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Merouze laughed softly. “I’m sure you will Mr Grindley, I’m sure you will.”

  Grindley changed tack. “Your son Mr Merouze, I have a small gift. I hope he will enjoy it.” He pushed the big picture book across the table towards the other man. It had been sitting at his elbow since he had taken it from his bag as soon as he had sat down.

  Merouze seemed to notice it as if for the first time. “But how kind of you, he will be thrilled.” He reached across, picked up the book and quickly leafed through it with practiced hands. “How wonderful, a true antique,” he said, still leafing through the pages, this time more carefully, stopping to savour each picture that caught his eye.” He looked straight at Grindley. “What a fortunate find. Are all the pages still intact?” He asked.

  Grindley sensed it was a leading question. “Everything is there, I assure you Mr Merouze”.

  “Then I shall take it to him at once.” Merouze rose to leave, tucking the book under his arm. “You are most kind Mr Wickham, a most thoughtful and generous gift. It has been a great pleasure meeting you. Perhaps in the future it will be possible to do business together.”

Grindley stood up and they shook hands. He remained standing as the other man walked briskly across the restaurant and into the street. He was gone before the waiter, hurrying across the floor to see him out, had got to the door. Grindley sat down. He had lost his appetite. He checked his watch. Best give Merouze a few minutes before he himself left for the airport. He called the waiter over and ordered a coffee. He put down a number of notes that would settle the bill. He could leave at anytime he chose.

   His last operation was over. He had never really known what it had been about and he probably never would. He didn’t care and he certainly wouldn’t miss it. He wasn’t cut out for this cloak and dagger stuff and anyway, it wasn’t his job. He cursed Gordon Brown for his penny-pinching ways and, for good measure, all the chancellors before him.

  A man burst through the restaurant door and rushed up to his table, jerking him out of his reverie. It occurred to him that if the chap had wanted to kill him he would have been dead meat. It was Frank Labied.

  Labied sized up the situation before either of them spoke. “They’ve got the money?” It was less a question than a statement. Grindley nodded weakly. “How long?” Labied asked.

  Grindley checked his watch. “Ten minutes.” There was a terrible feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach.

  “Fuck,” was all Labied said and sat down in the chair Merouze had so recently vacated.

  It was a few minutes before either man recovered. They waved away the waiter as he advanced on their table. Labied got to his feet. “Come on Jonathan, let’s haul ass, there’s work to be done.” Grindley got up meekly and followed him out of the restaurant. They took a cab back to Grindley’s hotel. He had hoped never to see the place again let alone his stuffy little room. He wouldn’t after all, it seemed, be setting off for home just yet.

  There was now no point in secrecy and Labied, after requesting a bottle of scotch and a mutton chop from room service, filled in some of the details.

  What Grindley had been told in London had been the truth. The Afghan terrorists had been holding two hostages in Kabul. What he had not been told was that the Stellar man was CIA and the Oxfam chap British intelligence. Everyone was as sure as they could be that the Afghanis didn’t know the true identities of their captives or either the price would have been a lot higher or the propaganda potential exploited to the full. The Americans agreed to let the Brits do the trade because they were as nervous as kittens. Their man carried a lot of sensitive information and with his British cover they figured it was safer for the Brits to do the trade. It had to be India and not Pakistan because the place was less infested with Taleban spies and sympathisers so there was a better chance of maintaining the deception about the hostages’ true line of work.

  Grindley listened in silence. “So what’s gone wrong?” he asked finally.

  Labied sighed. “From our point of view, three things. First, my flight out of Bahrain was late so I wasn’t around to give you cover. Which, by the way, I would have been had you taken Cross’s advice and set up a lunchtime meeting for tomorrow. Second, Cross is missing and third, the money has been paid over for nothing. There may be other assorted disasters on the way.” He looked pointedly at Grindley but went on before Grindley could speak.

   Labied took up the story again. “While we were fooling around, making deals with the Afghans, the Yanks had a clandestine task force combing the place for their boy ….. and ours, if they happened still to be together. About half an hour before the trade, Cross received word that the hostages had been recovered safe and sound; so no trade and deposit two million dollars back into public funds.” Labied paused and gave Grindley another hard look. At that moment the phone rang. Labied picked it up at once. “Yes, this is Frank Labied,” he said and was silent as someone the other end supplied information Grindley would have given his eye teeth to hear.

  When he put down the phone his attitude seemed to have softened. “Nobody knows exactly what happened but it’s been confirmed that you had your meeting and passed something to the so-called Merouze. He left as you said. We have a pretty good description.”

  “The waiter’s, our man,” Labied said in response to Grindley’s look askance. “With so little time, Cross tried to call you and get you to abort. He tried your hotel but I suppose you had left. He tried your mobile but apparently couldn’t get through.” Labied paused for an explanation but Grindley just shrugged. He wasn’t about to admit to calling his lover on company time, well, not yet anyway. “I wasn’t on the scene so he did the only thing he could, he tried to head you off. He didn’t make it and nobody knows where he is.”

  “What do you think Frank?” Grindley asked apprehensively.

  Labied considered for a moment. “There’s an off-chance that Roger Cross is on his way to the sun with two million dollar’s worth of convertible instruments in his coat pocket, or,” he paused, “far more likely he’s lying face down somewhere, sans bonds needless to say, with a bullet through the back of his head.” The phone rang again.

  Grindley was in shock. That he might have the death of Cross on his conscience had unnerved him more than he would have imagined. In truth there was more than conscience to consider. If they could pin a charge of dereliction on him he could be for the high jump in a big way. Suddenly he had more to worry about than saying a fond farewell to Mrs Grindley.

  Labied put down the phone. “OK! Buck up old man,” he sounded a lot more cheerful. Mr Cross alas, may be a lost cause but we may yet have a chance with the bonds. I don’t know if anything went down between you and Cross that might account for his disappearance but I suggest that right now you put it behind you and help me get back our cash.”

  Grindley was in a funk. “I swear Frank, I wasn’t in league with him or anyone else to steal the money and I certainly didn’t kill him or conspire with anyone else to do so. For God’s sake, I’m not a field man just a desk wallah, pretty damned out of my depth.” He looked imploringly at Labied. “Help me Frank,” his voice subsided in a whisper.

  Labied went over to him and squeezed his shoulder. It was a more friendly gesture than Grindley might have expected. “OK Jonathan try and pull yourself together. I don't believe you had a hand in whatever has happened to Cross. If indeed anything has happened to him. He could be walking into Delhi office as large as life even as we speak.” They both knew it was highly unlikely but Grindley managed to recover himself a little. “Just tell me you’ll back me in doing what we can to recover the money and, most important, that can I rely on you if things get rough?”

  Grindley assured him on both counts.

“Then we had better get going,” Labied suggested, “there’s no time to loose. I’ll brief you on the way. Before they got to the door he reached into his pocket and handed Grindley a snub nosed automatic. On balance, Grindley thought this wasn’t the time to reveal he had never held a gun before.

  They had come to the edge of the old city and now they sat in a taxi outside the Hotel Azad looking the place over.