The Sultan's Tigers (25 page)

We were never actually that good. But I was accurate enough to hit Marko.

Not where I wanted to, unfortunately. I'd been aiming for his heart and I got his ankle. But it was still enough to knock him off balance for a moment, which gave me and my uncle time to run the short distance dividing us from him.

I heard a shot. I didn't know where it went. Then we crashed into Marko.

He fell backwards.

I felt his hand clawing at my face, yanking my hair.

He was toppling over the balcony.

Falling from the bridge.

Rolling down the slope.

He landed at the bottom with a thud.

The tigers had seen him coming. They were already on their feet. They looked graceful, even lazy, but they moved very fast, springing out of the shade and across their enclosure.

Marko didn't waste a moment checking his wounds or looking at us. He knew survival was all that mattered. He pushed himself into a shooting position, one knee on the ground, the other leg bent, his gun raised and held with both hands, giving him a steady aim.

He pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang and the biggest of the tigers winced and roared and rolled to the ground, its legs thrashing. I could see blood pumping across its sleek fur and spitting into the dust.

Marko was already turning to point his gun at the next of them, but the tigers were almost on him. He fired. Another bang. The second tiger roared in fury and pain, but Marko's aim hadn't been so good this time, and his shot had only wounded it, enraging it further, making it more determined.

He managed to fire three more shots, but the tigers had reached him by now, and the bullets went wide.

It was over very quickly. Marko made a terrible sound, halfway between a scream and a gurgle, then he was quiet.

Uncle Harvey was already walking toward the exit. I ran after him. “Have you still got it?”

He didn't have to ask what I was talking about. He just patted his pocket. “Right here.”

The three of us ran down the driveway to the big steel gate: me, my uncle, and Tipu's tiger. We didn't know if it was the right one, but it didn't really matter. All eight were more or less the same. At least we had one of them.

As we approached the guardroom, we heard voices. A man and a woman were shouting at each other in an Indian language. I glanced at my uncle. He shrugged his shoulders. We walked nearer. A third voice joined the other two, another man, speaking slowly and persuasively. The guardroom door was open. We looked inside. Screens showed what was happening in and around the museum, displaying footage from the different rooms, the entrances and exits. The voices came from a small TV. A man was sprawled on the floor. The side of his head was matted with hair and blood. Marko must have killed him, too. Maybe they had sat here together, watching our progress on the cameras, while Marko waited for the perfect moment to come and confront us.

“We should call the police,” I said.

“We will. Later.” My uncle stepped carefully into the room, pacing around the guard's corpse, and looked at the control panel by the door. He tried four buttons before finding the right one. Then the big steel gate swung open.

Methi walked us to a taxi.
We paid him the rest of his money, said goodbye, and headed into the center of town. Uncle Harvey called the police and suggested they pay a visit to J.J.'s museum. He kept the call short and didn't give his own name. He switched off the phone and turned to me. “Ready for breakfast?”

“What about the tiger?”

“What about it?”

“What are we going to do with it?”

“Sell it to J.J. for two million dollars.”

“I've got a better idea.”

“Oh, yeah? What's that?”

I told him.

Uncle Harvey listened in silence. Then he sighed. “I suppose that would be the right thing to do. But what about me? What about my debts?”

“You said you'd find some way to pay them.”

“I suppose I will. Fine, let's do the right thing. I might as well act like a nice guy for once in my life.”

When we got to the hotel, Tanya was still asleep, but she woke up as soon as we walked through the door. I stared out of the window while she got dressed and Uncle Harvey told her what had happened. We paid the bill and took another taxi to the train station. Wherever we went, I was expecting to be surrounded by armed police and arrested, but no one took any notice of us, or no more than usual, anyway. Beggars asked for money and kids tried to persuade us to buy tea or sweets, but no one demanded to see our passports or asked what we knew about a dead cleaner and a mauled Australian. Where was J.J.? And his SWAT team? What were they waiting for? Why weren't they grabbing the tiger back from us? Maybe he didn't really have all the information in the world at his fingertips. Maybe he hadn't tracked us with CCTVs and satellites. Maybe we'd escaped.

