The Sultan's Tigers (21 page)

“I am telling the truth. They are not mine.”

“I've seen your record, Mr. Trelawney. You spent three months in prison in Goa and only escaped a much longer sentence on a technicality. You had a good lawyer on that occasion. This time, you will need an even better one.”

“That was nothing to do with drugs,” protested my uncle. “If you've really read the records, you'll know I shouldn't have been in prison at all.”

The policeman ignored him and issued another order. His men came forward. One of them pocketed my uncle's phone.

“Where are you taking us?” asked my uncle.

No one answered.

“I want to make a phone call,” he insisted. “I want to speak to the American embassy.”

No one took any notice of him. No one seemed to care. Without a word, a uniformed policeman yanked Uncle Harvey's hands behind his back and clipped cuffs over his wrists. A cop shoved my shoulder. They didn't bother handcuffing me; I suppose they thought I wasn't worth the trouble.

They marched us to the door.

“What about my stuff?” said Uncle Harvey. “What's going to happen to my bag?”

The only answer he got was another push.

I wanted to know the answer to that too. What would they do with his bag? And, much more important, what would happen to the tiger? What would the police think when they went through his belongings and found it? Would they assume it was just a cheap fake, a piece of junk we'd picked up for a few rupees? Would they give it back to us when we were released?

I glanced back at the two bags of drugs, which the policeman had put on the bed, and I had a sudden, terrible thought.

What if they
were
my uncle's?

What if he'd been carrying those pills in his bag all the time, taking them to Ireland for his dad's funeral, then bringing them to India?

Could he have done that?

No, no, no. My uncle might have been many things, but he wasn't an idiot. He would never have been so stupid.

Would he?

Downstairs in the lobby,
guests craned their necks to watch our progress. Some of them were wearing pajamas. What time was it? Three in the morning? Four? Five? Six? Why were so many people awake in the middle of the night? Had they gotten out of bed especially to come and watch us being arrested?

If things had been different, I would have winked and waved at the crowd. Maybe even signed some autographs. But my shoulder was still hurting, and my ribs, too, and I was feeling too scared about what might happen next. I couldn't even imagine where they were taking us. I'd seen a movie about a guy in an Indian prison, and it hadn't looked nice. I remembered the walls dripping with slime, the police inspector flexing his arms, punching the prisoners.

Someone shouted my name. “Mr. Trelawney! Mr. Trelawney!”

I looked around to see who was shouting at me.

It was the receptionist. She was running after us, waving a bill. She wasn't interested in me; she wanted some money from my uncle.

He hadn't even turned to look at her. I suppose he had more important things to worry about.

I was just mouthing “Sorry” to the receptionist when I saw Marko.

Standing in the crowd. Watching us. Smiling.

When he realized I'd seen him, he didn't bother hiding. His smile broadened and he lifted his arm and waved.

I seethed with rage. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to claw my way through the crowd and hurl myself at him and knock him to the ground and kick his head in.

But I was jerked forward by one of the policemen, led across the lobby, and taken through the door.

Him. Here.

Marko.

That explained everything!

Our arrest had nothing to do with the temple or the fire. And the drugs definitely weren't my uncle's.

It was all about the tiger.

Now that we were out of the way, Marko just had to saunter upstairs, rummage through my uncle's bag, and take what he wanted.

How had Marko found us? How did he know we were here? How did he get the police to do his dirty work for him?

He could have followed us from the museum to the road, picked up another taxi and driven behind us to this hotel. We never looked over our shoulders. It hadn't even occurred to us that we were being followed. Then he would have summoned some crooked cops and ordered them to arrest us. I'd already seen the way things worked here. If you had a bit of cash, you could bend the law, get the authorities to do what you wanted.

I had to tell my uncle what I'd seen.

Not yet. Not now. He was three steps ahead of me with a burly policeman standing on either side of him. They were treating us like major criminal suspects, as if he were a terrorist or a bank robber and I was his accomplice.

My uncle was used to this. He'd been in prison before. He knew what to do. How to talk to the police. How to negotiate. What to say, what not to say.

But I didn't have a clue.

I was just a kid. Sure, I'd been in trouble before, but nothing like this.

What was I going to do? How could I get home?

I still had my phone in my pocket, but I didn't want to pull it out now. They'd confiscate it right away. I'd have to wait. Then I'd call Mom and Dad and beg them to come and get me.

Three police cars were parked directly outside the hotel. The sky was pale. It must have been just before dawn. The street was already packed with people. A line of uniformed officers kept back the crowds.

Like in a movie, the policeman held the top of my head before pushing me down and into the back of the car. They took Uncle Harvey around to the other side and shoved him in too.

Doors slammed. The engine roared.

Sirens blaring, we sped away from the hotel and into the crowded streets, cars and rickshaws bumping onto the curb to let us past.

We had an escort, a car behind us and a car ahead. People peered at the car, trying to see through the windows, probably wondering who we were.

My uncle turned to me. “We've been in this country for three days now and finally we've found a way to defeat the traffic.”

I could see fresh blood bubbling from his nostrils, but he was grinning as if he'd never had more fun in his life.

“I saw Marko,” I said.

The smile left his face. “Where?”

“In the hotel.”

“What was he doing?”

“Nothing. Just watching. But he was smiling.”

“Marko.” Uncle Harvey shook his head and swore violently several times. Then he glanced at me. “Sorry.”

“Don't worry. I've heard it all before.”

“So. Marko. He set it up.”

“How did he know where we were?”

“I suppose J.J. told him.”

“Do you think they work together?”

