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  “If you don’t move and move quickly, I’ll break your bloody neck,” said Townsend.

  “I don’t have to listen to language like that from anyone,” said the driver. He got out of the car, unlocked the boot and began unloading their cases onto the curb.

  Townsend was about to leap out after him when Kate took his hand. “Sit still and let me deal with this,” she said firmly.

  Townsend was unable to hear the conversation that was taking place behind the car, but after a few moments he could see the cases being put back into the boot.

  When Kate rejoined him, he said, “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank him,” she whispered.

  The driver eased the car away from the curb, turned left at the lights, and joined the morning traffic. He was relieved that the traffic leaving London at that time in the morning wasn’t like the bumper-to-bumper queues that were trying to fight their way into the capital.

  “I’ll have to call Downer as soon as we get to the airport,” said Townsend quietly.

  “Why do you want to speak to him again?” asked Kate.

  “I thought I’d try and have a word with my mother’s doctor in Melbourne before we take off, but I don’t have the number.”

  Kate nodded. Townsend began tapping his fingers on the window. He tried to remember the last meeting he had had with his mother. He had briefed her on the possible takeover of the West Riding Group, and she had responded with her usual set of shrewd questions. After dinner he had left, promising her that he would call her from Leeds if he closed the deal.

  “And who’s the girl going with you?” she had asked. He’d been cagey, but he knew he hadn’t fooled her. He glanced across at Kate and wanted to take her hand, but she seemed preoccupied. Neither of them spoke until they arrived at the airport. When the car pulled up outside the terminal, Townsend jumped out and went in search of a trolley while the driver unloaded the cases. The moment they were stacked up, he gave him a large tip, said “Thank you” several times, then pushed the trolley as fast as he could through the hall to the checking-in counter, with Kate following a pace behind him.

  “Are we still in time for the Melbourne flight?” Townsend asked as he placed his passport on the Qantas check-in desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Townsend,” the booking clerk replied, flicking open his passport. “The High Commissioner called earlier.” She looked up and said, “We have reserved two tickets for you, one in your name, the other for Miss Tulloh.”

  “That’s me,” said Kate, handing over her passport.

  “You’re both in first class, seats 3D and E. Would you please go straight to gate number seventeen, where boarding is about to commence.”

  By the time they arrived in the departure lounge, economy was already boarding, and Townsend left Kate to check them in while he went off in search of a telephone. He had to wait in a queue of three for the one available phone, and when he eventually reached the front of the line, he dialed Henry’s home number. It was engaged. He tried three more times, but it continued to give out the same long beeps. As he began dialing the number at the head of the High Commissioner’s writing paper, a booking clerk announced that all remaining passengers should take their seats, as the gates were about to close. The High Commissioner’s number began to ring, and Townsend glanced round to find that the departure lounge was empty, apart from him and Kate. He waved her in the direction of the aircraft.

  Townsend let the phone ring for a few more moments, but no one answered. He gave up and replaced the receiver, then ran down the corridor to find Kate waiting by the door of the plane. Once they had entered it, the doors swung closed behind them.

  “Any luck?” asked Kate, as she began strapping herself into the seat.

  “No,” said Townsend. “Henry was constantly engaged, and the High Commission didn’t answer the phone.”

  Kate remained silent as the plane taxied toward the runway. When it came to a halt, she said, “While you were on the phone, I began thinking. It just doesn’t add up.”

  The plane began to accelerate down the runway as Townsend fastened his seatbelt.

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t add up?”

  “The last hour,” said Kate.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, to start with, my ticket.”

  “Your ticket?” said Keith, puzzled.

  “Yes. How did Qantas know what name to book it in?”

  “I suppose the High Commissioner told them.”

  “But how could he?” said Kate. “When he sent you the invitation to dinner it didn’t include me, because he had no idea that I was with you.”

  “He could have asked the hotel manager.”

  “Possibly. But something else has been nagging at the back of my mind.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The bellboy knew exactly which table to go to.”

  “So what?”

  “You were facing me in the corner of the room looking toward the window, but I just happened to look up when he came into the Palm Court. I remember thinking it was strange that he knew exactly where to go, despite you having your back to him.”

  “He could have asked the head waiter.”

  “No,” said Kate. “He walked straight past the head waiter. Didn’t even give him a glance.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “And Henry’s phone—continually engaged even though it was only just after 8:30 in the morning.” The wheels of the plane left the ground. “And why couldn’t you get through to the High Commissioner at 8:30 when you could at 7:20?”

  Keith looked straight at her.

  “We’ve been taken, Keith. And by someone who wanted to be certain that you wouldn’t be in Leeds at twelve o’clock to sign that contract.”

  Keith flicked off his seatbelt, ran up the aisle and barged into the cockpit before the steward could stop him. The captain listened to his story sympathetically, but pointed out that there was nothing he could do now that the plane was on its way to Bombay.

  * * *

  “Flight 009 has taken off for Melbourne with both pieces of cargo on board,” said Benson from a telephone in the observation tower. He watched as the Comet disappeared through a bank of clouds. “They will be in the air for at least the next fourteen hours.”

  “Well done, Reg,” said Armstrong. “Now get back to the Ritz. Sally’s already booked the room Townsend was in, so wait there for Wolstenholme to call. My guess is that it will be soon after twelve. By then I’ll have arrived at the Queen’s Hotel, and I’ll let you know my room number.”

  Keith sat in his seat on the plane, banging the armrests with the palms of his hands. “Who are they, and how did they manage it?”

  Kate was fairly certain she knew who, and a great deal of how.

  * * *

  Three hours later, a call came through to the Ritz for Mr. Keith Townsend. The switchboard operator followed the instructions she’d been given by the extremely generous gentleman who’d had a word with her earlier that morning, and put the call through to room 319, where Benson was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Is Keith there?” asked an anxious voice.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Henry Wolstenholme,” he boomed.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wolstenholme. Mr. Townsend tried to call you this morning, but your line was continually engaged.”

  “I know. Someone called me at home around seven, but it turned out to be a wrong number. When I tried to dial out later, the line had gone dead. But where is Keith?”

  “He’s on a plane to Melbourne. His mother’s had a heart attack and the High Commissioner arranged to hold up the flight for him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Keith’s mother, but I fear Mr. Shuttleworth may not be willing to hold up the contract. It’s been hard enough to get him to agree to see us at all.”

  Benson read out the exact words Armstrong had written down for him: “Mr. Tow