We called Suresh from the train and asked him to meet us at the station. When we strolled down the platform, he was waiting for us. He stared in astonishment at our bruised faces. “Who has done this to you?”

“We were robbed,” said my uncle.

“Who did rob you?” He sound personally affronted, as if he wanted to track down the robbers and exact vengeance on our behalf.

“It's a long story,” said Uncle Harvey.

“I will take you to a doctor. There is a good one in My-sore. It is not far from here.”

“We don't need a doctor. We want to go back to the temple.”

“Ah, the temple. There is terrible problems at the temple.”

Suresh told us everything on the drive north, shouting over his shoulder, describing the fire and its after-effects. A wall had collapsed and broken a man's leg. The temple would have to be rebuilt, but the priests had no money. They didn't know what to do. They had asked all the local villagers to contribute, but none of them had anything to spare.

“Something will turn up,” said my uncle.

“I hope so.” Suresh flashed a grin back at us, then returned his attention to the road.

I wanted to know more about the man who had broken his leg. That was my fault. Would he be able to walk again? Suresh said yes, he was going to be fine, he would just have to spend a few months on crutches. I still felt terrible. I remembered the guard and the cleaner in J.J.'s museum, those two men who had lost their lives because of me, and I wished I'd never come to India. Then I thought about my grandfather and remembered that I would never get to see him again, never go walking with him over the Irish hills or sit at his kitchen table, hearing his stories about his crazy life, and I understood that Marko was the person who was really responsible for all this carnage. If he'd just made a deal with Grandpa, J.J. would have the letters and the tiger safely in his museum and the cleaner and the guard would still be alive, and so would my grandfather.

When we arrived at the village, all four of us climbed to the summit together. As we came closer, I saw the first evidence of fire damage. A tree had lost its leaves. The branches were blackened and bare. Straw roofs had been reduced to a few twisted rafters. Statues were smothered in soot. I had never meant for all this to happen.

We took off our shoes and left them on the racks. I was amazed to see my sneakers were still there. No one had touched them.

Suresh led us through the courtyards to the inner sanctum.

The elephant was still tied up and had the same glum expression on his face, but he looked unhurt.

The man on one leg was in his place, standing on the same leg. Had he stayed like that while the flames raged around him?

In the inner sanctum, three pilgrims were sitting cross-legged on the floor, their hands folded in front of their chests. Two women were placing offerings of food in little wooden bowls. A bare-chested man was lighting candles. He had his back to us, but when he turned around, I saw that he was Ram. He blinked at us, as if he thought he ought to know who we were but couldn't quite place us. Then he saw Suresh and remembered everything. He came over, grinning joyfully. “Hello. You have come back to see our temple again? Welcome.”

I glanced at my uncle. He nodded. We hadn't rehearsed what to say, or who would say it, but I knew it should be me who talked. I stepped forward and said, “We want to give you something.”

At six o'clock that evening,
J.J. marched into the inner sanctum accompanied by Vivek, Meera, and three other advisors. They were in their usual uniforms: jeans and a T-shirt for him, designer suits for the others. Earlier in the day, Uncle Harvey had called J.J. and asked him to come and meet us. J.J. argued a bit, threatening to call the police, but Uncle Harvey advised him not to bother. If he wanted his tiger, my uncle said, he should come straight here and talk to us. So J.J. did. He arrived in one of his helicopters, landing in the village and jogging up the hill to the temple. I didn't see him myself—I was waiting in the inner sanctum—but I heard later that he'd run up the stairs two at a time and arrived at the top not even out of breath. Suresh and Ram had been there to meet him. They led him into a room in the temple, where we were waiting with some of the priests.

Ignoring everyone else, J.J. marched straight up to my uncle and held out his hand. “My tiger, please.”

