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  Grindley got back with the few things he had bought, a couple of Rajistani dolls and a small Ganesh statue, both typical tourist gifts, good for his cover. The real find had been a second-hand and lavishly illustrated edition of Gulliver’s Travels. It ran to some three hundred, big A4 sized pages. Grindley, with glue pen in hand, spent half-an-hour lightly sticking the top corners of the bonds onto pages of the book. It worked well. When he was done, from a casual glance, no one would have spotted that the tome was more than it seemed. He had also acquired a cheap leather bag into which he now transferred the few items he would take with him when he left. The worst part would be the wait. He lay on his bed trying to read a novel, in the background he could hear the CNN broadcast on the hotel’s cable TV. He listened with half an ear; there was nothing about Afghanistan.

  It was three hours before the call came through. “Mr Wickham?” For a moment he was nonplussed then he remembered his cover name. The voice from the end of the line was a surprise. Not the heavy Asian accent he had expected.

  “Yes, Jonathan Wickham here,” he responded brightly.

  “Ah Mr Wickham it is good to speak with you. Mr Merouze; you are perhaps expecting a call from me?” The voice was light and pleasant with just a trace of intonation that Grindley couldn’t place.

   “Mr Merouze, indeed I am.” The banal exchange went on.

  “You have something for me I believe.”

  “I do Mr Merouze. What do you suggest?”

  “I could come to your room within twenty minutes.”

  The hairs went up on the back of Grindley’s neck. “Er, perhaps another arrangement would be better.”

  “Of course, of course,” Merouze said at once. “Maybe we could dine together. Could I suggest this evening? The Quality restaurant in Connaught Circus, I hear it’s very good.”

  Grindley checked his watch… four-thirty. “Splendid Mr Merouze.” He wanted to get it over as quickly as possible. The later it got the fewer were the chances of getting a flight out that night. “Would an early dinner, say six-fifteen, suit you?”

  “That would suit me very well Mr Wickham. Shall I make reservations?” Merouze asked.

  “Leave it to me,” Grindley responded.

  “Very well, see you at six-fifteen,” Merouze rang off.

  Grindley checked his watch again. He had less than two hours and he didn’t want to spend the last of it in that damned hotel room. He showered quickly, changed into his travel clothes and put his toilet things along with the Gulliver book into his new leather bag. By five he was in a taxi on his way to the Ghandi Memorial. A half hour stooging around there and a cab ride to the restaurant would just about take care of the time, he thought.

  The place was more or less deserted. He fought off the persistence of the few guides that attempted to interest him in their services, paid and went in alone. There wasn’t much shade and when he found some he was overcome by the desire to hear her voice. Surely there could be no risk in phoning her on his mobile. If anyone were listening in, it would just confirm his cover. Five-forty in India would make it ten-past-twelve in the afternoon in England. He dialled her number with trembling hands. She answered the fifth ring and recognised his voice at once.

  “Jonathan, Jonathan darling,” she was obviously pleased. “Where are you? Are you home?”

  He told her he wasn’t. He needed to forestall her questions. “Can’t say too much at present but I hope to be back in a few days,” he said quickly. He knew she would understand. “It’s just that there is a bit of a lull in operations at the moment and I grabbed the chance to hear your voice.”

  “Oh Jonathan I’m so glad you did. I’ve been thinking about you…. about us … so much”. She felt silent. She had sounded pensive.

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “No! Well yes, you’re not here and when you get back …….  it will all be so difficult won’t it?

  “Listen my darling,” he wanted to make her understand how he felt about her. “I’m committed. There’s no going back, the die is cast. Whatever it takes we’ll see it through. It’s our one shot and I’m won’t let it be wasted.”

  She was having a bad day and needed reassurance. Would he really leave his wife for her, she needed to know his thoughts and ideas? For her part leaving her husband would be as easy as walking out of the door she told him. They talked for another half hour. By the time he hung up he had, he hoped, filled her with his own sense of commitment. For goodness sake, he told himself, if I can negotiate a two million dollar payoff to a terrorist in a strange and hostile country then I should be able to turn my back on a loveless marriage and go off with the woman I adore. He checked the time; ten to six. He switched off his mobile. Love her as he may, he did not want any return calls in the next hour. He headed out of the Memorial and took a taxi to Connaught Circus.

  He got to the restaurant at five-past-six. Good timing he thought. With sudden alarm he realised that he had forgotten to make a reservation. Fortunately, the street door to the restaurant was unlocked although it was early for dinner and too late for lunch. He need not have worried. The lone waiter on duty was delighted to see him and showed him to a booth. He was the only customer. He thought it wiser to say nothing about the possibility of someone joining him. He ordered a sweet lassi, and a bottle of mineral water. From the menu he selected a mild curry. He told the waiter he was in a hurry and asked for the bill to be brought right away.

  Mr Merouze was five minutes late. He had no trouble recognising Grindley, he was the only diner. The waiter showed the swarthy, immaculately dressed man to Grindley’s table. Merouze ordered a gin and tonic and informed the waiter he would not be dining. He beamed across the table. “So good to meet you at long last my dear Mr Wickham,” he said in faultless English. Grindley, for all his experience, couldn’t quite place his country of origin. He certainly didn’t figure him as archetypal Taleban.

  The waiter departed and then quickly returned with the drinks. Merouze noticed Grindley’s choice. “I see you are not taking alcohol Mr Wickham, are you Muslim?” He laughed heartily, clearly enjoying his own joke. Grindley let it pass. Merouze sipped at his gin and tonic as the waiter returned with the curry and made a show of serving it up. They made small talk until he had finally departed. Grindley wanted to get it over with, the other man seemed more relaxed.

   Merouze persuaded the Englishman to go ahead with his dinner. Grindley felt awkward, partly he suspected because of his native reserve about eating while others looked-on and partly in light of the somewhat bizarre circumstances. It hardly seemed the appropriate time to be savouring the delights of chicken korma. At least while he ate he could pay attention to the other man, carefully listening out for the tell-tale phrase that he was sure would be uttered sooner rather than later. At last it came.

  “How long have you been in Delhi Mr Wickham?” The question seemed to flow quite naturally into their conversation. “And tell me,” Merouze went on before Grindley could swallow his mouthful and answer. He paused, “have you seen the Brough engine at the railway museum?”

  Grindley thought his enunciation a lot better than Cross’s. He very deliberately finished what he had in his mouth and took a sip of water before answering. It had to be exactly right. He shook his head. “The Quatab Minar at sunset is more my sort of thing” he answered with a smile. He had the sudden desire to embellish the phrase by adding an adjective or two but fought off the urge.

  Merouze smiled back. “You must see locomotive RB-forty-nine it’s quite a sight”. There, it was done. All present and correct.

  Grindley could relax; he would be on his way in minutes. “I’ll certainly look out for RB-forty-nine if I go there,” he said with a gleam in his eye.