“Danny Boy,” said Willy. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“I got into a scrape in Bombay,” I said. “That terrorist found me.”

“My God, what happened?”

I gave him the story, leaving out the mention of my return to Sagar Darshan. For all Willy knew, I’d lost my flat when I was fired. Instead I told him Bikas had probably been watching my building, lying in wait, and spotted me at the Mafco stall opposite the President.

“Then you got my samples?” he asked.

I pulled the small parcel from my pocket and handed it to him. He thanked me and, making a face, told me to go have my bath.

“You know, Danny,” said Willy, once we’d finished our lunch and were relaxing outside on the veranda, “I sent you to Bombay on a false mission.” He had my attention. “My business requires a great deal of trust and confidentiality. I must be sure of the people who work for me.”

“That’s understandable. But what do you mean by a false mission?”

Willy took a last drag on his cigarette, a Gauloise, and turned to regard me face-to-face. “I sent you to Kathmandu and to Bombay because I cannot trust you after what you did.”

I stared back at him, willing myself to maintain calm. “I don’t understand,” I said in a measured voice.

“I don’t believe you intended to betray me, Danny, but you did.”

Oh, God. He knew.

“And I was very disappointed by you. So I sent you on those false missions to get you out of the way. Temporarily. So I could take care of some important business without the risk of you attracting that woman.”

My poker face had surely stiffened into an expression much more telling. That woman? Was that how he was referring to Sushmita? Now that she’d betrayed him and slept with me?

“That woman?” I asked.

“Your German friend,” he said. “Birgit. The one you brought into my home. Twice. She’s a government agent, didn’t you know? A cop.”

I couldn’t speak.

“That’s why I cannot trust you, Danny,” he continued. “Oh, I don’t believe for a moment that you put my business and my freedom at risk on purpose. I suspect you were duped. But I cannot afford that kind of carelessness in my line of work.”

“What exactly is your work?” I asked, trying desperately to save my neck by acting as naïve as he seemed to believe me to be. As if I had no idea he traded in little girls.

“Import-export, as I’ve told you before. The police wrongly suspect me of God knows what. Because I sometimes enjoy smoking a little hash.”

“I’m sorry, Willy,” I said, not believing him for an instant. “Sorry I was so stupid and jeopardized your business.”

He shrugged. “River under the bridge.”

“Water,” I said, my voice low and rough.