Fiona climbed the stairs out of the Underground station and emerged onto the pavement just outside the Dominion Theatre. It took her a moment to get her bearings. The journey from Hammersmith had been close and claustrophobic, crowded amongst the Friday evening commuters heading across London. It was a relief to emerge into the chill October air and just take a moment to breathe and catch her bearings.

Tottenham Court Road, Oxford Street, New Oxford Street ... At least these hadn't changed much since the last time Fiona had been in London. She set her back against the street corner newsstand, out of the way of the shoppers and gawkers, and checked the map on her mobile. Great Russell Street was just past the front of the theatre and to the right. That would take her straight to her evening appointment. She skirted the queue of theatergoers and skipped over the drift of fast food containers that spilled from the bins outside the McDonalds, then followed the directions.

It was a relief to be on Great Russell Street. This was more like the London of her imagination –the London that she remembered from her visits with Grandpa Paul. She half expected to see a woman in a black dress go sailing by overhead, suspended on the evening winds underneath an umbrella; or maybe a group of young-men-about-town dressed in white tie and tails, on their way to a night at some club with a strange-sounding name. Instead, there were only a few people making their way down the narrow street, their coats held tight against the gathering cold.

The gates of the British Museum were only a short walk away. As Fiona walked past the railings that separated the museum grounds from the street, she glanced through them at the classical portico, orange spotlights casting long shadows across the frontage. The great bronze doors were still open, even though it was after five o'clock, and knots of people were climbing the steps to enter the Great Hall beyond. A nearby poster gave the explanation. "Late night at the Museum," it declared. "Every Friday until 8:30 pm." Fiona joined the short queue at the security tent.

A bored guard in a nondescript black uniform looked questioningly at Fiona. "Do you have a ticket?"

"A ticket?" Fiona reached for her phone and tapped the screen, scrolling through her emails. Grandfather Paul had sent her something. There it was! Fiona opened the attachment and held up the screen to the guard. "This?" she asked hesitantly.

The guard pointed a scanning gun at the phone. There was a beep, and the guard grunted. "Alright. Do you have any knives or sharp objects in your bag? Any lighters or flammable substances?"

"No. No I don't."

The guard grunted again. "Alright. Welcome to the British Museum." Fiona paused to thank the guard, but he had already turned to the next person in the queue behind her. She walked across the courtyard and climbed the steps into the museum.

The Great Court of the British Museum was an echoing space, full of people hurrying from one side to another. It took a moment for Fiona's eyes to adjust to the bright lights, the white stone and stainless steel. To the right of the entrance was an information desk, bright screens advertising the various exhibits. To the left was a pop-up cafe selling hot drinks and cakes, its stock almost gone. White stone plinths topped with statues had been placed seemingly at random around the hall, with footsore tourists sitting resting against them. But, straight in front, was the rotunda of the old British Library Reading Room. It dominated the court: a cylinder of Portland stone that stretched all the way up to the glass roof above. Once it had been hidden in a maze of rooms, accessible only to those few scholars lucky enough to possess a reader's card. But, with the move of the British Library to Saint Pancras, the old structures had been demolished to reveal this magnificent treasure for all to see. Fiona gawped.

"If the wind changes, then you'll stay that way." The voice was harsh and croaking, but the tone was kind and affectionate.

The words brought a flood of memories to Fiona. "Grandpa Paul!" She turned around to find her grandfather. He was behind her: an old man whose skin was seemingly two sizes too large for his shrunken body; sitting bolt upright in a wheelchair, a tartan rug draped across his lap. "You're ... " Fiona's voice faltered as she tried to reconcile her memories with the reality confronting her.

"Old," her grandfather replied. "Don't be afraid to say it. I've had an interesting life —and it seems that it has decided to catch up with me. Hence this." The old man tapped the wheelchair's armrests. "And Rhonda." He looked up and back at the blonde woman behind him. "She's my nurse. Not that I need one." There was a hint of bitterness at this. Fiona extended a hand towards the blonde woman, who looked her up and down but didn't reciprocate the gesture. "Don't be unfriendly, Rhonda," the old man grumbled. "This is my granddaughter."

Rhonda let go of the wheelchair's handles and reached out to shake Fiona's hand. Her grip was firm and strong, the pressure increasing ever so slightly before being released. Fiona got the feeling that Rhonda was assessing her.

"That's better. Now—Fiona, give your grandfather a hug, and we shall go and have dinner. There are some things we need to talk about."

"You mean like the Zimbabwean birds?"

Her grandfather raised a claw-like hand. "Dinner first. It has been a while since I last ate, and my doctors are very insistent about my sticking to regular mealtimes."

Rhonda turned the wheelchair around and started pushing it and Fiona's grandfather towards the rotunda. Fiona fell in beside the pair, hurrying to keep up with them. They made their way to the far side of the rotunda and stopped at a lift.

