The Sultan's Tigers (24 page)

I had been worried
about guards and alarms, but there was no sign of either. The museum's front door was propped open with a broom, and the only sound in the air was birdsong.

My uncle leaped over the broom handle and ran inside. I was a couple of paces behind him.

The first gleams of the early-morning sunshine were shooting through the vast glass dome at the top of the museum. I could see a bucket and another broom, and two people, staring down at me. As we ran under them, Tipu Sultan and J.J. seemed to follow us with their eyes.

We sprinted up the main hallway. There were doors to the left, doors to the right, and a man up ahead.

A cleaner.

That wasn't in the plan.

He was holding a brush in one hand, a cloth in the other. He turned his head and stared dreamily at us, trying to make sense of the two people running toward him.

He opened his mouth and took a deep breath to scream for help.

Too late.

We were upon him. Not giving the cleaner time to make a noise, my uncle swung his fist and knocked him to the ground. Then he turned to me. “Sit on him!”

I did as I was told and sat on the poor guy, pinning him to the ground, my knee in the middle of his back. I'd done that before, but only to people I didn't like, such as bullies in the playground. Never to a complete stranger, and I didn't like doing it. The cleaner struggled, trying to turn himself around and tip me off. I pushed down on him with all my strength. He was bigger than me and I wouldn't have lasted long in a fair fight, but my uncle came to help just in time. He had pulled two cloths from the bucket. He tied one over the cleaner's mouth and used the other to tie his hands behind his back.

“Run,” said my uncle.

“But shouldn't we—?”

He was already moving. I glanced once more at the cleaner, then sprinted after my uncle. The knots wouldn't hold for long: we'd just have to be quick.

We sprinted through the museum. I kept expecting to see another cleaner or a guard, but there was no one. Where were they? And why hadn't the alarms gone off yet? Where were the motion sensors, the laser beams, the sophisticated system that surely guarded J.J.'s priceless treasures? Had it been disabled so the cleaner could do his job? Or were the alarms ringing right now in the nearest police station?

We had only been here once before, but the layout was very simple, so there was no chance of getting lost. Soon we arrived in the heart of the museum, that huge room with a throne standing in the center.

There it was. Tipu Sultan's throne. Covered in cushions and surrounded by the bejeweled heads of eight golden tigers, their rubies and emeralds glistening under the strong lights.

Eight tigers!

All of them were here. Ours and his.

What should we do? Take all eight? Or just nab ours and leave his?

Uncle Harvey pulled a black plastic bag from his pocket and reached for the nearest tiger. I didn't know if it was ours, and he obviously didn't care. He was just going to grab everything. Good decision, I thought. That way, J.J. would definitely have to deal with us. He might not hand over Marko in exchange for one tiger, but surely he'd surrender him for all eight.

Uncle Harvey's fingers encircled the tiger's neck. He lifted it up and turned to me, grinning with triumph. His mouth opened and he started to speak, but I never got to hear what he said, because at that moment the alarm went off.

It was the loudest noise I had ever heard. A scream that pierced my bones. I thought my ears were going to explode.

Uncle Harvey yelled something at me. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I knew he was telling me to run.

He was already sprinting toward the exit.

I darted after him.

We hadn't even covered half the distance when a thick steel shutter slid smoothly down and covered the doorway.

I whirled around.

More steel shutters were sliding down over every door and window.

We were trapped.

I ran one way
around the room and Uncle Harvey went the other, checking every door, searching for a crack or a crevice, some way to get out of here, but there was nothing. The steel shutters fitted the doors and windows perfectly, sealing this room like a fridge. Nothing could get in or out.

“Give me your phone,” said my uncle.

I handed it over. He fiddled with the buttons, then shook his head.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know. Either there's no reception or they've put something in here to block calls.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Sit and wait. There's nothing else we can do.”

“We could fight our way out,” I said.

“How?”

“With those.” I pointed at the swords hanging from the walls.

