Disclaimers: as ever.

Thanks for the reviews.

…………………………..

Karen called from Trinity University while Sydney, Nigel, Preston and Molly were stuck in another traffic jam on the way to the airport.

'Hey, Sydney, are you all right? Did you catch up with Nigel?'

'Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. Since we talked last, Deviega left us to rot in the dungeon of a castle, but we got away.'

'Wow! That sounds serious.'

'Next time I see that lowlife, it will be…anyway, did you find anything else on Sydney Carraway.'

'Oh yeah,' replied Karen. 'I sure did. It seems your namesake left thousands in her will to the museum in Calcutta, including all her research. Seeing as there are no signs of her personal papers among the Carraway business archive in Boston, I'm figuring any diaries or letters that survived might have gotten mixed up with the papers that went to India. I called Saritha, and she's already searching.'

'Good work, Karen. We're on our way to the airport, anyway. We found out that Nigel took the ruby back to India.'

'Nigel? Our Nigel?'

'Err, no, another Nigel, one who was a friend of Sydney Carraway.'

'Wow – you're on the trail of a Sydney and Nigel who lived over a hundred years ago. Coincidence, huh?'

'I'm not so sure…' At that moment, the line began cracking and the phone cut off.

'Damn. I've lost her.' Sydney could just picture the smart, blonde secretary's quizzical expression as she mulled over her bosses final words. She handed the mobile back to Nigel. 'Karen's come up with a good theory: Sydney Carraway's papers might have been sent to the museum in Calcutta with her research. If they are, they might reveal where Nigel went.'

'Just be careful,' said Molly. The others jumped at the unexpected intervention. She had been very quiet since they left Finchley Hall. 'Deviega knows about your links with the museum in Calcutta,' she continued. 'He could be heading there first, before going on to Meerutan'

'I'll watch my back,' said Syd. 'Thanks….'

'It's a pleasure.' Molly glanced over her shoulder and fixed Nigel with a pair of imploringly curious green eyes. There were several seconds of awkward silence.

Nigel wriggled uncomfortably, and frantically sought words to break the deadlock.

'If you don't mind me asking,' he said at length, 'how did you get involved with Deviega in the first place?'

Molly breathed deeply, turned back to the front, and began her story: 'Deviega employed Peter - my archaeologist boyfriend - on a dig in India. It was nothing difficult for him, he was a good at fieldwork…but he signed a lot of privacy papers and agreements, which meant he didn't talk to any authorities about the project.'

'Whatever possessed him to get involved with something like that?' asked Nigel.

Molly laughed ruefully. 'I can tell that you're bloody Oxbridge! If you're not at the 'elite' universities, it's nearly impossible to get funding for history or archaeology projects in the UK. Deviega offered good money! Peter was able to employ me as his assistant: I was an ancient history student myself then. We had a brilliant summer. Then everything went wrong. The dig was raided, and all the artefacts we'd found – some of them worth millions - disappeared. Deviega fled to Singapore, and Peter followed him, to try and find out what had happened, and where our finds were.'

'I'm betting Peter discovered that the dig was funded by international crime,' growled Syd. 'They were probably onto something big.'

'Whatever it was, after Peter was killed I was too lost to care. I thought that Peter was everything and, with him gone, I've thrown it all away. Maybe if I'd met...someone else sooner, it could have been different.' She shot Nigel a meaningful look. He responded by looking flustered and blank.

Molly's freckled features moulded as hard as granite: 'And now I just want to see that bastard cold and dead, his blood running red in the grey, morning light. '

'I'm still saying be careful, that's all,' warned Sydney. She caught another cautioning glare from Nigel, who then looked at Molly benignly.

'Are you sure this is the best way?' he asked her. 'Why don't you just put it all behind you, and go back to your studies? There's more to life them running around the world looking for relics…or relic hunters.' Sydney raised her eyebrows at him. 'There is!' he protested.

Molly didn't respond. Instead, she turned and addressed Preston: 'Could you let me off at these motorway services?'

'You don't want to go all the way to the airport?'

'No thanks. I'll take it on my own from now. I need some dry clothes, and my passport. I can get a bus home from here.'

'Oh, fair enough,' said Preston, and pulled off the motorway and to a halt outside a dreary truckers cafe.