"Be a dear." Fiona's grandfather pointed at the lift button. "We're going all the way up." The three of them crowded into the lift, Fiona last of all. She positioned herself by the door and pushed the button for the top level. The lift emerged on a balcony, just under the Grand Court's roof.

Fiona glanced around. There was a restaurant here, but it was closing; the staff were busy cleaning the tables and hovering over the last remaining customers. "I think we're too late, grandfather."

The old man shook his head and chuckled. "We're not eating here. Not this corporate muck. We're going this way." He pointed towards a glass bridge that led deeper into the museum buildings. "Members and their guests get special treatment."

They made their way through the exhibits until they reached another lift. This one was tucked away out of sight, behind a pair of pink marble columns. Rhonda parked the wheelchair by the lift door and inserted a card into a slot just under the call button. The lift door slid open, revealing a polished metal interior. "Here we are: the Members' Room."

"I've never been here," Fiona remarked.

"And why would you?" her grandfather replied. "Not many people know it exists."

This time the lift opened into a wood-paneled room. To Fiona's eye, it looked to be almost as big as the Great Court. Leather armchairs and couches were arranged in cozy knots; and further on was a collection of tables laid with linen cloths and silver cutlery. Some of the seats were occupied by people dressed in expensive-looking clothing. Uniformed servants moved quietly and swiftly between them, carrying trays. Fiona felt very much out of place in the room.

A thin man in a black tailcoat and bow tie approached the newcomers and bowed. "Mr Grenville-Temple. Your table is waiting. This way, sir." The servant gestured towards a table that had been set for three. As if from nowhere, a trio of waiters appeared, ready for duty. Fiona found herself being gently guided towards her seat. It felt strange having this much attention being paid to her. Her grandfather and Rhonda took it in their stride, as if this was an everyday thing for them.

Grandpa Paul reached out to put a reassuring hand on his granddaughter's arm. "Don't worry. This is my treat."

Fiona and her grandfather ate well. The food was filling and tasty—a welcome respite from the gray cold that had begun to permeate the city. Plates were brought and taken away with the minimum of fuss; empty glasses were quickly refilled. The conversation between Fiona and her grandfather flowed and ebbed as well. It had been many years since Fiona had spent time with him, and there were many things for them to catch up on. Rhonda, however, sat slightly apart from the pair, silently toying with her meal and drinking only mineral water as her eyes scanned the room.

At the end of the meal, a waiter came over. "Sir, miss. Would you care for dessert?"

Grandpa Paul nudged Fiona. "I can recommend the lemon tart. It is an excellent palate cleanser." He glanced towards the waiter. "Does the chef have any marrow bones?"

The waiter nodded. "Beef or lamb, sir?"

"Beef, please."

The waiter looked inquiringly at Fiona. "Miss?"

Fiona smiled at her grandfather before answering. "I think I shall go with your suggestion. Lemon tart for me, please."

Paul waited until it was just the three of them again. "I am afraid that I brought you here under false pretenses. I didn't just want to catch up with you—although believe you me, it has been a most pleasant evening. You were always my favorite grandchild, even if you were the furthest away. I always kept an eye on you. To make sure you were alright, of course."

Fiona shuffled in her seat, unsure of how to respond. "Thank you. I think."

Her grandfather raised a hand, as if to excuse himself. "Please. You chose to make your home in a dangerous place. If you had come to any harm, it would have broken my heart. Do not begrudge an old fool his foibles."

"You said you had brought me here under false pretenses."

"Ah." Fiona's grandfather looked down at his plate, at the piece of bone that he had hollowed out. "Fiona, my dear. There is something that I need you to do for me. Something that I would very much like to see happen before I die. You are one of the few people in this world who I would trust to do this for me."

The change in the tone of Grandpa Paul's voice caught Fiona by surprise. "Die?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, death comes to us all in the end. Despite the protections that are put in place." The old man winked at Rhonda. "And with the knowledge of impending doom comes a desire to put things in order." He paused to dab at the corners of his eyes with a napkin. "It will be easier to explain if I show you something. Rhonda—I believe we have time to visit the exhibition."

The blonde woman folded her napkin and set it aside, then stood up and took hold of the handles of the wheelchair. She turned the chair around and began to push it towards the entrance to the Members' Room. Together they made their way back to the lift and down to the balcony at the top of the Reading Room. Down below, the Great Court was almost empty and the rooms around it were dark. There were still a few tourists, but they were being firmly directed towards the exits by the museum guards.

"The museum's closing," Fiona began.

"So it is. Well, we shall have the exhibition to ourselves, then."

The trio ended up in front of a door at the end of a short corridor. Posters on the walls showed pictures of African artifacts and the title, "Africa - The Legacy of Colonialism". A museum guard stepped in front of them. "I'm sorry. This exhibition is closed."