“We have to talk first,” said Uncle Harvey.

“It is here?”

“Yes.”

“Where? I want to see it.”

“You'll see it soon enough. First we have to talk.”

“If you want to talk, you can talk with my lawyers. They say you don't have a case. You are a dealer in stolen property. The tiger is not yours.”

“I know it's not.”

“You know?”

“Yes. My ancestor stole it. I don't have any rights over it. I know that.”

“Then give it to me.”

“It's not yours, either. It's theirs.” Uncle Harvey pointed at Ram and the other priests.

They were wearing plastic flip-flops and white sheets wrapped around their waists. J.J. and his advisors had phones and computers and a helicopter waiting outside. If I had been Ram or another of the priests, I would have felt intimidated, if not actually terrified, to be confronted by this slick parade of money and power, but they didn't seem bothered, just smiling and nodding, confirming that the tiger was theirs. “This is correct,” said Ram, speaking for all of them. “The tiger is ours. It has resided in this temple for many years, bringing good fortune to our people.”

J.J. didn't argue about ownership. His lawyers must have advised him already that a judge would rule in the temple's favor. He simply said, “I want to buy it.”

“That is not possible, sir.”

“Name your price.”

“I am sorry, sir. The tiger belongs in our temple. It is not for sale.”

“I will give you two million dollars,” said J.J. “U.S. dollars. American dollars. Will that satisfy you?”

Ram smiled. “I am sorry.”

“That's not enough?”

“We do not wish to sell.”

“How about two and a half million!”

“No, sir.”

“You don't want two and a half million dollars?”

“No, sir.”

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend. You're a good negotiator. But I want this tiger and I'm willing to pay for it. If you let me take the tiger away today, I will give you three million dollars.”

Ram appeared to believe this whole thing was a joke. He was smiling broadly, shaking his head, refusing to be bought. “Thank you, sir, but I will not take your money.”

“You understand how much that is?” J.J. turned to his entourage. “Meera, what's three million dollars in rupees?”

Her face scrunched up in concentration. “Three million dollars is—”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” said Ram. “But there is no need to make a calculation. I understand what is a dollar. I know what is three million. The answer is no. The tiger will be staying here.”

“You're refusing three million dollars?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about four million?”

“This tiger is not for sale, sir.”

“Are you serious? You won't sell it for four million dollars?”

“No, sir.”

“Four. Million. Dollars. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don't. You've never seen the power of money like that. I have. I can tell you, it means everything.” J.J. shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Do you know how much this tiger is actually worth? Two million at the most. Probably one and a half on the open market. You're never going to be made an offer like this again. Take the cash!”

“No, sir,” said Ram.

“Why not?”

“Because the tiger is not for sale.”

J.J. still wasn't ready to give up. He glanced around the chamber as if he was checking who could hear him, then very slowly said, “I want this tiger and I am willing to pay for it. I will give you five million dollars.”

Meera put her hand on J.J.'s arm, but he pushed her away. All his attention was focused on the priest, waiting for an answer.

Ram said, “Five million dollars U.S.?”

“Yes.”

“How much this is in rupees?”

Meera told him.

Ram smiled at J.J. “Yes, sir.”

J.J. gave my uncle a fierce grin of triumph. Then he was hidden behind Meera and Vivek and his other advisors, who crowded around him, slapping him on the back and taking turns to shake his hand as if he was a boxer who'd just won the biggest fight of his life.

J.J. arranged for us
to be provided with new passports. He could afford to be generous. He'd got what he wanted. He'd had to pay for it, of course, but we soon understood that the whole thing had been a coordinated PR stunt, designed to wash away the blood spilled at his museum. Giving five million dollars to a temple, paying for repairs and renovations, made him look like a good Hindu and a true Indian patriot. That's what the papers said. The headlines proclaimed him a saint. No one was rude enough to mention the deaths of a cleaner, a guard, or an Australian mercenary.