'This is fine. Thanks for the lift.' Molly turned to Sydney and Nigel in the backseat. 'Thank you for everything. I hope we might meet again.'

She offered a handshake, which Sydney received congenially: 'I hope we do.' Her gaze drifted furtively to Nigel.

'Goodbye,' he smiled. 'Please do think about going back to university. Maybe then we can meet under happier circumstances: at a conference, or something?'

For the first time, a spark of hope glimmered in Molly's emerald eyes. 'Perhaps. Goodbye, Nigel Bailey.'

Before he could urge the point further, she slammed the door and was gone.

'I hope she knows what she's doing,' muttered Sydney.

……………………

On entering the airport complex, Preston started following the signs towards the long-stay car parks.

'What you doing?' asked Nigel, tapping Preston officiously on the shoulder. 'You only need the short-stay area to drop us off?'

'I'm coming too,' said Preston jauntily. He flashed Sydney what he considered to be his most charming smile: 'if I may, Professor Fox?'

'Why do you want to come with us?' asked Sydney.

'If all this past-life rubbish is true, then I appear to be as mixed up in it as you are. I was Sir Preston, you know?'

'I knew this would happen,' seethed Nigel, running his fingers through his hair in exasperation. 'He thinks he's 'to the Manor born!' We'll never hear the last of this… at least, I won't.'

Sydney looked at Nigel guiltily. 'Preston has a point. He is involved in this as well, and he might be able to help us.'

'Surely you don't have your passport on you?' asked Nigel keenly.

Preston patted his dashboard. 'It's in the glove compartment, old boy. I put it there last night so I wouldn't forget it on the way to the golf club. I was going to use it as my proof of identity. With a recommendation from Martin Gleig of the Royal Academy Museum, they were going to make me a full member.'

'Then go and let them make you a member tomorrow,' demanded Nigel. 'Really, Preston, why do you want to come?'

Preston pulled into a parking space in the long-stay car park. He turned off the engine and stared straight ahead, his demeanour uncharacteristically composed: 'I need to find out how it all ended… and I need to know that you're safe.'

'Me?' Now Nigel was confused as well as infuriated. 'You've paid no attention to anything I've done for the previous decade. I've been all over the world with Syd… and in danger more times than you could ever imagine!'

'I worried about you…'

'No you didn't. And why should you? I'm a grown man!'

Preston shrugged, conceding to himself that, most of the time, he didn't worry too much about Nigel. However, he was inexplicably uncomfortable with the thought of his brother going to India in pursuit of this particular relic, even in the capable company of Sydney.

'Okay, I admit, I haven't followed your career too closely, but you've hardly been breathing down my neck, either, have you? And…and, this is different.' He climbed out of the car, passport in hand, and appealed to Sydney. 'I've got an….oh, what do you yanks call it? A hunch?' Sydney nodded, compulsively intrigued. 'Yes, a hunch. I'm really worried that something might happen to Nigel, and that I ought to be there.'

'You can come,' said Sydney, ignoring Nigel's noisy huff. 'But you'd better tow the line this time. No backstabbing or secret deals.'

'Of course not!' Preston appropriated an innocent expression. 'I'll be completely straight with you both. Thank you.'

'No problem,' said Sydney, hoping she was making the right decision. 'Let's go sort out some tickets and do some duty-free shopping. I need some dry clothes before I can face another 12 hour flight!'

Nigel was far from pleased, and stormed off in the pretence of getting a parking ticket. 'Preston looking out for me?' he seethed to himself. 'There's a joke! Complete goddamn strangers have helped me out far more my own, sodding brother!'

……………………………

1875: S.S.Euripides, somewhere off the northeastern coast of Africa.

The passenger's mess was cramped, hot, and, above all, noisy. Two dozen people were cramped in together, mainly British soldiers returning to their regiments in India after leave and various traders of all nationalities. Most were playing cards, smoking, and drinking rum.

As Dirk paused in the doorway to take stock, Nigel peeped over his shoulder. He spotted his jacket lying on the bench, not apparently in anybody's possession.

'That's it!'

'Go get it then,' suggested Dirk.

'I will!'

Nigel indignantly pushed past his friend and made straight for the bench.