Fiona's grandfather looked the guard in the eye. "Paul Grenville-Temple and party. We have permission from the director."

"Yes sir." The guard unlocked the door and stood aside. "If you would let somebody know before you go?"

"Of course, I will. Rhonda!"

The Reading Room was a labyrinth of display cases and stands, separated by explainer boards. Most were dimly lit to preserve the exhibits within it. A few carefully placed spotlights had been used to illuminate key items, showing off their features. Fiona gaped at the closely packed treasures. "I didn't know the British Museum had these!"

Her grandfather shrugged. "Most of these are on loan from other museums. Some are from private collections. A few are from the British Museum's own stacks."

Fiona paused by a case that contained a trio of wooden, tribal masks. They glared at her with blank eyes, as if accusing her of crimes against them. "It says here that the Congolese authorities have asked for these to be returned." She shot an indignant glance at her grandfather.

"Some of the exhibits are intended to be controversial. I believe the museum board wanted to stimulate debate." Paul nodded towards a nearby explainer board. "That one please, Rhonda."

"But- !" Fiona began, then fell silent as she saw the text and pictures on the board. "I know these! They're national treasures!"

"The Zimbabwean birds. I know."

"They're on the national flag." Fiona read through the text on the board. "There are eight of them. They were stolen, but the Zimbabwe government managed to get them back. Well, all but one that's still in South Africa."

"All but two," her grandfather said.

"No." Fiona shook her head. "I know I'm right."

Paul chuckled. "No. One of them is fake. I know."

"Grandpa!" Fiona spun around, her hands raised as if to strike at the old man, but Rhonda slipped between them. She looked down at Fiona, her expression unreadable. "You stole one and had it replaced? I can't believe it! I'm ... I'm ashamed of you!"

"And you still have no reason to be. You are right—one of the birds in Zimbabwe is a copy, made by a master craftsman many years ago. I wasn't responsible for it, but I know who was."

"Who, grandpa?"

The old man took a deep breath. "Rhonda, if you would? My granddaughter is no threat to me." The tall woman moved aside, but kept her attention on Fiona. "Thank you. When I was a young man, a student at Cambridge, I was good friends with a Jackson Turner. Very good friends. We were both recruited by the British government—the Foreign Office for me, the intelligence services for him. We kept in touch. I know that he was involved in something after the civil war in Zimbabwe, but he never told me what. Until about a year ago.

"It seems that about five years after Zimbabwe gained independence, Jackson was involved in some kind of operation involving one of the birds. He had it copied, and the original smuggled out. He never said why."

"Your friend." Fiona spoke slowly, deliberately, trying to keep calm. "Are you still in contact with him?"

"Hardly, my dear. I'd need a medium. He died last year. It was a deathbed confession. The first I knew of it was when this was sent to me by his executor." Paul held out a diplomatic envelope.

Fiona felt her anger subside. "What's this?"

"A letter explaining what he did. And that he hid the statue somewhere. Have a look." Fiona took the envelope and shook the contents out onto the top of a nearby display case. Inside the envelope were two sheets of closely-typed foolscap and a hand-drawn map. Her grandfather continued. "I think he wanted to make amends. But, as you can see, I'm in no condition to do anything about this."

"And this is why you wanted to see me?"

"Fiona—I do not know who I can trust on this. That soapstone statue is priceless, and I can imagine that any number of professional treasure hunters would be tempted to abscond with it. So, I'm asking you. Will you help redeem my friend?"

Fiona picked up the typewritten sheets of paper and scanned them. "It says here that the map is of a cave in Serbia. The Stopicá cave, on the Zlatibor mountain?" She stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables.

Her grandfather nodded. "Something like that."

"Why would your friend have hidden the statue there?"

The old man shook his head. "I have no idea. But this is all I have." He cleared his throat. "I won't ask you to do this for nothing. I have some money, and I am willing to pay whatever it takes to put right this wrong. If you take this on, then you can rely on me to support you as best as I can."

"You promise that the bird will be restored to the Zimbabwe people?"

"I promise. There is just one thing."

"What?"

"I want to see the bird with my own eyes before it is given back. Can you do this for me?"

Fiona took a deep breath. "Yes. I can. But—what about her?" She stared into Rhonda's eyes. Rhonda didn't flinch, but just returned the stare.

"I think," Paul said, "that we can rely upon Rhonda's discretion in this matter. She is very devoted, and very loyal."

Fiona scooped up the sheets of paper and put them back into the envelope. "Alright, grandfather. I believe you. I'll help find the missing bird and bring it back."

"Thank you. You have no idea how happy this makes me." Fiona's grandfather retrieved a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabbed it around the corners of his eyes.