We had no gunpowder or ammunition, so we couldn't use the muskets and pistols displayed in the glass cases at the end of the room, but the swords and spears displayed on the walls were in perfect working order, their blades so sharp and gleaming that they would have brought a satisfied smile to the lips of even the sternest sergeant inspecting his troops.

“Have you ever used a sword before?” asked Uncle Harvey.

“No. But I'm a fast learner.”

“I guess it's better than nothing.”

We chose our weapons. My uncle picked a British sword that would have belonged to an officer. Captain Hobson, perhaps, or even Horatio Trelawney himself. I found a smaller sword, a scimitar, which fit perfectly into my hand, and tucked a short dagger into the belt at the back of my trousers. The steel was icy against my skin.

“I like the feel of this,” said my uncle, swinging his sword from side to side, its blade swishing through the air. “How's yours?”

“It's good.”

There was a whirring sound and the steel shutters started rising, all of them moving at once. Sunlight flooded across the floor. I turned around, looking at door after door, searching for J.J. or the guards or the police. Which way would they come?

There. I could see feet. A pair of black shoes. Khaki trousers. A white shirt. And a face.

But it wasn't J.J.'s.

Marko smiled at us. Then he raised his right hand and pointed a pistol at my uncle. “Put the swords on the floor,” he said. “Do it very carefully, please. They're worth a lot of money.”

“Where's J.J.?” asked my uncle.

“I don't know, mate, but I should think he's in bed.”

“Does he know you're here?”

“Put the swords down,” said Marko. “Then we'll talk.”

I glanced at my uncle. He was placing his sword carefully, almost tenderly, on the floor. I did the same. We might have messed up our own lives, but there was no need to break these nice antiques. I wished I'd gotten a chance to fight with mine. I'd been looking forward to hacking my way out of here like a proper English gentleman.

“Thank you,” said Marko. “Now come this way, please.”

I said, “Where are you taking us?”

“You'll find out when we get there.”

“Why are you here?” asked my uncle.

“I could be asking you the same question.”

“You know why we're here. We want to get our tiger back. But why are you here?”

“If you really want to know, mate, I've been here all night. And all day yesterday. You've certainly taken your time, guys.”

“How did you know we'd come here?” I said.

“It was pretty obvious,” Marko said, glancing at me but keeping his attention mostly on my uncle. “I know what you guys are like. I've met three of you now and you're all the same. You don't think, do you? If you'd been thinking, you'd have got out of India as fast as you could and forgotten all about this dumb tiger. But you were too greedy, weren't you? Couldn't resist it. Had to come back and grab it. Just like I knew you would.”

Marko was grinning, delighted by his own cleverness—and our stupidity. The terrible thing was, I couldn't disagree with him. We had been greedy and stupid. Just like he said, if we'd been sensible, if we'd thought things through properly, we would have fled. But I wanted to avenge Grandpa, and Uncle Harvey needed the cash, so we came back here. And the trap snapped shut around us.

We walked down the museum's long, elegant hallway. Marko ordered us to lead the way. He followed a few paces behind us, his gun trained on our backs. If we'd both started running in different directions at the same time, one of us might have been able to dodge through a door and get away, but the other would definitely have been shot dead. That was what I worked out, and my uncle must have come to the same decision, because neither of us tried anything. He did glance at me once. There was a strange expression in his eyes. I wasn't sure what it meant. But I smiled back, trying to look cheerful and positive, as if I was ready for whatever was going to happen next, and he gave me a wink. I think both of us knew we were in serious trouble.

The cleaner was still lying on the floor where we'd left him. But his head was in a pool of blood. He wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing. He was dead.

I stared at my uncle.

He said to Marko, “Why did you do that?”

“That wasn't me, mate. That was you.”

“When I left him, he was alive.”

“No one's going to believe that, are they?”

I said, “Why did you have to kill him? He didn't do anything to you! He was just a cleaner!”

