Dillon phoned Brendon Morgan on his mobile number early the next morning.
“I know it’s early, but I didn’t want to get bogged down with the call waiting system at Thames House,” he quickly explained.
“By the way, thanks for keeping your word and releasing Issy last night.”
“I said I would and I always keep my word. To be honest, it was costing the British tax payer an absolute fortune keeping her in that five-star hotel. Is that what you called for?”
“No. What I need now is a contact in Delhi. Whoever you can come up with at short notice. But they’ll need to have their ear to the underworld and know what’s going on. I’ll also need a gun when I get to the other end, preferably a Glock with spare clips.”
Morgan laughed. “I’m in the middle of my breakfast — that’s always a bad time to land me with that sort of problem. I can give you a contact, but the weapon is something else.”
“Don’t even go there, Brendon. Obtaining a weapon from the British Embassy should be a walk in the park for you. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to be unarmed in such a dangerous city. After all, do you really want me to find out what’s going on or not?”
“Ring me back in fifteen minutes and I’ll give you a contact. I need to check first, though.”
Having someone like Morgan on his side had its uses, like getting on a fully booked British Airways flight and automatically being upgraded to business class. It was the first time in days that Dillon felt like he would have a chance to relax, and it was not until they were rolling up the runway and taking off that he realised just how tired and bruised he felt. He slept for most of the way, often flying over countries that he had operated covertly in as a serving Army Intelligence Officer. By the time the aircraft was starting its descent into Indira Gandhi International Airport, he felt completely refreshed, where most of the passengers in economy class were feeling weary.
He was using his own passport and it seemed that Morgan had smoothed the way for him, because he was through immigration and customs whilst the others were still queuing. There were luxury air-conditioned limousines waiting to take tourists to their five-star hotels in fashionable downtown New Delhi. Dillon’s transport was a battered old embassy car running on diplomatic plates, double parked outside the terminal building. The young Indian driver sent to collect him stood by the passenger door, holding up a clipboard under his arm. When he spotted Dillon walk through the doors, he waved the clipboard above his head to attract his attention.
“Mr. Dillon?”
He was annoyed at having his name shouted across the concourse for all to hear and headed directly for the car.
“I’m, Dillon. Are you my contact?”
“No, Mr. Dillon. I have been sent to take you to your hotel. Your contact will make himself known to you there. You have been booked into the five-star Shangri-la Hotel — I hope that it will be to your liking. It is one of the best.”
“Is it? Well, I’m sure the Shangri-la will be just fine.”
They climbed into the car, the upholstery was in surprisingly good condition for such a battered-looking vehicle, and the V8 engine was definitely not standard issue. Dillon sat in the back seat, the driver was no more than twenty-five years of age, but handled the car like a seasoned professional as he negotiated the late evening Delhi traffic on route to the Shangri-La.
Dillon checked into the luxury hotel and a bellboy escorted him up to his room. He couldn’t be bothered to unpack. Instead he threw his luggage on the bed and went back downstairs to the main bar.
As he walked across the opulent marble-floored reception area, a tall thin man in his late fifties approached, khaki linen jacket open to show a white shirt, the top button undone and a silk tie loosened off. The face was narrow, lined and weathered, but in it were two twinkling blue eyes which looked out with amused cynicism at all they gazed upon.
“Jake Dillon?”
Dillon stood at a long sweeping bar.
“Yes, that’s me. Are you Adam Khan?”
“I am. And I must say how jolly nice it is to meet you, Mr. Dillon,” Khan said smiling. “I’ll be your liaison officer for the next day or two.”
“It’s Jake. Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s on ice, please.”
Dillon ordered two Jack Daniels’, and, whilst he waited for the drinks, took in his surroundings.
The Embassy chose the Shangri-la because it is handily placed for reaching Shahjahanabad,” Adam Khan said in English Oxford tones.
“Shahjahanabad?”
“Old Delhi, Jake. London only gave my station head the briefest of details, but I imagine you’ll want to go there.”
“I expect so. You’ll know your way around, I assume? And if you can supply me with what I want to know, I might need to stay only the one night.”
“London did mention that you wouldn’t be staying longer than necessary. Most people would give their month’s salary to stay longer if they could.”
“I’m sure they would. But I’m afraid that on this trip I don’t have the time. By the way, I’ve been to India on many occasions.”
“In which case the sightseeing tour is out.” It was said with joviality.
He then added, “Apparently, I must ensure that you find what you are looking for quickly. And before I forget, I’m to give you this package. Apparently you already know what it is.”
Khan handed over a package wrapped in plain brown paper and then downed his drink in one long gulp.
“Please don’t think me rude, but I’ve got to run a small errand. I will return in one hour. If you like, we can talk more then.”
“That’ll be fine, see you then.”
Dillon went back up to his room and before unpacking, opened the package and checked the pistol. He pushed a full clip into the base of the grip and made sure there was a round in the chamber before tucking the Glock into his trouser band at the small of his back.
Adam Khan returned to the hotel an hour later, where he found Dillon already sitting back at the bar drinking his third Jack Daniel’s of the evening. He ordered another for Khan as he sat down on the stool next to him.
“I don’t know how much London has told you, but I’m here to check up on a character called Charlie Hart. I believe his father worked for the British Imperial Import & Export Company here in Delhi, and that he was brought up here.”
Khan leant back on the padded, circular seat. The bar was loosely packed with people, active in a leisurely sort of way. At the other end of the bar a group of business men were in full flow, drinking the hotel’s vintage Champagne and, with much laughter, telling dirty jokes.
“I know of Hart. It must be over twenty years since he left India.”
He mused for a while, listening in on the tail end of a joke that was being told by a rotund Irishman who was sweating profusely and slurring his words.
“He had a son, if I remember rightly. It was rumoured that the mother was a singer of local origin, used to perform in one of the Old Delhi nightclubs that were frequented by white colonials. I don’t think they were ever seen in public together. She’s probably still living in the city, but it would be hellish difficult to locate her after all these years.”
Dillon said, “I’ve got to know Charlie Hart a little. My impression of the man is that the mother may have deserted the child, or was told to disappear by Hart for hard realistic reasons. But I would guess that he would have made sure she was never destitute. He would have ensured that a generous financial provision was made for her.”
Khan raised one eyebrow and gave one of his slight cynical smiles.
“So we’d be looking for a singer who originally came from the slum district, who had come into money and did not know which section of the community she belonged. That really makes it a lot easier.”