‘What happens if I sign?’
‘You and Miss Grant will be transported to Delhi and placed on the first flight to London.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I hope you like ghee, Mr Saintclair.’
L
THEY ARRIVED AT Heathrow airport still in the clothes they’d worn to climb the Himalayas. The two travel-stained pariahs held in isolation at the back of the Air India flight had attracted the curious stares of their fellow passengers – the consensus seemed to be drug smugglers caught in the act – but in their weariness and with the memory of Tenzin’s sacrifice still fresh, they barely noticed.
Sarah insisted on stopping off at her flat for fresh clothing before they continued to Kensington and after they’d showered it seemed sensible to fall into bed where they slept for the best part of the afternoon. It was only when they were up and dressed that she noticed the red light flashing on her telephone that indicated a new voice message.
Jamie busied himself in the kitchen while she listened. When she joined him the news was clearly not good.
‘Vanderbilt have cut us loose. They say we breached the conditions of our contract. I’m not sure how it works, but I suspect we weren’t supposed to get involved in a shooting war. There was also a suggestion that the museum won’t let the painting out of Poland again. They’ll pay me for the feature, but we can forget about buying a yacht.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘Being poor again?’
‘Yes.’
‘It doesn’t seem to matter.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘So what happens now? We can’t just stop.’
He smiled and kissed her hair. This was the old Sarah talking.
‘I’ve arranged to speak to an old friend who knows all about that stuff Tenzin told us about. Nuclear fission and fusion. The Holy Grail and all that. I also think we need to find out more about the secret American operation to smuggle Nazi scientists out of Germany at the end of the war. We’re not finished yet.’
Mike Oliver had known Jamie long enough not to expect him to be on time. He was sipping his beer patiently in the corner of the pub when the familiar rangy figure walked in. What did surprise him was his friend’s choice of companion. Here was something much more exotic than the fragile and often rather dull English roses who normally lasted a couple of months with Jamie before mutual apathy prised them apart. Sarah was wearing tight leather trousers and a short, tailored jacket that emphasized her slim figure. With her golden complexion and high cheekbones she could have had star billing in one of those commercials for Italian designer gear, but something told him this girl was much more than a clothes-horse. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and not for the first time, wished he had more of it.
‘What’ll you have? Mike Oliver, this is Sarah. Mike is a mad scientist.’
They shook hands while Jamie went to the bar. ‘Have you known Jamie long?’ he asked.
She stared at him and he wondered if she was reading more into the innocent enquiry than he’d intended.
‘About a month, but it seems like years. Every day with Jamie is one big adventure.’
Caterpillar brows elevated in surprise. ‘Then you must be good for him. It’s only about eight months since I last met him and he looks about five years younger. How did you get him out of his tweed jacket? Actually, forget I said that. What I mean is you’ve improved his clothes sense, er, made him more fashionable.’
‘Why, thank you, Mike,’ she said, giving her drawl the full works and studying his own cherished, but well-worn leather bomber in a way that made him blush. ‘Like all you men, all he needed was a little push in the right direction. Come to think of it, you don’t look like my idea of a mad scientist. I imagined a little more hair and a white coat. What is your speciality?’
He grinned, accepting the gentle mockery in the spirit it was intended. ‘I keep my madness well hidden, madam. It only comes out when there’s a full moon. Then again, I’m a humble jobbing astrophysicist and it is a well-known fact that all astrophysicists are certifiable.’
‘Don’t let him kid you.’ Jamie appeared, grinning, with two pints and a glass of white wine. ‘There’s nothing humble about Professor Michael Oliver MSc and bar. The man’s a genius. Certifiable, yes, but never humble.’
Mike accepted his pint.
‘So what can I do for you? You said you wanted to bend my ear. Sarah tells me you’ve been having a few adventures and I have some questions of my own about that giant burrow you stumbled across in Germany, but you have the honour.’