“Some people are in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

My uncle said, “Are you framing us for a murder?”

“That's enough talking,” said Marko. We had reached the door at the end of the hallway. “Tom, you step outside first. Harvey, you follow him. No sudden movements, please. I don't want to have to shoot you.”

We stepped over the broom and walked toward the wooden bridge.

Now I understood why Marko was alone. He didn't need anyone else to help him. And he didn't want any witnesses. He'd already tried to get us arrested for drug smuggling and put away, but that hadn't stopped us, so now he was going to frame us for murder. There was no one to stop him. He could do whatever he wanted with us. Only one person in the world knew we were here, and she was fast asleep in a hotel on the other side of town.

I felt horrible about the cleaner. Marko had murdered him, yes, but only to pin the blame on us, and so his death was really our responsibility. If we hadn't come here this morning, the cleaner would still be humming to himself as he mopped the floor and polished the white marble.

Marko walked us over the moat. I could see the three tigers lying in the shade below us. A few bones lay in the dust, still covered with chunks of meat, the last remnants of that poor goat.

Ahead of us, down at the end of the driveway, I could see the gates and the guardhouse, but there was no sign of a car. What would Marko do? Deliver us to the guards and order them to call the police? Or was his car waiting on the other side of the gates? Or were reinforcements around the corner? Had he been lying about being here alone? Would J.J. step out and confront us?

“Stop,” said Marko.

We were halfway across the wooden bridge.

“Turn round.”

We turned to face him. The sun was shining in my eyes and I could hear birds chirping in the trees. If things had been different, it would have been a beautiful day.

Marko was about two yards from us. I stared into the eye of his gun. It was pointed more at my uncle than me, which I suppose was sensible, although I couldn't help feeling a bit insulted. Wasn't he worried about me? Didn't he think I might try to hurt him?

“You can choose who goes first,” said Marko.

It took me a moment to understand what he meant.

“Let him go,” said my uncle, who had understood immediately. Maybe he'd already guessed what was going to happen and had been waiting for this moment. “He's just a kid. He won't say anything about what you've done. Even if he does, no one will believe him.”

“I wish that were true,” replied Marko. “But even kids get listened to. Sorry, guys. I like you both. If things were different, we might have been friends. But like I said, you can choose who jumps first. Or you can both go down there together and take your chances with the tigers. You never know, maybe you can fight them off. Two against three—the odds aren't bad. However you go, you're going to have to choose soon.” He waggled the gun at us. “Come on, make your minds up. Who's first?”

“Me,” I said, taking a step forward.

“No.” My uncle took a step himself. “It's me.”

“I don't care which it is,” said Marko. “But don't come any closer.”

“You can't do this,” said my uncle. “You'll never get away with it.”

“Of course I will. Two burglars break into the museum, kill a cleaner, then panic, run away and miss their footing. One of them fell down first and the other tried to rescue him. No one's going to question it. Go on, then. Get down there, Tom. Take your chances with the tiger.”

“He's not going anywhere,” said my uncle. “Nor am I.”

“Don't make me shoot you,” said Marko.

“If you want to kill me, you're going to have to kill me like a man. You're going to have to look into my eyes and shoot me.”

“You'd rather be shot than take your chances with a tiger?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Then I'll shoot you.” Marko pointed the pistol at the center of my uncle's chest. I could see his finger tightening on the trigger.

“Wait!” I said.

It was just enough to distract Marko. He turned his head to glance at me, but I'd already moved. I swung my arm behind my back, yanked out the dagger that had been tucked into my belt, and threw it at him.

I'm not great at throwing knives, but I'm not bad, either. I spent one summer practicing with my friend Finn. We found an old door abandoned in a field, tipped it on its side, and propped it against a couple of crates and stole a knife from each of our kitchens. Day after day, we threw our knives against the door.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
For hours and hours.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
By the end of the summer, we promised ourselves, one of us would be able to stand against the door and the other would throw knives around him, missing every time, just like in a circus.