Gareth reached down, lifted a woven basket from the floor beside his chair, and set it on the table. His chair squeaked as he reached into the basket and lifted out four wood-and-brass cylindrical scroll-holders. “As ordered. The subcontinent’s version of a diplomatic pouch.”
The scroll-holders were identical, each about ten inches long and a bit more than two inches in diameter. Formed from strips of rosewood clamped together by brass bands, their lids were secured by a complicated set of brass levers of varying length and thickness.
They each took a holder, fiddled. “How do you open them?” Logan asked.
“Watch.” Setting the basket back on the floor, Gareth picked up one holder and deftly moved the six levers, one after the other. “It has to be done in that order, or the metal teeth inside don’t disengage. Try it.”
They all practiced. Gareth insisted they worked at it until they could open and close the holders by touch alone. “You might need to at some point-who knows?”
Rafe reached across and took the holder Gareth held, compared it with the one he’d picked up. “They truly are identical.”
“I don’t think anyone could tell them apart.” Logan looked at Del, then Rafe. “So we have the holders. Now for what goes in them.”
From his pocket, Del drew the sets of instructions Wolverstone had sent. “Five packets.” He separated out one with Original scrawled across a corner. “That one goes with the real letter. These”-he fanned out four identical packets-“are the decoys’ instructions. But we only need three.”
Now that James was gone.
They all looked at the four letters. Rafe sighed. “Shuffle the four, I’ll select one, and we can open it and see what form of instructions we’re going to find when we open our own sets later.”
“Good idea.” Del shuffled the four packets, held them out. Rafe drew one and handed it to Logan.
Logan took it, opened it, scanned the sheets inside, then handed them on to Gareth. “Comprehensive, but not specific, of course. The route we should follow, but no dates, no specified modes of travel. He does specify which English port we’re supposed to head for-Brighton, in this instance. Apparently we’ll be met by two men, Dalziel’s ex-operatives, who will have our route through England and our ultimate destination, neither of which are included here.”
Del nodded as he received the sheets from Gareth. He scanned them, then handed them to Rafe, who exchanged them for four slim packets he’d pulled from his inside coat pocket. “The three copies and the original.” Rafe cast a cursory glance over the now-to-be-discarded set of instructions while Del and the other three carefully unfolded and compared the copies and the original.
Reaching the end of the instructions, Rafe looked up. “We should destroy this.”
Logan held out his hand. “I’ll burn it.” Rafe handed the folded sheets over.
Del and Gareth had lined up the four scroll-holders across the table. They laid one instructions packet and one letter before each holder, making sure the original letter with its incriminating seal was paired with the appropriately marked instructions.
“As per Wolverstone’s directions,” Del said, “I sent him word we were putting his plan into action. It went ten days ago by fast frigate, so he’ll know we’re heading home in good time to have his men waiting at the ports.”
Rafe reached out, drew the nearest scroll-holder, letter and instructions to him, and set about opening the holder. “Now we do as he suggested and draw lots-in this case, scroll-holders.” He proceeded to carefully roll the letter and instructions and insert them into the holder.
The others followed suit, smiling faintly, all knowing that Del had been about to try to pull rank and argue that he should take the original.
He wouldn’t have succeeded-they’d resigned their commissions effective from this morning. They were all in this together, and equals in all ways now.
Reclosing his holder, Rafe asked, “Where’s that basket?”
Gareth hauled it back up. Rafe took it, dropped the scroll-holder he’d packed inside, then collected the holders from the others as they reclosed them, sealing in the letters and instructions.
“Right.” Rafe stood, closed the top of the large basket with his hands, then shook and rattled the holders, mixing them. With one last flourishing swirl, he set the basket down in the middle of the table and sat again.
“All together,” Del said. “We reach in, each takes a holder at the same time, whichever is closest.” He met the others’ eyes. “We don’t open them here. We leave this room together, but from the moment we pass through the door of the Red Turkey Cock, we go our separate ways.”
That morning, they’d moved out of the barracks. Over the years, each had gathered small households who traveled with them; those households were now packed and waiting, ready to leave, but all in separate locations.
They exchanged one last glance, then sat forward, reached into the basket. They waited until each of them had grasped one of the cylindrical holders, then, as one, drew them forth.
“Right,” Rafe said, his gaze locked on his holder.
“Wait.” Gareth swept the empty basket from the table, and replaced it with a bottle of arrack and four glasses. He splashed pale amber liquor into each glass, then set the bottle down.
They each took a glass and rose.
Del held his out. “Gentlemen.” He looked at each of them in turn. “To our continued health. Godspeed, and may luck be with us.”
They knew the Black Cobra would come after them; they knew they’d need all the luck they could get.
Gareth raised his glass. “Until we meet again.”
“On the green shores of England,” Logan added.
Rafe hesitated, then raised his glass. “To the death of the Black Cobra.”
They all nodded, then drank, drained their glasses and set them down.
They turned to the doorway. Lifting the bamboo screen, they ducked beneath it, walking out into the smoky bar.
Picking their way past rickety tables, they reached the open tavern doorway and moved out onto the dusty steps.
Del halted and held out his hand. “Good luck.”
They all shook hands, each with the other.
For one last instant, they stood and simply looked at each other.
Then Rafe stepped down into the dusty street. “May God and St. George be with us all.” With a last salute, he walked away.
They parted, each disappearing by a different route into the bustling city.
September 15, two nights later
Bombay
“We have a problem.”
The voice fitted the setting, the clipped, aristocratic accents appropriate to the beauty, the elegance, the wanton luxury pervading the enclosed courtyard of the discreet bungalow tucked away on the fringe of the fashionable district of Bombay.
No one seeing the house from outside would look twice. The street frontage was unremarkable, like many others nearby. But on entering the front foyer, one was struck by a sense of subdued elegance, yet the front reception rooms-the rooms those who called socially might see-were nothing more than quietly refined, restrained and rather spare.
Not quite soulless, yet the chosen few who were invited further quickly sensed a different ambiance, one that filled the senses with ever-increasing richness.
It wasn’t merely a show of wealth, but a deliberately sensual display. The further one penetrated into the private rooms, the richer, more wantonly yet tastefully luxurious the furnishings, the more artful, and graceful, the settings.
The courtyard, surrounded by the private rooms of the owner, was the apogee of restful, sensual delight. A long tiled pool glimmered in the moonlight. Trees and shrubs lined the whitewashed walls, while the open windows and doors gave access to mysteriously dark and inviting com forts. The exotic perfume of a temple flower tree wafted in the night breeze, the shed blossoms lying like snippets of the costliest silk scattered on the stone paving.