The Sultan's Tigers (7 page)

I wrote a note
for Mom and Dad and left it on the kitchen table.

Hi, Mom and Dad, I've gone out with Uncle Harvey. Back soon. Love from Tom.

I should have told them the truth, but I wanted to give myself a little extra time in case they arrived early in the morning, discovered what I was doing, and tried to get me removed from the flight.

We walked out of the house and closed the front door quietly behind us. The night was cold and clear. Stars sparkled overhead, but there wasn't a single light burning in any of the other windows in the village.

We got in the car and drove away. I took one last look at the house, trying to imagine Mom and Dad arriving in the morning. What would they do? Wander through the rooms, calling out my name? Or go straight to the kitchen and find my note? When they read what I'd written, would they believe me? Or would they think Uncle Harvey and I had gone back to Peru?

I felt bad, leaving them again. Well, I felt bad about leaving Mom. She'd been really upset last time. Dad had mostly just been mad, which Mom said was his way of showing he cared. Yeah, right. However, I have to admit, I only felt bad for about a second. Then I remembered Marko and the tiger and all the fun I was going to have in India, and I thought,
It's time to go! We've got to make that plane before Mom and Dad figure out that I'm gone.

We'd been driving for ten or fifteen minutes when my uncle said, “I don't suppose you know what type of car your friend Marko drives?”

“No idea,” I replied. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

As he said those words, my uncle's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

I turned around and saw a pair of headlights following us through the country lanes.

I said, “Do you think it's Marko?”

“Probably not.”

“How long has he been there?”

“Since we left the village.”

“He must have been watching the house.”

“It might just be a coincidence.”

“I bet you anything it's Marko.”

Uncle Harvey didn't argue. Instead he put his foot down and accelerated around a bend. The tires screeched. A startled fox stood by the side of the road, its eyes glistening in our headlights.

We drove fast for five minutes. The other car stayed with us.

My uncle slowed down, giving them a chance to overtake, but they didn't take it. He sped up again and so did they. Whatever we did, the distance between us remained the same.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“What
can
we do?”

“We could pull over and wait for him to stop, then jump out and slash his tires.”

“Nice plan,” said Uncle Harvey. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

“No.”

“I have. It's a lot more difficult than it sounds. And we know he has a knife. What if he has a gun, too? No, we'll just drive. Let's see if he follows us all the way to Shannon.”

“What if he follows us all the way to India?”

“We'll think of something.”

I was disappointed. I would have preferred to stop and confront Marko. But maybe Uncle Harvey was right. What if he did have a gun? What if he shot us and stole the letters? We'd feel pretty stupid. That is, if we were alive long enough to feel anything.

I said, “When did you slash someone's tires?”

“Oh, it's a long story.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

Uncle Harvey laughed. “Fine. I'll tell you.”

It
was
a long story, but a good one—it involved an Italian countess, a French politician, and a suitcase full of fake dollars. I can't tell you any more than that, because Uncle Harvey swore me to secrecy. Apparently the politician is now one of the most powerful men in Europe and if he discovered I was telling stories about his past, he'd track me down and wipe me out.

Just before the airport, we pulled into a gas station. You have to return rental cars with a full tank of gas, Uncle Harvey told me. Otherwise the rental company charges you a fortune for filling it up.

The station was deserted. A cashier stared at us through the big glass window, then went back to watching TV, waiting for us to come and pay for our gas. Uncle Harvey unclipped the hose and filled the tank.

A second car purred into the gas station. Once again, the clerk lifted his head, took a quick look, then went back to the TV.

It was a Ford Focus, no different from the one we'd gotten from Shannon airport, and for a horrible moment I thought Dad might be driving. Had he been waiting outside the house, expecting us to sneak away? Was he now going to confront us? No. He must be safely tucked up in his hotel bedroom. It was Marko sitting behind the wheel.

I could see his eyes fixed on me.

I turned away. Turned back.

He was still watching me.

I was scared of him. I don't mind admitting that. Otherwise I would have waved the letters out the window and said,
They're ours now! Thanks for your offer of two thousand, but no thanks! I'll take the two million.

But I didn't say anything. Nor did I move from my seat.

Uncle Harvey paid for the gas and walked back to the car. I could see him looking at Marko.

He opened the door and peered down at me. “That's the guy?”

“That's him.”

Uncle Harvey straightened up and took a long look.

The clerk was watching us from his booth. He must have been wondering why we weren't continuing with our journey and why Marko was just sitting in his car, not buying any gas.

“Let's go and see what he wants,” said Uncle Harvey. He slammed the door and headed for Marko's car.

I jumped out of the car and ran after him. “Wait!”

He turned around to look at me. “What?”

“You said we shouldn't confront him.”

“I've changed my mind.”

“What if he has a gun?”

“We'll be fine.” Uncle Harvey gestured at the booth. “He won't dare shoot us here. Everything's being recorded on the security camera.”

By now, Marko was ready for us. He'd stepped out of his car and was standing with his arms folded, waiting to see what we did next.

