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nominally independent but in fact, a subsidiary of Stellar. Now all he had to do was wait to be contacted. From memory it would be Roger Cross who masqueraded as a junior attaché at the New Delhi embassy. With a bit of luck this one would run smoothly but it was obvious that what they had told him wasn’t the whole truth. The British and Americans never paid off hostage takers and explicitly forbad their nationals to do so. If the department was involved, then this was no run-of-the-mill kidnapping. Perhaps Cross would tell him more. They had given him, as far as he knew, no payoff collateral so Cross would also have to provide the meat for the sandwich.

He waited around for a couple of days and received no word. He considered calling Delhi Station but knew it was strictly against the rules. If he telephoned using his mobile, the call would route through the UK and probably not compromise security but you couldn’t be certain. Best to wait it out a day longer, then bugger off home if nothing turned up. On the third afternoon he got a call. Cross would at his hotel within the hour.

  Grindley met him in the lobby. They went up to his room. Roger was one of the modern intake to whom Grindley so strongly objected. Swarthy, most probably of Anglo-Indian extraction and far too young, Cross spoke with a decided South London drawl and treated the older man like someone he’d met ‘dahn’ the boozer. No handshake just an - ‘allo Jona-fan, how ya doin’ - Grindley took an instant dislike to him.

  Cross’s briefing however was mercifully to the point. He would be contacted by a Mr Merouze, initially by a telephone call to his room at the hotel. They would set up a meeting at the Quality restaurant in Connaught Circus. Times to be mutually agreed.

  “If I wuz you, I’d get there a bit before and order yerself lunch or dinner. Merouze will join yer but probley won’t eat,” Cross offered unsolicited advice which Grindley felt he didn’t need. “Try and make it lunch so yer can get in and out in daylight.” Cross gave him a dazzling white smile. “Na’ this is important, before you passes ‘im the mazumma, you need to exchange free phrases – word perfect mind.”

  Cross paused, as if evaluating Grindley’s ability to cope. “Word perfect, so maybe you should write ‘em down first, memorise, then destroy.” He was trying to be helpful but Grindley just saw it as patronising.

  “Just get on with it,” he said though gritted teeth.

  Cross didn’t seem to notice his irritation. “OK then.  At some point in the conversation ‘ee saise – ‘Have yer seen the Brough engine at the railway museum?’ You replies – ‘The Quatab Minar at sunset is more my sort of fing’. Then ‘ee saise – ‘You must see locomotive RB-forty-nine it’s quite a sight’. That’s it.”

  Cross grinned again. “Real cloak and dagger stuff in’ it but I’m afraid that’s what they want,” Cross was suddenly uncomfortable. “Fing is, they saise it’s important that it goes off right and I gotta make sure you has the script down pat afore I leaves yer.”

  Grindley nodded. He wished he’d written down the exchange. It was more complicated than he had expected but he wasn’t going to give this little oik the satisfaction of seeing that he wasn’t quite as proficient at his tradecraft as he should be. “Just give me the locomotive identification again.” He requested the information in a way that suggested it was normal procedure to query such things.

  Cross nodded. “Sure fing,” he said, “Merouze starts by asking if you’ve seen the Brough. That’s spelled B-R-O-U-G-H but pronounced Bruff,” Grindley nodded impatiently. Cross went on. “And then it’s locomotive number RB-forty-nine.

  Grindley gathered his thoughts and assembled the phases in his mind. He repeated them to Cross. “Yup, that’s pretty good except it’s the railway not the railroad museum.” He narrowed his eyes and looked hard at Grindley. For the first time the older man sensed a more steely aspect to Cross’s happy-go-lucky character. “Sorry about that but they did say word perfect.”

  Grindley tried to recover himself. “Yes of course,” he said and repeated the whole thing again. This time he got it right.

  “You got it mate,” Cross was back to his cheeky-chappie self. “Anyway, it’s to protect our side, all that bastard wants is to get his hands on our dosh. Right, you do the handover and I expect he will be on ‘ees way as soon as he gets what ‘ee wants.” Cross paused. “I don’t need to tell yer,” he went on; there had been a subtle change in their relationship since Grindley’s slip. “but you should wait a decent interval then bugger off yerself. Don’t come back to the ‘otel. Take some carry-on to the restaurant wiv yer and go straight down the airport. We’ll monitor Merouze’s call so there’ll be a ticket waiting for yer at the BA desk. You’ll be out on the soonest to where-ever and then connect back to Blighty with our grateful fanks.” Cross gave him his beaming smile.

  He reached into his briefcase and took out a brown paper package. “This is what all the fuss is about.” He handed it to Grindley. “You’ve done this kinda fing before so I’ll leave you to repackage as you wish. He smiled again. “Good luck Jonathan.” He seemed genuine. “By the way, you’ve got a guardian angel to watch your back.”

  Grindley looked surprised, he hoped it wasn’t Cross himself. The younger man seemed to pick up his concern. “It’s someone you know,” he said, “Frank Labied will be making sure it goes off right. He’s flying in, in the next few hours.”

  As soon as he had gone, Grindley grabbed a pencil and paper and wrote down the phrases on which it seemed so much depended. It occurred to him that he knew nothing more about the operation than he had before Cross had arrived. He opened up the package. Bearer bonds in large denominations, mostly fifty and a hundred thousand dollars. He counted two million. It was a lot of money. He wished Frank Labied could have been around to do Cross’s briefing. He’d known Frank a while. One of the old school, a man to be trusted. A field agent who knew his place and his business. If anyone could, Frank would look after him and get him out safely. The thing now was to get through the business with Merouze and then put himself in Frank’s hands.

  He was uncomfortable with a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He’d have to go shopping for something better but he couldn’t leave two million dollars lying around in a hotel room.  He rewrapped the package. On impulse he removed one of his pillowcases and tossed in the paper parcel. He added a soiled shirt and a pair of pants. With the makeshift sack over his shoulder he hailed a cab. He’d do a bit of shopping and reconnoitre the Connaught Circus meeting place.

  England could be so beautiful, even in late autumn. She sat looking out into garden. How her life had changed; was about to change even more. The garden she loved so much and to which she had devoted so much time would soon be a memory but she regretted nothing. Except perhaps that it had happened so late in life. They had met just six months ago and now she loved him more than life itself. She was aware of his fearsome reputation within the department but she also knew him as a gentle and attentive lover. He could be ruthless and cruel but that was part of the excitement. She knew there would be difficult times to face. Her husband would be shocked but not destroyed she thought. After the initial surprise, he too would be able to strike out again, maybe find someone else. Someone who could give him so much more than she could. He was not an old man, well into middle age, but not old. He was still attractive, she would not be demanding, he could keep the house and her lovely garden, he would find someone else, she was sure of it. She would take only a few possessions. She couldn’t help but smile to herself, her few quite valuable possessions that her father had left her last year. The signed Renoir cartoons from the drawing room, the Epstein bronzes and, of course, the small Picasso that had hung in the music room. They were already safely out of the house. There were a few other things she would like but she wasn’t going to make a fuss. She’d take her car and most important, the money that her father had given her before he died. A tidy sum, sitting quietly in a Swiss bank. She had decided to say nothing to her children until she was away. Her daughter wouldn’t be surprised, her son she wasn’t so sure of. They were both grown up and long gone so she would work it out with them as best she might.

  She had no idea where they would go. He had promised her he would resign just as soon as he got back. She didn’t want him working at that terrible job anymore. They would be free. She had never been free before; it was scary and exciting at the same time.