Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“The biggest of my life.”

The High Commissioner listened carefully to what his secretary had to say.

“Your nephew has just called 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.”

The boy produced his father’s latest book. “We all love William Warwick,” he said, before moving on to the next car. Would his father believe him?

It took another hour before they drew up outside the Taj Mahal Hotel, by which time Seb was exhausted and soaked with perspiration.

When he stepped inside the hotel, he entered another world and was quickly transported back to the present day.

“How long will you be staying with us, sir?” asked a tall, elegant man in a long blue coat, as Seb signed the registration form.

“I’m not sure,” said Seb, “but at least two or three days.”

“Then I’ll leave the booking open-ended. Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“Can you recommend a reliable car hire firm?”

“If it’s a car you require, sir, the hotel will happily supply you with a chauffeur-driven Ambassador.”

“Will it be possible to keep the same driver for the whole visit?”

“Of course, sir.”

“He’ll need to speak English.”

“In this hotel, sir, even the cleaners speak English.”

“Of course, I apologize. I have one more request — could he possibly be a Hindu?”

“Not a problem, sir. I believe I have the ideal person to meet all your requirements, and I can recommend him highly, because he’s my brother.” Seb laughed. “And when would you want him to start?”

“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Excellent. My brother’s name is Vijay and he’ll be waiting for you outside the main entrance at eight.” The receptionist raised a hand and a bellboy appeared. “Take Mr. Clifton to room 808.”

When Sebastian left his hotel at eight o’clock the following morning, he spotted a young man standing beside a white Ambassador. The moment he saw Seb heading toward him, he opened the back door.

“I’ll sit in the front with you,” said Seb.

“Of course, sir,” said Vijay. Once he was behind the wheel he asked, “Where would you like to go, sir?”

Seb handed him an address. “How long will it take?”

“That depends, sir, on how many traffic lights are working this morning and how many cows are having their breakfast.”

The answer turned out to be just over an hour, although the milometer indicated that they had covered barely three miles.

“It’s the house on the right, sir,” said Vijay. “Do you want me to drive up to the front door?”

“No,” said Seb as they passed the gates of a house that was so large it might have been mistaken for a country club. He admired Priya for never having mentioned her father’s wealth.

Vijay parked in an isolated spot, down a side road from where they could see anyone coming in or out of the gates, while they would be unlikely to be noticed.

“Are you very important?” asked Vijay an hour later.

“No,” said Seb. “Why do you ask?”

“Because there’s a police car parked just down the road, and it hasn’t moved since we arrived.”

Seb was puzzled but tried to dismiss it as a coincidence, even though Cedric Hardcastle had taught him many years ago to always be wary of coincidences.

They remained seated in the car for most of the day, during which time several cars and a van passed in and out of the gates. There was no sign of Priya, although at one point a large Mercedes left the grounds with Mr. Ghuman seated in the back talking to a younger man Seb assumed must be his son.

In between the comings and goings, Vijay gave Seb a further insight into the Hindu religion, and he began to realize just how difficult it must have been for Priya even to consider defying her parents.

He was about to call it a day when two men, one carrying a camera, the other a briefcase, came strolling down the drive from the house and stopped outside the main gate. They were dressed smartly but casually, and had a professional air about them. They hailed a taxi and climbed into the back.

“Follow that cab, and don’t lose them.”

“It’s quite difficult to lose anyone in a city where bicycles overtake you,” said Vijay as they progressed slowly back toward the city center. The taxi finally came to a halt outside a large Victorian building that proclaimed above its front door: the Times of India .

“Wait here,” said Sebastian. He got out of the car and waited until the two men had entered the building before following them inside. One of them waved to a girl on the reception desk as they headed toward a bank of lifts. Sebastian made his way over to the desk, smiled at the girl and said, “How embarrassing. I can’t remember the name of the journalist who’s just getting into the lift.”