“Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Zafar. It’s time for me to leave you in peace,” Dillon said as he stood up.
“Please do not apologise, Mr. Dillon. I’ve enjoyed our little chat. It’s not every day that I get such an interesting and cultured visitor come to my home.”
Zafar eased himself off his chair.
“I’ll let Charlie know we met just in case you do not get the opportunity yourself.”
Dillon was hearing the threat in every innuendo. He leant down, took hold of the tea cup and raised it to his lips and drank.
“Very nice tea, Mr. Zafar,” he said.
“I wonder if I could use your phone to call a taxi.”
Zafar approached with his hand held out.
“It has already been done.”
Their hands met.
Dillon wondered how Zafar had ordered a taxi — there had been no move that he had noticed, no ordering his manservant to do this.
“No doubt you will be flying straight back to the UK?”
Why did that sound like an instruction? But really, it did not matter what Zafar said, Dillon could put no credence to any of it. Zafar struck him as a man who could tell smooth convincing lies in his sleep.
Zafar walked with Dillon towards the large curved door and it was opened by Baskhar just before they reached it. Dillon’s natural assumption was that Zafar must have a communication device on him. What he noticed immediately, which had not been evident when he had first arrived, was that the manservant was now wearing white cotton gloves. There was nothing odd in that, after all he could easily have been polishing the silver. But why have them on as he was leaving? The pressure was being subtly applied without one wrong word being spoken. As criminal minds go, it made Trevelyan look second-rate, at best.
Zafar escorted him all the way to the courtyard garden as far as the outside gate, just as a taxi arrived, as if on cue. Dillon climbed in the back.
“The Shangri-La Hotel,” he instructed. He glanced back at the entrance gate as the taxi drew away, but Zafar and his manservant had already disappeared back into the courtyard. He sat back, thinking over the futility of the trip as the taxi weaved it’s way slowly through the crowds of people in the busy street. It then struck him as he looked over the shoulder of the driver, that he was wearing white cotton gloves of exactly the same type as those worn by Baskhar. Then he noticed the glass partition between himself and the driver like in a London taxi. But this was Delhi and the taxis were virtually all basic saloon cars.
He tried to lower the window, only to find that was stuck fast and would not budge. And the same with the door — locked firmly into place. With resignation he sat back in the seat and cursed himself for having been so stupid. He had been reeled in like an amateur and trapped like one. He accepted the situation without rancour, but with a good deal of self-disgust. There was no point in shouting or trying to kick the windows out, as they were most likely bulletproof. He would have to let the situation take its natural course and try to keep his wits about him — something he had not done since arriving in India.
As he sat back he thought how he had been led around like a lamb to slaughter since stepping off the plane and he now began to wonder at Khan’s part. He had no idea where he was being taken until they took a turning and started to head towards a major motorway and New Delhi. At least he was going that far. When the driver veered away from the general direction of the hotel, Dillon started to feel uneasy.
It was reassuring, and at the same time a little uncomfortable, to feel the Glock tucked into his trouser band in the small of his back. But if he had learnt anything at all about Devdas Shah Zafar, it was that he would already know that he was carrying one. It was not very often that Dillon felt as if he had lost control of a situation, but it had happened. And now he was helpless.
He looked out of the window and was somewhat surprised to see that they were heading in the direction of the airport. Moments later, and the driver was turning into the concourse at Indira Gandhi International Airport and his faith in human nature was restored. The driver pulled into a vacant parking space and immediately spoke into a microphone attached to the sun visor. The speaker was somewhere behind Dillon’s head.
In heavily accented English he said, “The door is now unlocked, Mr. Dillon. There is someone waiting inside the main terminal with your luggage and return travel documents, including your passport. You will only leave the airport on the plane. We have all the exits covered and will kill you on sight if you step outside. There will be people watching you inside until you get on the aircraft. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. You are a lucky man. Please leave your handgun on the seat and get out of the car now.”
He watched Dillon place the Glock on the rear seat and then step outside the car into a wall of heat and the smell of aviation fuel fumes.
The roar of jet engines seemed to be all about him, but suddenly they were like music to his ears. He walked towards the departure bays, knowing that he was being constantly watched and wondering why they were allowing him to leave without so much as a roughing up, or even in a wooden box! There must be a reason — he felt that he was being allowed to leave India because the real danger was back in England. This is where he would be led to a place of execution. To be buried without a trace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brendon Morgan had once again kept his word. As Dillon stepped off the plane he was met by an airport official and whisked away in a Mercedes 4x4 to the VIP arrivals lounge at London Heathrow airport. He went through passport control and retrieved his luggage, after which he made his way back to The Old Colonial Club.
The moment Dillon was back in his rooms, he phoned Issy to make sure that she was okay and to tell her that the assignment was at the stage where it would soon be drawing to a close. He knew that he had been saying that for some time now, but since her abduction she no longer got angry or argued.
He added, “If you see anyone hanging about outside, don’t worry, he’s simply keeping an eye on you.”
He rang Hart, only to get no reply. He didn’t call Morgan, who obviously knew that he was back in the UK. But he did consider whether there was something that he was holding back. Khan, Morgan’s contact in Delhi, had not added much to what he already knew and had in fact misinformed him about Devdas Shah Zafar.
There was only one other person left to speak to, but he would only be able to contact him by email and would most likely not get a reply for some hours after. Ten minutes later he had sent a brief message to his old friend, Lieutenant Colonel Paddy McNamara, who was still a serving officer and currently assigned to the SAS on special ops in Afghanistan.
Meanwhile, Dillon would have to curb his impatience and wait. He still couldn’t fathom out how easily he had been allowed to leave India. It could only be with Hart’s agreement and he must have a motive for allowing it.
Morgan was sitting at his desk when Toby Cooper knocked on his office door. Cooper entered and waited a few minutes whilst Morgan demonstrated his seniority by ignoring him as he studied some documents. After thirty seconds of silence Cooper said, “I can see you’re busy, I’ll come back later. I just wanted to report what we’ve found out about Jake Dillon. But you most likely already know.”
He opened the door to leave as Morgan called out, “Sorry, Toby. Need to get these signed off before lunch. Come back and sit yourself down.”
Cooper closed the door and sat back down again without invitation. He was bored of Morgan’s stupid little ways.
“So, what’s this about Jake Dillon?” Morgan demanded.