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“Are you saying there’s nothing I can do?”
“Not a great deal,” admitted the High Commissioner. “And I only wish I could be more helpful.”
“It was good of you to spare us so much of your time, Varun,” said Giles as he stood up.
“My pleasure, Giles,” said the High Commissioner. The two men shook hands. “Don’t hesitate to be in touch if you feel I can be of any assistance.”
As Giles and Seb left Varun Sharma’s office and walked out on to the Strand, Giles said, “I’m so sorry, Seb. I know exactly what you’re going through, but I’m not sure what you can do next.”
“Go home and try to get on with my life. But thank you, Uncle Giles, you couldn’t have done more.”
Giles watched as his nephew strode off in the direction of the City, and wondered what he really planned to do next, because his home was in the opposite direction. Once Seb was out of sight, Giles headed back up the steps and into the High Commissioner’s office.
* * *
“Rachel, I need five hundred pounds in rupees, an open-ended return ticket to Bombay and an Indian visa. If you call Mr. Sharma’s secretary at the High Commission, I’m sure she’ll speed the whole process up. Oh, and I’ll need fifteen minutes with the chairman before I leave.”
“But you have several important appointments next week, including—”
“Clear my diary for the next few days. I’ll phone in every morning, so you can keep me fully briefed.”
“This must be one hell of a deal you’re trying to close.”
“The biggest of my life.”
* * *
The High Commissioner listened carefully to what his secretary had to say.
“Your nephew has just ca
lled and applied for a visa,” he said after putting the phone down. “Do I speed it up, or slow it down?”
“Speed it up,” said Giles, “although I admit I’m quite anxious about the boy. Like me, he’s a hopeless romantic, and at the moment he’s thinking with his heart and not his head.”
“Don’t worry, Giles,” said Varun. “I’ll see that someone keeps an eye on him while he’s in India and tries to make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble, especially as Sukhi Ghuman is involved. No one needs that man as an enemy.”
“But when I met him at Lord’s, he seemed quite charming.”
“That’s half the reason he’s so successful.”
* * *
It wasn’t until later that evening, when Seb had fastened his seat-belt and the plane had taken off, that he realized he didn’t have a plan. All he knew for certain was that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life wondering if this journey just might have made a difference. The only piece of useful information he picked up from the chief steward during the flight was the name of the best hotel in Bombay.
Seb was dozing when the captain announced that they were about to begin their descent into Bombay. He looked out of the cabin window to see a vast, sprawling mass of tiny houses, shacks and tenement blocks, filling every inch of space. He could only wonder if Bombay had any planning laws.
As he left the aircraft and walked down the steps, he was immediately overwhelmed by the oppressive humidity, and once he’d entered the airport, he quickly discovered the local pace of everything—slow or stop. Having his passport checked, the longest queue he’d ever seen; waiting for his luggage to be unloaded from the hold, he nearly fell asleep; being held up by customs, although he only had one suitcase; and then trying to find a taxi when there wasn’t an official rank—they just seemed to come and go.
When Seb finally set off for the city, he discovered why no one was ever booked for speeding in Bombay, because the car rarely got out of first gear. And when he asked about air-conditioning, the driver wound down his window. He stared out of the open window at the little shops—no roofs, no doors, trading everything from spare tires to mangos—while the citizens of Bombay went about their business. Some were dressed in smart suits that hung loosely on their bodies and ties that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Square Mile, while others wore spotless loincloths, bringing to mind the image of Gandhi, one of his father’s heroes.
Once they’d reached the outskirts of the city, they came to a halt. Seb had experienced traffic jams in London, New York and Tokyo, but they were Formula One racetracks compared to Bombay. Broken-down lorries parked in the fast lane, over-crowded rickshaws on the inside lane, and sacred cows munched happily away in the center lane, while old women crossed the road seemingly unaware what it had originally been built for.
A little boy was standing in the middle of the road carrying a stack of paperback books. He walked up to the car, tapped on the window and smiled in at Sebastian.
“Harold Robbins, Robert Ludlum and Harry Clifton,” he said, giving him a beaming grin. “All half price!”
Sebastian handed him a ten-rupee note and said, “Harry Clifton.”