His progress was impeded when a meaty fist emerged from nowhere, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him in a totally different direction from that which he'd intended. He found himself eye-to-eye with a purple-faced and particularly weighty soldier, his feet dangling some inches above the ground.

'Oi! What do you think you're doing?'

Nigel panicked. 'Nothing!'

'Yeah? Looks to me like you were thieving my jacket, runt.'

'It isn't your jacket!' ventured Nigel, bravery fuelled by a sense of injustice. 'It's mine. It clearly wouldn't fit you.'

The soldier paid little attention to this logical point, and instead ground his teeth predatorily and tightened his grip on Nigel's collar.

'Put down the puppy and give him his jacket back,' said Captain Lloyd, matter-of-factly. 'I'll buy you some rum.'

'Eh?' The soldier, who had been considering exactly what kind of 'fun' to have with Nigel first, glanced jerkily sideways. Lloyd's fist impacted on his nose with a sickening crunch. He relinquished his quarry, grabbing at his bleeding face with an agonised grunt. Nigel stumbled backwards in the direction of the bench, steadied himself and grabbed his jacket. He began rifling urgently through the pockets.

'A good soldier makes split-second decisions,' said Dirk. He indicated with a satisfied nod to the retreating thug. 'He's not a good soldier!' He turned to Nigel with a grin. 'That wasn't too hard, now was it? I'm almost disappointed.'

Nigel, however, looked more desolate than ever: 'I can't find it! It's gone!'

'What has?'

Nigel slumped down on the bench and buried his head in his hands. 'There was a ruby in the pocket of the jacket. I made a promise - to a lady - to keep it safe.'

Lloyd whistled. 'A ruby? You're full of surprises, aren't you? How much was it worth?'

'I don't know,' replied Nigel, his voice muffled. 'But it was too much for my brother to resist! That's why I came on this ship… to return it safely to India and its rightful owner, as the lady desired. Now I've led her down.'

Lloyd sat down on the bench and took a swig of his whisky. 'I'm sorry to hear that. A ruby is going to be much tougher to get back than your jacket.'

Nigel looked up earnestly. 'I've got to try. Please help me… my money is gone too, but when we get to India I'll write to the lady… she'll pay you, I promise.'

Captain Lloyd mulled all of this over. 'Are you in love with her?'

'No!'

'Then why all the bother?'

Nigel sighed. 'If you met her, you'd understand. She is most amazing woman I've ever met. She is beautiful, intelligent, funny… she's been everywhere, and she knows everything and she fights like a man. Better than a man!'

'Yeah? Sounds like quite a wench.' He handed Nigel the whisky.

Nigel took a large gulp. 'She's amazing… but I doubt she'll want to know me after this.'

'We'll see.' As Nigel dejectedly downed another mouthful of liquor, Lloyd scanned the room with intent. He knew this kind of scum. He was quite aware that anything of value that entered into their arena would be swiftly finding its way into the hands of fastest, most skilled, and least drunk gamblers.

Nigel was about to take another gulp of the whisky, but Dirk pried it away from his grip. Nigel looked even more morose.

'You can't afford to get inebriated. Look over there!'

Dirk indicated to a group of Chinese traders, who were currently playing cards with Browne and Collins, the two soldiers who had initially stolen the jacket.

'I bet those two losers are staking the ruby now. They won't have a chance against the foreigners.' Dirk winced. 'This isn't going to be easy - the Chinese traders are careful. They won't be half as drunk as the English lads, and they are twice as skilful at fighting and gambling.'

'What are we going to do, then?'

Dirk smirked. 'We?' Nigel looked pleadingly at him again. 'I suppose I've still got nothing better to do than pick your fights!' He paused for thought. 'I don't fancy taking on all three foreigners in an open fight in here. That leaves us two options. We can steal it back, or we could play them for it.'

'I'm very good at Rummy and Pope Joan,' offered Nigel helpfully. 'I used to play with my Aunt Joan. It was all very entertaining, what with her being called Joan, and the game being called Joan, and…oh, maybe I'll save this story.'

Dirk gave him a withering look. 'Let's keep that in reserve for now.'

On the other side of the room, the Chinese traders roared with elation. The game was over and one of them held up his prize.

