and of course a photograph. If you have the time, we might as well go through it now.”

  She was terribly formal, he thought. “Yes, I understand” he said, “but first tell me, why do they call you the Fat Lady?”

  He thought he saw the faintest smile cross her face. “It’s a long story,” she replied wistfully. Then she was back to business. “Anyway it’s of no consequence. Now please, let’s get to the matter at hand.”