“I think he works for J.J.,” said Uncle Harvey. “They must have been in this together from the beginning. That would explain how the cops got involved so quickly. I don't know if Marko could have arranged all this on his own.”

“Why would J.J. do this?”

“To save himself a couple million dollars.”

“He's a billionaire. Why would he care about two million dollars?”

“Maybe it's not the money. Maybe he's just desperate to get his hands on the tiger. Maybe you panicked him.”

“Me? How?”

“You said you'd only give him the tiger in exchange for Marko. If he really was involved in Dad's death, he couldn't give you Marko, so he wouldn't be able to get the tiger. He must have been worried we'd never sell it to him. So he decided he had to steal it instead.”

I thought about that for a moment. It didn't sound good. If it was just us against Marko, I could imagine how we might be able to get out of this tricky situation. But us against J.J. and all the power that his money would be able to buy—how could we possibly win?

My uncle must have been able to see how worried I was feeling. “Don't panic,” he said. “You'll be fine. You won't go to prison.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're young. And foreign. They won't want to lock you up. It would be an international embarrassment. They'll ask you some questions, then put you on the first plane back to New York.”

“What if they found out about the fire?”

“Which fire?”

“In the temple.”

“They'll never connect you to that. Don't worry. You're going to be fine.”

“What about you?”

“I imagine they'll give me ten years.”

“But they can't! You didn't do anything.”

“They found those drugs in my bag.”

“That's so unfair!”

Uncle Harvey shrugged his shoulders, then winced. He must have been aching from the beating. “They can do what they want. It's their country.” Then he smiled. “But like I said, you don't have to worry. You're going to be fine. You'll be home in a couple of days. I can just see your dad's face when he hears I've been locked up. He'll think I've got exactly what I deserve.”

I wanted to smile back and show that, just like him, I could laugh in the face of danger, but I didn't feel much like smiling. My shoulder and ribs still hurt. And I was worried. Being caught with drugs—that's no joke. Would I really be sent home? What if I wasn't? Would Mom and Dad come and rescue me?

I could imagine them visiting me in my cell and shaking their heads and saying,
Oh, Tom
, in that despairing tone of voice that I knew so well.

Oh, Tom. What's wrong with you?

I had a sudden thought.

I whispered, “I've got my phone.”

“Where?” Uncle Harvey whispered back.

“In my pocket. And my hands are free. Should I call someone?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. Let me think.”

“I could call my mom,” I said.

“Why not? She'll be able to help us. Wait! You won't have long,” whispered my uncle. “They'll take away the phone as soon as they realize what you're doing. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“So you have to be quick. Don't waste time. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her she has to ring the embassy. There won't be one in Bangalore, but she should ring the embassy in Delhi. She has to tell them how old you are. She has to make them—”

The rest of his words were cut off by a loud bang.

The car swerved. We were thrown sideways.

Another bang, even louder.

I was hurled backwards.

Our car skidded to a halt.

The road was littered with broken glass. The traffic had come to a halt. Drivers had sprung out of their cars. Now they were shouting and waving their arms. Through the windshield of a small green car, I could see a man slumped over the steering wheel.

A woman was climbing out of the crushed back door, clutching her eyes. Blood seeped between her fingers.

The car ahead of us, the first in our convoy, had been racing along the road, swerving around buses and between rickshaws, clearing a path for us. This strategy had been working very well until a small green car had either failed to get out of the way or, more likely, tried to take advantage of the space that had opened up to let us through.

I heard a shout. Then a scream.

A fight had broken out. The driver of the green car had staggered from the wreckage and thrown himself at the police, who he must have blamed for hitting him.

Four of them had been riding in the car that hit him, and all four fought back immediately. They were armed with batons and pistols, but they didn't need their weapons. They simply knocked him to the ground with their fists, then kicked him with their shiny black boots.

That should be have been the end of the fight, and would have been if his wife hadn't joined in, blood still streaming from her eyes. She charged forward and sprang onto the back of the nearest policeman.

Another woman emerged from the car and joined in.

The police still would have won easily if several onlookers hadn't chosen to get involved. I can't imagine why they did. They must have known they'd only get hurt.

The car behind us held four more police. Now they joined in too. One pulled his baton from his belt and rained down blows on the heads and backs of anyone within reach. Another pointed his pistol into the air and fired a shot.

The noise must have been intended to quiet the crowd and persuade them to go away, and it worked with some of them, but enraged others, bringing them out of their cars and into the fight.

Soon the police were lost under a storm of fists and feet.

Our driver and his passenger hesitated for a moment, glancing at us, then the fight. Then they opened their doors and ran to help their comrades.

“Tom,” hissed my uncle.

“Yes?”

“This is your chance. Run.”

“But what will—?”

“Just run,” interrupted my uncle. “Then ring the embassy. Someone will come and find you. They'll get you home.”

“What about you?”

He nodded at his wrists. One end of the handcuffs was still attached to him, but the other had been clipped around the inside door handle. With a chisel or a screwdriver, we could have freed him in a moment, but we didn't have either.

“What will you do?” I asked.

“Don't worry about me,” he said. “I'll be fine.”

“But what if they—”

“I told you, I'll be fine. You're wasting time, Tom. Get out of here. Go on. Run.”

I hated the idea of leaving him there, but I knew he was right. I had to take my chance. I wouldn't get another.

Then I looked at the front seat. And knew what I had to do.

I opened my door and jumped out of the car.

My feet crunched on broken glass. A man barged past me, fists flailing, and threw himself into the fight that was still raging.

The police were outnumbered, but battling hard, crunching their batons into knees and noses. None of them noticed me. They had more important things taking up their attention.