That was one lane out of the way. Now there was the other side of the road to cross, with the cars coming in the opposite direction. I jumped right into the fray, sidestepped a bus, and then skirted an Ambassador before reaching the safety of the far-side footpath.

But the motorcycle was halfway there, as well. I sprinted north along the marg and the wall of the President Hotel, as I felt the motorcycle bearing down on me. Then I darted right into the hotel’s short drive and leapt up the stairs to the entrance. The durwan barely had time to open the door before I was through it.

Collapsing into one of the lobby’s chairs, I watched the door for the man on the motorcycle. It had to be Bikas, I told myself. A minute later, once he’d parked his bike and strode up to the entrance, trying to look calm and respectable, the guy was intercepted by the durwan and a couple of security men. I wasn’t close enough to make out his face, but I could see the clothes. The gatekeepers weren’t going to let anyone dressed like that inside the hotel, at least not through the front door. For all its grinding prejudice, Indian snobbery might just have saved my life that evening.

Once he’d realized he wasn’t getting in, and that arguing with the doorman might attract the police, Bikas—yes, I’d decided it was him—got back on his bike and rode off into the rainy night.

I called Harlan from the house phone in the lobby, and he told me to come straight up to his room on the eleventh floor. Ranjit was there with him, as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He demanded to know what I was doing in Bombay. Why hadn’t I informed them of my movements?

“I followed protocol and visited you at the Blue Diamond,” I said. “They told me you were out of station.”

“Then why did you come to the hotel? If someone followed you, we’re cooked.”

“I had no choice,” I said. “I wasn’t followed. I was chased. But not by any of Willy’s men. It was Bikas. The bomber. He was waiting for me in my flat.”

Ranjit stewed, clearly not happy with my presence or my explanation. Harlan took a different view. He wanted to know why I had come to Bombay.

“Willy sent me. I have a package of ‘samples’ here,” I said, producing the parcel Dhiraj had left for me. “I don’t know what’s inside.”

“Don’t open it,” said Ranjit, and Harlan agreed. “You have to take that back to Willy. It’s a test. He’ll know if you look inside.”