the others and spread the word. If we believe it, and believe it utterly, through to our very bones, we can make it come true. Hilda will be out.’
‘This could be our last chance!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart had, of course, sent a message from London to Major Chatterjee of the Indian Army, the UNIT liaison officer in Bombay, to let him know that he was coming; and he’d followed it up with a phone call as soon as he had settled in to the hotel. Though this had been somewhat protracted, as he was passed from extension to extension up the ladder of command, he had eventually been able to make an appointment.
He’d been a little taken aback to find that the UNIT office, which was situated in a large suburban mansion badly needing a lick of paint, was little more than a store-cupboard behind the lifts on the fourth floor, and that the entire staff consisted of the Major himself.
‘My dear chap,’ he said when he’d been told why the Brigadier and his two assistants had come, ‘of course I am understanding the urgency of the matter. I shall be very delighted to accompany you on your visit to this strange lady.’
‘Good,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Then I suggest that we waste no more time. The authority of your uniform should guarantee us access.’ The Brigadier, being officially on a private visit, was of course in mufti.
The young major stroked his Errol Flynn moustache and nodded his agreement.
He was evidently very proud of his uniform, thought the Brigadier. The knife-sharp creases in his shorts would have done credit to an officer in the Grenadier Guards.
But he showed no sign of urgency.
‘Are you free now?’ the Brigadier went on, getting up from the rickety bentwood chair that was provided for visitors.
Chatterjee raised his hands in apology. ‘My dear fellow, we cannot be importunate. These things take time, you know. I can clear it with the police in a phone call or two. Perhaps.
But the politicos... I am sure I can be getting an answer by the day after tomorrow. Or the next day, without a doubt.
Maybe.’
‘What!’
‘I have to send a memo, in triplicate, to the Secretary of the Under-Secretary in Delhi, who will consult with the Permanent Secretary, who will decide whether to involve the Minister, you see. And then we must await for the answer to come back along the line. In triplicate.’
The Major grinned at the sight of the Brigadier’s appalled face. ‘We have a saying here, you know. The British invented bureaucracy - and the Indians perfected it.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ said Lethbridge-Stewart.
‘Not to worry, sir,’ said the Major. ‘After all, they aren’t sailing for a while yet.’
‘Sailing? What are you talking about?’
‘You didn’t know? They have a ship, a small cruise ship, or an extremely large yacht - I suppose you might be categorising it as either one - which used to belong to the billionaire Papadopoulos, you know? Before his imprisonment? To be honest, Bombay will be glad to see their backside. We have heard such tales, you know.’
Ah! More horror stories! Now they were getting somewhere.
‘Such as?’ the Brigadier asked.
The Major tutted. ‘Naked revels. Dancing by moonlight, etcetera, etcetera. And worse!’
No Skang stuff then.
‘But where are they sailing to?’ said the Major. ‘That we shall be learning when they are submitting their intentions to the appropriate authority. Until then, one can only be asking the question.’
‘Nobody knows,’ said Jeremy cheerfully to Sarah. At least, I suppose somebody must know, otherwise we’d never get there, would we? But they haven’t told us.’
Sarah was now dressed in a short tennis frock (as the shop assistant had called it), the only totally white garment she had been able to find in her hurried shopping trip. Its pristine freshness was marred by a long green smear, the unfortunate result of her clambering over the wall behind the
‘This could be our last chance!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart had, of course, sent a message from London to Major Chatterjee of the Indian Army, the UNIT liaison officer in Bombay, to let him know that he was coming; and he’d followed it up with a phone call as soon as he had settled in to the hotel. Though this had been somewhat protracted, as he was passed from extension to extension up the ladder of command, he had eventually been able to make an appointment.
He’d been a little taken aback to find that the UNIT office, which was situated in a large suburban mansion badly needing a lick of paint, was little more than a store-cupboard behind the lifts on the fourth floor, and that the entire staff consisted of the Major himself.
‘My dear chap,’ he said when he’d been told why the Brigadier and his two assistants had come, ‘of course I am understanding the urgency of the matter. I shall be very delighted to accompany you on your visit to this strange lady.’
‘Good,’ said the Brigadier. ‘Then I suggest that we waste no more time. The authority of your uniform should guarantee us access.’ The Brigadier, being officially on a private visit, was of course in mufti.
The young major stroked his Errol Flynn moustache and nodded his agreement.
He was evidently very proud of his uniform, thought the Brigadier. The knife-sharp creases in his shorts would have done credit to an officer in the Grenadier Guards.
But he showed no sign of urgency.
‘Are you free now?’ the Brigadier went on, getting up from the rickety bentwood chair that was provided for visitors.
Chatterjee raised his hands in apology. ‘My dear fellow, we cannot be importunate. These things take time, you know. I can clear it with the police in a phone call or two. Perhaps.
But the politicos... I am sure I can be getting an answer by the day after tomorrow. Or the next day, without a doubt.
Maybe.’
‘What!’
‘I have to send a memo, in triplicate, to the Secretary of the Under-Secretary in Delhi, who will consult with the Permanent Secretary, who will decide whether to involve the Minister, you see. And then we must await for the answer to come back along the line. In triplicate.’
The Major grinned at the sight of the Brigadier’s appalled face. ‘We have a saying here, you know. The British invented bureaucracy - and the Indians perfected it.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ said Lethbridge-Stewart.
‘Not to worry, sir,’ said the Major. ‘After all, they aren’t sailing for a while yet.’
‘Sailing? What are you talking about?’
‘You didn’t know? They have a ship, a small cruise ship, or an extremely large yacht - I suppose you might be categorising it as either one - which used to belong to the billionaire Papadopoulos, you know? Before his imprisonment? To be honest, Bombay will be glad to see their backside. We have heard such tales, you know.’
Ah! More horror stories! Now they were getting somewhere.
‘Such as?’ the Brigadier asked.
The Major tutted. ‘Naked revels. Dancing by moonlight, etcetera, etcetera. And worse!’
No Skang stuff then.
‘But where are they sailing to?’ said the Major. ‘That we shall be learning when they are submitting their intentions to the appropriate authority. Until then, one can only be asking the question.’
‘Nobody knows,’ said Jeremy cheerfully to Sarah. At least, I suppose somebody must know, otherwise we’d never get there, would we? But they haven’t told us.’
Sarah was now dressed in a short tennis frock (as the shop assistant had called it), the only totally white garment she had been able to find in her hurried shopping trip. Its pristine freshness was marred by a long green smear, the unfortunate result of her clambering over the wall behind the
Similar Books
