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It looked respectable enough, a non-western tourist establishment in a predominantly Muslim area of the city. Labied, through his various contacts, had discovered that Merouze, now using the name Ali Khan, was still in town. Why he and his cohorts, once they had collared the booty, had not taken the first plane out was a mystery but it was also a stroke of luck.

  They entered the dingy lobby. It was nine o’clock but already the place was dead, just a few middle-eastern types, sitting, chatting in the big easy chairs that were dotted around the generous vestibule space. Labied led them to a secluded corner.

  “You wait here and try to be as inconspicuous as you can. I’ll go and make enquiries at the desk.” Labied instructed Grindley, who at once settled himself into a big leather chair and did what he could to make himself as small as possible. Labied went to the front desk. He was gone for less than five minutes.

  “They’re in room 231, there are two of them. Only one is in right now.” Labied noticed that Grindley was shaking. He quickly evaluated the situation. “OK,” he said, deciding on a course of action, “You stay put,” Grindley was visibly relieved, “I’m going up. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, get the hell out and go straight to the airport. Get out of India as soon as possible. Go anywhere they won’t cut off your bollocks then make it back home the best you can.” He thought for a moment before going on “If your Mr Merouze comes down before I do, and if you can manage it, follow him outside and kill him.” He shrugged, “If not, then just get the hell out.” It was not a speech designed to instill confidence in his companion and Grindley found breathing difficult as he watched Labied stride towards the lifts.

  He sat in his chair half hoping that the good Lord might choose this moment to end the world. He looked around cautiously and then at his watch. Labied had been gone less than five minutes. The lift doors opened and his spirits rose only to be dashed when he saw it wasn’t his companion returning. He sat it out miserably for another ten minutes, his body unconsciously swaying with anxiety. Then Merouze came through the street door and into the lobby. Grindley’s heart leapt into his mouth and then back down into his chest where it hammered loudly enough, he imagined, to attract the attention of passers-by in the street. He tried to get his brain in gear. What had Labied said about this situation? Merouze didn’t head for the lifts, instead he moved towards the service area behind reception. Grindley sat transfixed for thirty seconds then summoning up his courage, jumped out of his seat and headed for the stairs. 231, he hoped he was right, must be on the second floor. By the time he had negotiated the stairs and come out on the landing he was already winded. He rushed along the corridor looking for the right room.


  He stood outside for a few moments, dredging up the last of his nerve. He considered getting out the gun Labied had given him but as he had no idea how to use it he left it where it was. He knocked cautiously. There was no reply. He knocked louder. Still nothing. He threw caution to the wind.

  “Frank,” he called loudly, “Frank are you in there?”

  He stood transfixed, a feeling of abject panic overtaking him. Suddenly the door opened a crack. He pushed it wider and rushed into the room. Frank Labied, gun in hand, was behind the door.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You came bloody close to getting your stupid head blown off.” He too seemed shaken. Grindley looked across the room. A light on the far wall glowed dully. On the floor, by a big television set, he saw the crumpled body of a man wearing a dark lounge suit. Labied pointed with his gun, “Merouze?” It was a question.

  Grindley shook his head. He couldn’t see clearly but he knew it wasn’t Merouze. “Merouze,” he blurted out, “he just walked into the lobby. He could be on his way up.”

  “God, that could have been interesting,” Labied said, with more calm than his companion would have expected. “You stay in here for a moment. Put the chain on the door. Cross is in the other room. I just need a few moments.”

  “Is he OK?” Grindley asked hopefully, for a moment forgetting their imminent danger.

  “No, he’s dead,” Labied responded curtly. “It’s not pretty in there. You stay put while I finish up.” Labied went through another door leaving it open behind him.

  Grindley looked around him. Two dead men and a vicious terrorist on the way up, the world was falling apart. His head was spinning and it was only with a supreme effort of will that was he able to stop himself running from the room and out of the hotel. He decided it was probably a good time to acquaint himself with the firearm in his pocket. It was heavy and felt sort of comforting, nicer than he had imagined. He was looking for the safety catch, which he figured must be there somewhere, when a movement in the doorway caught his attention. He looked up to see Merouze walk into the room. In his hand he had the biggest gun Grindley had ever seen, under his arm, an antique, picture book edition of Gulliver’s Travels. Grindley remembered what Labied had said about the chain on the door.

  Merouze was clearly surprised see to Grindley but recovered quickly. He looked across the room at the body. “Ah Mr Wickham”, he said pleasantly, “I see you have been busy. I would never have taken you for a violent man but it seems that appearances can be deceptive. I would be most grateful if you will drop what you have in your hand.” While he spoke, without taking his eyes off Grindley and with his free hand, he shut the outer door. He moved further into the room. Grindley’s gun fell onto the mat. Labied came out of the other room and shot Merouze cleanly through the top of his head. Merouze looked surprised then dropped his weapon and crumpled neatly onto the carpet. Grindley staggered back.

  “Talked too fucking much,” Labied moved to examine the kill. “Should have put a bullet in you the moment he came in.” Grindley recovered himself enough to point to the Gulliver book lying beside the body, “The bonds,” was all he could manage; things were moving too fast.


Labied sat on Merouze’s couch sipping his scotch and turning the pages of the big picture book.  Grindley sat opposite, his head in his hands. He had been into see Cross and it had made him physically sick. They had given him a hard time before they had killed him. He was glad Labied had shot them both. “Nice move,” it was Labied who spoke. “Never would have thought of gluing the things into a kids book. I’d spent fifteen minutes turning over the place before you came in.” He seemed genuinely appreciative of Grindley’s tradecraft.

  “Sorry Frank, I should have told you.” Grindley was back to being miserable.

  Labied held up a hand. “Not a bit of it Jonathan,” he said enthusiastically, “you did a good job and apart from poor old Cross, we seem to have more or less recovered the situation.

  “But it’s my fault,” Grindley was in confession mode.

  “Nah, Cross was a trained field agent, he knew the risks, we all do.”

  “But he tried to contact me. If he had, he would still be alive.” Grindley told Labied about his call to England. The crucial thirty-five minutes that had blocked Cross’s attempts to call off the hand-over. And then of course Grindley had turned off his phone to stop his girlfriend ringing back. Even now, Grindley did not to reveal the recipient of his call. It was best to say nothing about his affair or his intentions. It might have to come out later, but not yet.

  They sat silently for a moment. “It’s not just bad conscience.” Grindley said after a while. “There is certain to be an enquiry and it will all come out. My last mission will be judged a total disaster and they’ll say my actions resulted in Cross’s death. It’s dereliction pure and simple. I could go to jail. In any event I’m finished, at best tossed out with a dishonourable discharge and no pension. I’ll never get another job, they’ll see to that.” Labied watched while Grindley wrung his hands. “I’m sorry about Cross, you know I am,” he went on, “If I could go back and change things you know I would but whatever happens, Cross will still be dead and I’ll be ruined.” He fell silent again.

  Labied said nothing for a while. He seemed to be giving the situation serious thought. “You’re right about one thing,” he said at last. Grindley looked up. “Whatever happens, Cross is dead, whether or not we can get you out from under.”

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