The Air India jetliner taxied slowly down the Nairobi Airport runway. It was early evening but was almost dark. Darkness falls like a curtain shortly after sundown in East Africa. The full moon cast a silvery sheen across the airfield as the huge aircraft soared into the sky bound for Bombay.

The first-class cabin was decorated with green and gold brocade wall-covering, matched by the flight attendants' saris. They were elegant ladies with their raven hair coiled high on their heads, held up with decorative combs.

Dinner was equivalent to that in a five-star hotel. I was travelling at Government expense and it was the only time in my foreign service career that I was permitted to travel first class.

I was scarcely aware of my seat companion until he spoke to me with a cultured British accent. He was Duncan McTavish, a Scot, but evidently educated in England. He was middle-aged, tweedy, slightly deaf, and spoke in a rather loud voice. He was very voluble and, among other things, asked me what I had been doing in East Africa. I told him I had been working for the Canadian High Commissioner in Tanzania and was going home via Bombay, Hong Kong and Tokyo. This seemed to impress him, and I was to learn later that he was a first-class snob.

He told me about his business interests which included shipping, tea plantations in India, as well as textile manufacturing. He divided his time between England and India and had a daughter who lived in London. He said she was about to be married to a young man he didn't approve of. I asked him why, and he said, "He went to all the wrong schools." I replied that that didn't matter so long as he had had a good education. When I asked him the young man's profession, he told me that he was a nuclear scientist. I laughed and said, "Well, what's wrong with that?" He repeated, "He went to all the wrong schools." He then said he had invited his future son-in-law to lunch with him at his London club. "I told him to go and have his hair cut before coming to the club. It was almost down to his shoulders."

"And did he?"

"Oh, yes," McTavish replied. "The club wouldn't have let him in otherwise."

"If I had been that young man," I said, "I would have gone in the opposite direction from your club."

He looked a little startled and said, "You're a very strong-minded young woman." Obviously he wasn't used to having anyone disagree with him. However, he wasn't offended by my cheeky remark and kept on talking.

After dinner, most passengers were pulling up their blankets and trying to sleep. I said to Mr. McTavish, "We had better keep quiet; it's getting late."

He said, "Oh, nobody can sleep with all this racket." He was the only one making any noise. I guess the whir of the aircraft engines was magnified by his hearing aid.

I pretended to be asleep, but he nudged me in the ribs and said, "I just thought of something. Where are you staying in Bombay?"

I said, "I don't have a reservation. I plan to board my ship as soon as I have picked up my tickets from the travel agent."

"Oh, you will need a hotel room for the day to freshen up. My car and driver will be waiting for me at the airport, so I'll take you to the Taj Mahal Hotel. I'm well-known there. They'll take good care of you." Knowing that it would be extremely hot in Bombay, I thought this might be a good idea, realizing all the while that I might be getting into a sticky situation. However, I considered McTavish to be too much of a fuddy-duddy to be dangerous.

I got no sleep at all, but my companion snored until our breakfast trays arrived. When we landed at Bombay, sure enough, there was McTavish's black Mercedes and Indian driver waiting at the terminal. Our luggage was loaded into the trunk and we set off for the city centre. We passed the most unspeakable slums I had ever seen. People were living in hovels put together with corrugated metal, burlap, goatskins and cardboard. It seemed almost unbelievable that human beings could live in such conditions. Eventually, the car pulled up in front of the Taj Mahal Hotel, an immense Victorian structure of red stone. The driver carried my luggage inside and McTavish and I went to the desk.

He bellowed, "This is Miss McCallum. She would like a room just for the day." The desk clerk looked after me promptly and gave me my room key. Whereupon McTavish shook my hand, said, "Goodbye and Bon Voyage," and took off. I congratulated myself for being a good judge of character.

I went to my room immediately, had a shower, changed my clothes and went down to the dining room for some fruit and coffee. Then I went back to my room and lay down for a short sleep as all I had to do was pick up my travel tickets. I was just dozing off when the telephone rang. A loud voice at the other end said, "Miss McCallum, this is McTavish. We're invited for lunch. I'll pick you up at noon, have a drink at your hotel, then go for lunch at my business partner's apartment. His name is Colin Campbell."

I was a bit flabbergasted because I thought I'd seen the last of him. Not wanting to turn down a chance for adventure and a free lunch, I agreed. The black Mercedes pulled up at the hotel at 12:00 noon sharp and my eccentric friend and I had a lemonade at the bar (Bombay is a dry city). We then took the scenic drive along the palm-lined shore of the Bay of Bengal, before turning into the driveway of a huge high-rise apartment complex. Colin Campbell's apartment was on the twelfth floor. We were greeted first by an Indian servant in a white turban, a long white robe, and bare feet. Then I was introduced to Colin Campbell, a burly, amiable Scot with a ruddy face and a firm handshake. The apartment was the height of elegance and charm. White shag rugs covered the living and dining areas. Mahogany furniture, including a grand piano, graced the dining room, and smooth pastel couches the living area. Overlooking the Bay was a broad balcony festooned with plants, shrubs, vines, small trees in large pots - presenting the appearance of a garden. Wide bamboo awnings hung at just the right angle to protect the balcony from the fierce sun. Ceiling fans provided a pleasant breeze as we sipped our Dubonnet, served by a second servant, a duplicate of the first.

The three of us sat down for lunch. No other women were in sight. We had a delicious meal of chicken and curried rice served with fruits, nuts, and many other condiments. Dessert was fresh, ripe mangoes served with fragrant Indian tea.

As we were chatting after lunch, Colin Campbell said to me, "I understand you are visiting Hong Kong on your way home. My wife and family live there. My wife's birthday is next month. Would you mind taking a present to her? It is a piece of crystal and I am afraid to send it by mail. It is quite a valuable piece." A little alarm bell in my head started to ring, but it sounded like a reasonable request. He went to get the package which was not too large for my suitcase, so I agreed to take it.

Shortly after, I said my thank-you's and farewells and the Mercedes was brought round to the door for my exclusive use. The driver waited for me while I picked up my tickets, then drove me to the hotel for my luggage, and from there to the docks where my ship was waiting. The driver carried my luggage up the gangway and thanked me profusely, with much bowing, for my U.S. dollar tip. He raised his hat and was gone.

On reaching my private cabin, I opened my bags but felt uneasy about the package Colin Campbell had entrusted to me to take to Hong Kong. It was addressed to his wife at an apartment in Kowloon and looked innocent enough. Nonetheless, I couldn't help being a bit suspicious. I sat and looked at it for a while, then decided to get dressed for dinner and deal with it later.

When I returned to my cabin I decided to open the package. It was securely wrapped and tied and I opened it carefully, without destroying the wrapping. It contained not a piece of crystal, but a plastic envelop of white powder. I knew immediately I had been duped and would probably be arrested for smuggling drugs into Hong Kong. I wondered whether McTavish had been in on the deal which seemed entirely likely. I will never know.

That night I knew that I wouldn't sleep until I got rid of Mrs. Colin Campbell's birthday present. So I tied up the package carefully and attached it securely to one of the ship's heavy ashtrays. I waited until almost 3:00 a.m., then crept quietly out of my cabin, up the stairs and out onto the deck. Not a soul was in sight, and there wasn't a sound except the thump, thump of the ship's engines. I walked across the broad deck to the railing. The full moon cast a silvery path across the inky waters. I dropped the birthday present. It fell with a slight splash into the deep, dark waters of the Bay of Bengal.