She unlocked the café door and noted that the newspaper she’d posted through the letterbox the night before was not on the mat. It was pushed against the wall. The morning rush would start soon. She scooped up the paper, flicked on the pendant lights and started putting menus on the mismatched Formica tabletops. Something caught her eye. A glimmer of movement in the glass of a framed photo of a Bombayite she’d befriended since moving to Glasgow. Slipping a hand between the folds of her sari, she palmed the blade at her thigh and, with a deft flick, sent it flying across the room. It made a dull thud as it hit the far wall.
“Good to see you’ve not lost your touch, Miss X.” A gravelled Indian-accented voice cut across the quiet swoosh of the ceiling fans.
A wry smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I wish I could say the same, G.”
A tall, elegant man in a black fedora, smart suit and pashmina stepped from the shadows. He’d changed little since she last saw him in Bombay. The same thick, dark locks skimmed broad shoulders. Only the hint of silver stubbling his jaw was new. He returned her smile and her knife, handle-first.
“When did you know it was me?”
“Six days ago. I caught your reflection in the window of a friend’s shop.” She slipped behind the bar and filled the chai urn with water.
“But I’ve only been here six days!” He laughed.
“Indeed. Fresh off the steamer from Bombay. Thirteen-oh-seven, Greenock.”
“Show-off.”
She sniffed the air in front of him and shook her head, “Along with your signature sandalwood oud. Baap re, G, it’s like you want people to know where you are.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why didn’t you confront me?”
“And spoil your fun playing Secret Service-walla?”
“Fun? You just threw a knife at my head!”
“Don’t be a bacha. It was a warning shot.” She tipped the spices she’d gathered into the urn. “So, what brings you here?”
“I heard this place has the best Scotch.” He flashed a disarming smile.
“You’re not wrong. A little early though?” She inclined her head towards the large clock.
“Who are you? And what have you done with my favourite agent?”
“Ex-agent,” she corrected. “Why are you really here, G?” She levelled a searching look at him as she pulled a bottle from the back wall.
He leant forward. “I’ve a mission for you.” He slid an unmarked manila envelope across the marble-topped bar.
“Not interested.” She pushed it back. “Besides, if Command saw fit to leave me here for this long, I can’t imagine they’ve suddenly gotten over my blowing up India’s new Bhabha Atomic Research Centre.”
“It’s been rebuilt, along with our government’s reputation. You got the job done. Command’s cooled off and I’ve vouched it won’t happen again.”
“Oh, you have? Good of you.” She said dryly over the gentle clink of ice as she swirled their tumblers.
“Look,” he growled softly, “your country needs you. There’s a drug ring with its fingers in the Bombay Stock Exchange. It’s trafficking across the globe, and it looks like it might be pulling strings here in Glasgow’s Exchange. You’re the only agent who can pull this job off. I know it. Command knows it. And now you know it.” He pushed the envelope back across the bar.
“Oh. That.”
His eyes widened imperceptibly. He took a slow sip of his drink. “What do you know?”
“Enough.” She opened the file and scanned the pages before returning them. “More than you.”
“India’s not the only one who needs you, X…” He pulled out a packet of Capstans and offered her one. She placed the cigarette between her lips and leant forward for him to light it. He struck a match and bent across the bar, his face inches from hers. “I’ve missed you.” He murmured.
She held his gaze, her expression cool and unreadable, then turned and exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “Should I decide to come back, I’ll have terms.”
“I’d expect nothing less. Let’s talk over dinner?”
“If I want to find you, I will. Now go, and try to be a little less conspicuous – lose the hat na!”
