Highest Stealth

Once more the study through the glass of the window. There was telltale glistening over by the rail-tracks on some kind of corrugated sheeting it looked, though that could not be right. Patterned concrete possibly; twilight made it very difficult. Not a sign of anything otherwise on any side, not on Meldrum's orange paving, not the awnings, nor the usual reliable square under the lamplight of the store by the corner. The sky itself was the last place to see anything. Cars going past the servo half-way to the rails were often a good guide—perhaps it was raining fifty metres across there. Again negative, none of the blades going. Overhead the patchy black clouds were certainly dark enough. Not a sound of any kind, not the merest whisper; the light voices as usual from the tables down below. On this occasion the event would be waited out patiently by the window, ears pricked and determined. Not unlike hunting a wild animal in the jungle. Ambush; though in this case one was the wary victim-to-be.... It was finally the play of drops over the strangely transformed rectangle by the rails that showed definite and undeniable two or three minutes before the first hint of percussion, glistening like snail trail; like silver coating catching light. A downpour and one half finally that meant dinner would be delayed and a change of location needed. The lads at Reaz were a bridge too far; it would need to be the hairy-armed Paki at Medina for his garlic nan. (Amusing how the chap seemed struck by the White’s order and evident relish. He had been caught by chance coming down from Masjid India after the Friday prayer almost unrecognizable in his long caftan shift and white cap, stopping hesitantly before the table, uncertain whether he would be acknowledged away from his station. Once again the returned touch to the heart was too slow.) Thief, cheating lover, spy or terrorist could not have accomplished their infiltration with the aplomb of this monsoonal rain.