Dying for Millions by Judith Cutler Page B

carefully as we left, and took care not to let us see the code he tapped to gain us admission to the outer office. And then he laughed. ‘I’ll have to get you to memorise that, Gurjit. You mustn’t even leave the room to go to – er – the cloakroom without locking up and unlocking it again. Learn it by heart. Don’t write it down anywhere. Treat it like your bank’s PIN number. And don’t feel tempted to tell anyone.’
    â€˜What if I forget? And there’s no one to ask, like tonight?’
    â€˜OK, Sophie – you’d better know too. 1.1.44. My mother’s birthday. I take it Gurjit could phone you up in a crisis?’
    I bit back a tart comment about occasionally having a home-life. ‘I’d rather you didn’t forget, Gurjit, if it’s all the same to you.’
    Her work station was screened from the others; already there was a suspiciously thick pile in the in-tray. He sat down and we watched: one over either shoulder.
    â€˜Now,’ he said, switching on the computer, ‘this is what happens.’ He tapped in another set of figures as he spoke: a little row of asterisks appeared obediently on the screen.
    â€˜Don’t I need to know the password too?’ she asked.
    He shook his head. ‘Security, I’m afraid. Someone will always start up the system for you. We can’t expect Sophie to remember another set of numbers.’
    Watching over his shoulder, I thought it more tactful not to tell him that that particular set would take no remembering – the series of numbers he’d tapped in was Andy’s birthday.
    â€˜The system’s very efficient. When a plane logs in with the control tower we know its code. As soon as that’s entered, its payload comes up on the screen – if anyone’s using it – and is printed out there.’
    As if on cue, a printer – a nice new laser – hummed quietly and disgorged a print-out. I went into immediate covet-mode: the minimal peace of our staff room was daily assaulted by a dot-matrix printer chugging out thirteen people’s hand-outs. Since photocopy cards were at a premium at this stage of the financial year there was a great temptation to run off sets of notes, so life was dominated by the appalling clatter.
    â€˜What the duty clerk then has to do is check the printout, log it manually, then send out an invoice to the appropriate firms. There you are – this one would go to Parcel Force. And that one. It’s not very exciting work, but it’s extremely responsible. If the invoices go out late, we lose money; if they go to the wrong people, we lose good will.’
    â€˜Of course. Oh, look – that firm belongs to a friend of my father’s!’
    â€˜Better make sure they get the right invoice, then,’ Mark said. ‘Ah! It sounds as if the party’s starting. Back to my office, please.’
    We were rigged out in yellow day-glo waistcoats and ear-protectors; our bags were locked in Mark’s safe. I set the security alarm off as we walked through into the passenger area – I’d left my keys in my pocket. I parked them ignominiously on the security counter and tried again – OK, this time. Gurjit watched with what looked suspiciously like a gleam of amusement in her eye, ostentatiously shed her bangles, passed them to Mark, and sailed through silently. His smile as he returned them to her, slipping them over her hand, had an interesting quality.
    Although it had stopped raining we stayed under cover while a couple of planes landed, putting on the ear-protectors without being told. I still knew next to nothing about planes, and was amazed to hear Gurjit make some factual observation about the age of the one taxi-ing away from us. So was Mark, to judge from his expression.
    â€˜My father was in the Indian Air Force,’ she said. ‘He has a passion for aeroplanes. But those Viscounts must be forty years