A little boy was standing in the middle of the road carrying a stack of paperback books. He walked up to the car, tapped on the window and smiled in at Sebastian.
“Harold Robbins, Robert Ludlum and Harry Clifton,” he said, giving him a beaming grin. “All half price!”
Sebastian handed him a ten-rupee note and said, “Harry Clifton.”
The boy produced his father’s latest book. “We all love William Warwick,” he said, before moving on to the next car. Would his father believe him?
It took another hour before they drew up outside the Taj Mahal Hotel, by which time Seb was exhausted and soaked with perspiration.
When he stepped inside the hotel, he entered another world and was quickly transported back to the present day.
“How long will you be staying with us, sir?” asked a tall, elegant man in a long blue coat, as Seb signed the registration form.
“I’m not sure,” said Seb, “but at least two or three days.”
“Then I’ll leave the booking open-ended. Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“Can you recommend a reliable car hire firm?”
“If it’s a car you require, sir, the hotel will happily supply you with a chauffeur-driven Ambassador.”
“Will it be possible to keep the same driver for the whole visit?”
“Of course, sir.”
“He’ll need to speak English.”
“In this hotel, sir, even the cleaners speak English.”
“Of course, I apologize. I have one more request — could he possibly be a Hindu?”
“Not a problem, sir. I believe I have the ideal person to meet all your requirements, and I can recommend him highly, because he’s my brother.” Seb laughed. “And when would you want him to start?”
“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Excellent. My brother’s name is Vijay and he’ll be waiting for you outside the main entrance at eight.” The receptionist raised a hand and a bellboy appeared. “Take Mr. Clifton to room 808.”
19
When Sebastian left his hotel at eight o’clock the following morning, he spotted a young man standing beside a white Ambassador. The moment he saw Seb heading toward him, he opened the back door.
“I’ll sit in the front with you,” said Seb.
“Of course, sir,” said Vijay. Once he was behind the wheel he asked, “Where would you like to go, sir?”
Seb handed him an address. “How long will it take?”
“That depends, sir, on how many traffic lights are working this morning and how many cows are having their breakfast.”
The answer turned out to be just over an hour, although the milometer indicated that they had covered barely three miles.
“It’s the house on the right, sir,” said Vijay. “Do you want me to drive up to the front door?”
“No,” said Seb as they passed the gates of a house that was so large it might have been mistaken for a country club. He admired Priya for never having mentioned her father’s wealth.
Vijay parked in an isolated spot, down a side road from where they could see anyone coming in or out of the gates, while they would be unlikely to be noticed.
“Are you very important?” asked Vijay an hour later.
“No,” said Seb. “Why do you ask?”
“Because there’s a police car parked just down the road, and it hasn’t moved since we arrived.”
Seb was puzzled but tried to dismiss it as a coincidence, even though Cedric Hardcastle had taught him many years ago to always be wary of coincidences.
They remained seated in the car for most of the day, during which time several cars and a van passed in and out of the gates. There was no sign of Priya, although at one point a large Mercedes left the grounds with Mr. Ghuman seated in the back talking to a younger man Seb assumed must be his son.
In between the comings and goings, Vijay gave Seb a further insight into the Hindu religion, and he began to realize just how difficult it must have been for Priya even to consider defying her parents.
He was about to call it a day when two men, one carrying a camera, the other a briefcase, came strolling down the drive from the house and stopped outside the main gate. They were dressed smartly but casually, and had a professional air about them. They hailed a taxi and climbed into the back.
“Follow that cab, and don’t lose them.”
“It’s quite difficult to lose anyone in a city where bicycles overtake you,” said Vijay as they progressed slowly back toward the city center. The taxi finally came to a halt outside a large Victorian building that proclaimed above its front door: the Times of India.
“Wait here,” said Sebastian. He got out of the car and waited until the two men had entered the building before following them inside. One of them waved to a girl on the reception desk as they headed toward a bank of lifts. Sebastian made his way over to the desk, smiled at the girl and said, “How embarrassing. I can’t remember the name of the journalist who’s just getting into the lift.”
She glanced around as the lift door closed. “Samraj Khan. He writes a society column for the Sunday paper. But I’m not sure who that was with him.” She turned to her colleague.
“He’s freelance. Works for Premier Photos, I think. But I don’t know his name.”
“Thanks,” said Sebastian, before making his way back to the car.
“Where now?” asked Vijay.
“Back to the hotel.”
“That police car is still following us,” said Vijay, as he eased into a long line of traffic. “So you’re either very important, or very dangerous,” he suggested, displaying a broad grin.
“Neither,” said Seb. Like Vijay, he was puzzled. Did Uncle Giles’s influence stretch this far, or were the police working for the Ghumans?
Once Seb was back in his room, he asked the switchboard to get Premier Photos on the line. He had his story well prepared by the time the operator called back. He asked to be put through to the photographer who was covering the Sukhi Ghuman story.
“Do you mean the wedding?”
“Yes, the wedding,” said Sebastian, hating the word.
“That’s Rohit Singh. I’ll put you through.”
“Rohit Singh.”
“Hi, my name is Clifton. I’m a freelance journalist from London, and I’ve been assigned to cover Priya Ghuman’s wedding.”
“But it’s not for another six weeks.”
“I know, but my magazine wants background material for a color spread we’re doing, and I wondered if you’d be able to supply some photographs to go with my piece.”
“We’d need to meet and discuss terms. Where are you staying?”
“The Taj.”
“Would eight o’clock tomorrow morning suit you?”
“Look forward to seeing you then.”
No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again.
“While you were on the line, sir, your secretary called. She asked if you would ring a Mr. Bishara at the bank urgently. She gave me the number. Shall I try and get him on the line?”
“Yes please,” said Seb, then put the phone down and waited. He checked his watch, and hoped Hakim hadn’t already gone to lunch. The phone rang.
“Thanks for calling back, Seb. I realize you’ve got a lot on your mind at the moment, but I have some sad news. Saul Kaufman has died. I thought you ought to know immediately, not just because of the takeover deal we’re in the middle of, but, more important, I know Victor is one of your oldest friends.”
“Thank you, Hakim. How very sad. I greatly admired the old man. Victor will be my next call.”