'Aaaaah!' All the present company looked up from their revels and shared in the spectacle as the Diamond Ruby sparkled in the light. Barnes, the jewel gloatingly displayed inches away from his nose, twitched as if he was bracing himself to grab it back. The victor drew a curved dagger from his belt, and leered menacingly. Barnes backed away, as did half a dozen other men with similar, thieving intentions.

'We need something to stake,' whispered Lloyd. 'I've got this silver whisky flask and a few gold sovereigns. You run back to the cabin and get your travelling bag. There's that book and a few other bits and bobs, aren't there?'

'But we could lose everything!'

'You want the jewel back…and the beautiful lady?' He nudged Nigel knowingly.

'Yes… of course.'

Dirk handed him his jacket. 'There you are. Put that on, and get your stuff. I'll go and have a chat with the nice gentleman and see what their poison is.' he chuckled. 'Now there's an idea…'

Nigel, more bewildered than ever, scuttled off to get his possessions.

…………………………………

As Nigel stepped through the door on his return to the passengers' mess, another hand grabbed him and pulled him aside. This time, to his relief, it was Dirk Lloyd.

'What is it?'

'I've had a quick word with that drunkard, Collins. He says the traders are playing a Chinese tile game, a variant on Mah-jongg.'

'Mama what?'

'It doesn't matter. The rules are a bit like, err, Rummy. You need to look for sets and runs, and then shout out stuff in the lingo…kong or pong or ping or something.'

'I read a book on Chinese symbols once,' said Nigel, 'I might be able to work out what the images on the tiles mean.'

Dirk was surprised. 'That might help…a bit.'

He glanced shiftily around, grabbed Nigel again and dragged him out of the door.

Nigel looked slightly scared.

'Listen carefully, soldier,' said Captian Lloyd authoritatively. 'Firstly, we can't let anybody know we're working together. Secondly, you're going to go up onto the deck and open the skylight above where the card table is. And you're going to signal to me which tiles to play.'

'But I don't know the rules.'

'Neither do I! But we both know Rummy, and you might know the symbols, so we're going to have to learn fast. Give me the bag.'

Nigel extracted his book before handing his travel back to Lloyd. 'I think I'll keep this.'

Lloyd snatched it away and put it back in the bag. 'No you won't! And don't give me any sentimental crap about your Papa giving it to you. This whisky flask was my grandfather's. I'm supposing that you've got plenty of family heirlooms, rich boy. For me, this is it!'

'Why are you risking it, then?'

Lloyd shrugged. 'God knows! I've killed many men, but I guess I haven't made too many friends in this world…besides, despite all my better instincts, I don't hate you as much as I ought to, even if you are a milk-sop puppy!'

Nigel grinned. 'That's one of the nicest things anybody's ever said to me. Such affection! I almost don't hate you either, you gutter-dwelling, uncouth blockhead.'

Dirk beamed, and gave Nigel a pat on the back that nearly sent him flying. They both took a final swig of the whisky, and set to work.

………………………

1875: R.M.S Hellenic (White Star Line) one days' sail from Boston

'Will you ladies please excuse me?'

After a sixth tedious round of Rummy with a set of suffocatingly dull first-class passengers, Sydney rose from her seat. She was rather tempted to liven up the evening by cracking the table over her playmates neatly sculpted hairdos.

'Oh, Miss Carraway!' simpered the millionaire heiress, Miss Hortensia Howling. 'Do stay for another game. You must give us the chance to win our pin money back!'

'Oh don't worry,' replied Sydney, 'I'll give it to the orphans of Cherbourg when we get there, just as your mother wished.'

'Even if they're not deserving?' exclaimed Lady Howling. 'Heavens, be careful, Miss Carraway!' Hortensia's mother always preached a great deal about her intended acts of charity but, in truth, she found the 'lower orders' dirty, smelly and generally unappealing. When she deigned to visit the orphanages and hospitals, her 'pin money' usually stayed in her pocket.

Sydney's smile manifested itself as a lip-curling grimace over clenched teeth. 'I need some air!' She ran off through the gaming-room of the floating palace, weaving through the maze of comatose card-players. The sheet music on the stands of the string quartet fluttered in her wake. She burst out of the double doors onto the deck, and tore down several levels until she was halted by the stern.

