He did not discuss his imminent departure with the colonel, and it would not be till sometime later that the colonel would receive a call telling him to close the case and release the two Americans, appropriate pressure having been applied by appropriate people during appropriate meetings and phone calls. For the admiral was not idle after ending his call with Neal. After thanking the embassy in New Delhi for patching him through to the coast guard, he had woken up certain people within the Pentagon, initiating predefined protocols for extracting citizens from a friendly nation when they might hold pertinent or classified information.

The admiral had also placed a call to his longtime peer, colleague, and all round rival, General Pickler, to discuss this new turn of events, and his level of discomfort with them.

The extraction process, once started, took on a life of its own, long practiced procedures setting off a domino effect within the halls of power in Washington and beyond. While a representative of the secretary of state was calling his counterpart in Delhi, a government travel agency was locating the fastest possible route from Kodikkarai to Washington, DC. At the same time, the CIA was activating an asset on the ground in Delhi, dispatching him to the airport to meet the two citizens off the local commuter flight from Kodikkarai, ensuring they got to their flight home, and minimizing their contact with Indian officials, or anyone else, along the way.

And so Colonel Patel had been as surprised as Neal when a senior official had called him sometime later, ordering him to end his interview with the Americans and escort them back to their guesthouse.

“I am to help you collect your belongings,” the colonel had said, somewhat bewildered, but nonetheless quick to comply, “then we are to drive you to the airport where a plane is, apparently, even now waiting for you.”

Wow, thought Neal, the Pentagon doesn’t fuck around. He had thanked the colonel, and then helped to escort the still distraught Madeline out of the coast guard building.

Arriving in Delhi hours later, they were accosted by a loud, middle-aged American tourist in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. As they tried to politely get away from him, he leant in and shook Neal’s hand, saying blithely that he was a friend of Tim Hamilton’s. The shoe dropped, and Neal, squeezing Madeline’s arm, said they should go and grab a drink with the man and talk about the States.

She was not far behind him, sensing his change of mood, and the tourist, who introduced himself as Bob, led them to a corner of one of the many airport bars.

They never discussed business, never mentioned anything about what had happened, Bob’s stares telling them to keep the conversation simple.