She leaned right over the railings, watching the great propellers cut their way through the cold, jet-black waters of the North Atlantic.

'Faster,' she willed them. 'Faster, faster!'

She pulled her travel itinerary from her purse. Although an intrepid adventuress, time had never been of such essence to her before. She had derived her current schedule from segments of one of her favourite, recent novels: Jules Verne's, 'Around the world in 80 Days.' Even Phileas Fogg's hasty agenda, however, still seemed desperately slow.

Sydney barely needed to look at the paper: she now knew the route off by heart:

From Boston to Paris via port of Cherbourg, by steamer and rail…7 days.

From Paris to Suez via Mont Cenis and Brindisi, by rail and steamboats ... 7 days

From Suez to Bombay, by steamer ... 13 days

From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail ... 3 days

' Damn,' she thought. 'Over a month! It's too slow! Poor Nigel, I wonder where he is now?' She couldn't bear to think of him on a rickety, comfortless tea clipper, alone, unprotected and probably ill. A nigh murderous anger surged in her stomach at the thought of De Veleye – cold-eyed and hard-hearted - hunting Nigel down in Calcutta.

Sydney Carraway gazed into the icy blackness and made a vow to an all-malicious God: if anything terrible happened to Nigel, she would hunt De Veleye down and reap her revenge - in this life, or the next.

………………………………

1875: S.S. Euripides, somewhere off the northeastern coast of Africa.

Nigel Finchley sloped nonchalantly onto the deck, pretending to be 'taking the air' and avoiding eye contact with the many drunken, and not-so-drunken sailors. The sun was just setting - a vibrant splash of pink in the west - but it was still very warm.

'I wonder how many thousand miles from home I am now?' he mused. 'I suppose we must be approaching the tropics.'

There were many trapdoors and openings in the deck, and he had to surreptitiously peep under a few before he found the right one.

Prying it open, he found he was, indeed, just above the gaming table. He had a good view of the players and could just about make out the symbols on the tiles if he strained his eyes. The players, including Captain Lloyd, were forming the tiles into a four square wall.

As the dealing began, he caught Dirk's eye, and gave a little wave. The soldier raised his eyebrows in a loaded manner, although Nigel hadn't a clue what it was supposed to convey.

From his knowledge of Rummy, Nigel guessed that Dirk had not got a good hand. While his opponents appeared to have runs of funny shaped bamboo sticks, decorated circles, and plenty of elaborate looking tiles with flowers and dragons on them – which Nigel knew represented the winds of the north, south, east and west - none of his ally's tiles looked very interesting or seemed to match each other.

Dirk glanced up at him, nonplussed.

Nigel pursed his lips, conveying concentration and encouragement, despite his utter lack of hope.

'Go!' The first three traders played their hands so quickly that Dirk had not yet finished arranging his tiles before it was his turn.

Nigel pointed at Dirk's single Dragon tile, and mouthed: 'Don't play that.'

Dirk understood it as 'play that' and promptly surrendered the tile in the middle of the square.

'Pung!' As Nigel has predicted, relinquishing the Dragon meant that one of their opponents had made a run already.

The round speeded back to Dirk, who, losing his faith in his partner's advice, went to play what Nigel could see was the worst of several terrible possibilities.

Nigel waved his hands about desperately to stop him, but it was too late. Dirk glanced conspicuously up at his frantic motions.

'What you looking at?' demanded one of the traders. 'Is somebody up there?'

'Are you accusing me of cheating?' Dirk rose haughtily to his feet: he had to have more chance at fisticuffs than in playing this impossible game!

Nigel flung himself out of sight only to collide with a large pair of brown boots and a pair of legs like tree-trunks.

'Oi! What you doing?'

Everything happened at once. Dirk levied an opening blow, as one of the traders extracted his knife and another picked up an empty rum bottle to make a slash at the soldier. Nigel, in mortal fear of being seized by the collar for the fourth time in under an hour, squeaked something about 'looking for the billiards room', and jumped to his feet. Nearly whacking into yet another shifty-looking seadog, he forgot everything about the skylight and took a hesitant step backwards. He fell straight through onto the gaming table below.

Crack! The table split in two. Tiles and gin flew everywhere.

'Ooof!' Nigel had no time to worry about being dazed or hurt. He spied the glint of red from the shimmering object that rolled off across the floor.

'The ruby!' He launched himself forward, oblivious to the hurricane of pandemonium that was blowing up about him.

Unshaken, Dirk punched out the lights of one of the traders. The one with the knife plunged forward at him, and they began rolling across the floor, locked in a deadly struggle.

Nigel's fingers were just inches from the ruby, when it was sent flying away from him, kicked by the boot of one of the scrapping Chinese traders.

'Damn!' He charged after it, only to come face-to-face with in the Neanderthal who had stolen his jacket earlier, his nose bruised and swollen.

'Oi! Runt! I want my jacket!'

In the corner of his eye, Nigel saw his ruby being picked up by Collins.

'Oh for heavens sake! I don't have time for this now - it wouldn't fit you!' With that, he applied his left fist to his unprepared assailants already injured nose, picked up a small bench and whacked Collins over the head with it.

He caught the ruby as it plummeted from the hand of the crumpling thief to the floor.

'Yes!'

His triumph seemingly complete, Nigel ducked under a table to get his breath back. His heart racing, he inhaled deeply, and glanced across the room to see that Dirk was still grappling with the three Chinese traders, although he appeared to be receiving help from the unlikely source of Private Barnes.

'Damn,' thought Nigel. 'I really ought to help.'

He slipped the Ruby in his pocket and dragged himself to his feet. Feeling much more tired than previously, he was sure he couldn't again muster the strength to wallop anybody with a bench: that had been achieved through pure adrenalin. Catching sight of his deserted, black travelling bag, another idea struck him.

He pulled out 'The Fortunes of Nigel' and climbed onto a table. Seizing the element of surprise, he whacked all three over the head with the book in turn. It wasn't enough to knock them all out, but certainly incapacitated them sufficiently for Dirk and Barnes to finish the job.

'Good work!' shouted Captain Lloyd. 'We'll make a soldier of you yet!'

'I'd rather you didn't,' puffed Nigel, who was now experiencing some rather unpleasant sensations. Either the waves had suddenly started rolling the ship much more violently, or the world had begun spinning faster for some other reason - much as it had a few nights before. Clutching his beloved book tight to his chest, he went bright pink in the face and collapsed on the table in a barely conscious heap.

……………………………………………

21st century: Heathrow airport.

Sydney, having changed into some dry clothes, found Nigel sitting on a waiting lounge bench. He was staring in an unfocused manner at the little leather novel he had retrieved from the chest at Finchley Hall. His mood was not a light one.

'Where's Preston?' she asked.

Nigel jumped; he had been deeply lost in disturbing and unusually incoherent thoughts. 'He's gone to buy some new clothes - something which makes him look slightly less of a total ass, I hope. If that's possible… ' Sydney breathed deeply as she sat down beside him. 'Why did you let him come?' he continued. 'He's never any help, and you didn't honestly buy all that stuff about…about me? He doesn't give a toss.'

Sydney kicked into counselling mode. Having scraped her hair back into a high bun after she'd dressed, like she often did to lecture, she looked and sounded like sympathetic schoolteacher: 'I think you will find he does care - he's just not very good at showing it. It seems that the little we've found about Nigel and Preston Finchley has made him think about your relationship in a whole new light. That's why I let him tag along.'

'Oh, come on! Do you really think that Preston, after all these years, is going to start looking out for me? Besides, if we're in danger, he is hardly going to be the one pulling us back from the brink… I might not be the bravest man in the business, but compared to Preston, I'm like Indiana Jones!'

Sydney laughed, and instantly assumed a more casual air, patting him affectionately on the thigh. 'Well, Doctor Jones, you're going to have to be brave and put up with your brother for the next few days. He might surprise you. He might surprise us both!'

'Maybe,' muttered Nigel, and stared intently again at his book, his eyes still unfocused on the words. After a moment, he looked up again:

'I was just wondering, Syd, why haven't we called the authorities? I'm sure Interpol would love to know Deviega is heading for Meerutan?'

'We don't know for sure he's heading there. He might be heading for the museum, like us.'

'All the more reason to call them! Interpol have followed up on much weaker leads.' He looked her straight in the eye. 'It's Deviega, isn't it? He always rattles you…'

Sydney frowned at her assistant. 'He doesn't 'rattle' me. Have you ever seen me lose control?'

'No…but with him you're the closest I've ever seen you to it. Why were you so reluctant to stop Molly going after him?'

'Who am I to stop a woman on a mission?'

'Usually you look out for people we meet on hunts… even when they don't deserve it. But you practically told her to go gunning for him when you should've told her to walk away!'

Sydney was tight-lipped. She glowered at her assistant, but had to admit that he'd hit an element of truth. Deviega did screw her up: she wasn't a killer, but she wanted to see him dead. He'd set into motion too many turbulent streams of events, which now flooded over more centuries that she'd ever imagined.

Her silence tricked Nigel into letting slip more than he intended: 'Deviega gets under your skin in a way that nobody else does… it scares me. You scare me!'

Syd snapped. 'What is this? An excuse for you to call Cate? Do it then. Go on, call her now. Tell her everything and let's see if they can catch him.'

'I will!' Nigel reached for his phone, and then hesitated. 'If you really think that's what's best?'

Sydney laughed tiredly. Nigel was never harsh with her for long; sometimes she feared he trusted her too much. 'Yeah, I think so Nigel. Sorry I yelled, I guess… it's been a long day.'

Nigel made the call quickly, and his words with Cate were friendly but somewhat strained. When he finished, he turned to Sydney and smiled sheepishly.

Her hand, with comforting intentions, wandered back onto his thigh. 'How was Cate?'

'Fine…good!' replied Nigel, suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy of her touch. 'She said she'd get her people onto it.'

'Anything else?'

'No…' said Nigel quietly. He looked her straight in the eye, his hand floating almost imperceptible over her fingers. 'There isn't anything else.'

The first call for their flight to Calcutta came blaring over the intercom.

Nigel shifted awkwardly, and Syd felt his body tense. 'This is us…God, I hope Preston is back soon. I just want to get onto this flight… get it over and done with.' He folded his arms around himself, and looked visibly nervous.

'Hey,' Sydney shifted her hand to his shoulder. 'What's wrong? I've never known you to be worried about a flight before?'

'I'm not.' Sydney's deep brown eyes asked an anxious question, and he couldn't help but reply. 'Well, it's not the flight. It's – oh, I don't know – it's the idea of travelling from…London to Calcutta. It's not the place as such - I love India - or the flight, but the journey and the uncertainty ahead. For some reason, I'm imagining I'm a ruddy hobbit setting off to Mordor with the One Ring… but that I'm never coming back to the shire again!' He cringed. 'God, that was corny.'

Sydney couldn't help giggling. 'Don't worry, Nigel. I'll make sure that we get back to Hobbiton in one piece.'

Nigel smiled wanly and thought to himself: 'Yes, but who's going to get you back in one piece, with Deviega out there setting his dirty traps?' He wanted to say 'I've got a bad feeling about this', but that would have been just too tacky.

At that moment, Preston arrived, dressed in a smart, new linen suit and carrying a tartan travel bag he had just purchased, duty-free. He looked very pleased with himself.

'What's wrong with him?' the elder Bailey asked, noting that Nigel looked particularly off-colour. 'He can't be travelsick yet! We've not even boarded the bloody plane.'

'I'm fine, thank you very much!' said Nigel, mustering a cheerless energy, grabbing his bag and jumping up. 'Come on, let's go.'

He marched off towards the departure lounge, with Sydney and Preston following at a more moderate pace.

'Did I ever tell you about the first time we took the Nigel on a cross-channel ferry? Folkstone-Boulogne it was. He was only seven…it barely took an hour and a half, but he ate a whole Mars bar before we left and was as sick as a…'

Sydney raised a silencing hand with such air-slicing speed that Preston stopped mid-sentence, scared he was about to be slapped. She turned to him, noting the appropriate fear in his wide, blue eyes.

'Shut up, Preston,' she smiled aggressively. 'I really, really don't want to hear it!

THANKS FOR READING.

PLEASE, PLEASE REVIEW – I'D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING ABOUT THIS STORY! I APPRECIATE ALL COMMENTS. Katy xx.