Uncle Harvey started walking.

I shouted after him again: “Wait!”

He didn't.

I didn't like it. Marko was dangerous. Ruthless, too. What if he drew a gun or a knife? What if he didn't care about being recorded or getting caught?

I ran after my uncle and caught up with him just as he reached Marko.

Uncle Harvey didn't bother with small talk. “Why are you following us?”

“You know why,” replied Marko.

“You're wasting your time,” said my uncle. “We're keeping the letters.”

“Didn't he”—he pointed at me—“tell you what I'm offering for them?”

“He said you'd offered two thousand euros.”

“That's right.”

“Not much if they lead to a tiger worth two million dollars.”

“Yeah, but you'll never find it.”

“We'll take that risk.”

“Let me tell you something, mate. J.J. has hundreds of people searching for this tiger. They've been all over India, Europe, America, and they haven't found a trace of it. You won't either.”

“But you will?” I blurted out.

“I might, yes. I know what I'm doing. I've also got a bit of money to spend. Which is why I'd like to buy your father's letters. He was a good bloke, your dad. I liked him.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He got in touch with my boss. Said he had something to sell. We still want to buy it. Are you going to honor the deal we made?”

“I don't think so,” said Uncle Harvey.

“I'm sorry to hear that, mate. Why not?”

“Because the tiger is worth at least two million dollars and you offered two thousand euros. That's a big difference.”

“I offered two thousand for the letters, not the tiger.”

“Even so.”

“You want more money?” asked Marko.

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“What are you offering?” said my uncle.

“If you can give me the letters right now, I'll pay you twenty thousand euros.”

“Twenty thousand?” I knew I should shut up, but I couldn't help myself. He'd offered me two! Would he have gone up to twenty if I'd asked him?

He grinned at me. He must have known what I was thinking. And he said, “That's right. Twenty thousand euros. In cash.”

My uncle said, “Do you have the money here?”

“Yes.”

“With you?”

“Yes.”

“In your car?”

“Yes.”

Uncle Harvey took a moment to decide. He glanced at Marko's car as if he was imagining the money inside. Where would it be? In a suitcase? Or an envelope? What does twenty thousand euros actually look like? How much space does it take up? Then he shook his head. “I'm afraid the answer's no. Twenty thousand is simply not enough.”

“No problem,” said Marko. “I'll give you thirty.”

“No.”

“Thirty-five. That's my final offer.”

“You can have them for a million,” said Uncle Harvey.

Marko laughed. “Come on, mate! Don't be ridiculous.”

“That's
my
final offer.”

“You're making a big mistake.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. But it's my mistake to make, not yours. We're going to leave now. Please don't follow us anymore.”

Marko reached into his jacket. My uncle tensed. So did I. We both thought he was reaching for a gun. But he pulled out his wallet. “Here's my card. Call me if you change your mind.”

“I will.” Uncle Harvey glanced at the card. “Malinkovic—where's that from?”

“I'm Australian, but my dad emigrated from Croatia.”

“A wonderful country.”

“I've never been.”

“You should. It's beautiful.” Uncle Harvey pocketed the card. “Nice to meet you, Marko. Let's keep in touch.”

“We'll do that, mate.”

We walked back to our car. The gas station attendant was still watching us. I was glad about that. He and his cameras might just have saved our lives. If Marko had produced his knife and swung at us, could we have stopped him?

We got into the car and drove out of the gas station.

As we roared up the access road onto the freeway, I turned around and saw the Ford Focus following right behind us.

I lifted my hand and waved at Marko.

He didn't wave back.

I turned to my uncle.

“J.J.,” I said.

“I noticed that too.”

“That's got to be Jalata Jaragami, doesn't it?”

“Must be.”

“Do you really think he's got hundreds of people searching for this tiger?”

“I don't see why not. If he wants to find it badly enough.”

“So who's Marko?”

“Why don't you look him up?” He passed me his phone and the card that Marko had given him.

The card had his full name, Marko Malinkovic, two phone numbers, and a Gmail address, but no information about his job, his title, who he was, or what he did for a living.

I searched for “Marko Malinkovic.” It was an unusual name, so he should have been easy to follow, but he had no Facebook page, no Twitter account, no website advertising his business or offering his services. He hadn't told the world his hobbies or posted images of himself partying with his friends. Whoever he was, he liked to keep himself private.

I found a few Malinkovics in Melbourne, Australia. There was a Zeljko Malinkovic who sold homemade cakes with guaranteed fresh cream and a Steve Malinkovic who had a garage on Silver Street specializing in German cars. Could they be his parents? His brothers and sisters?

“Maybe Malinkovic isn't even his real name,” suggested my uncle. “But don't worry about it. Marko doesn't really matter. Forget him. He's out of the picture.”

“No, he's not. He's right behind us.”

“He might be now, but he won't be for long. Like I said, you should forget him. The guy we need to meet is J.J.”

I would have been happy
to forget Marko, but he refused to be forgotten. He was on our flight to Heathrow.

He had followed us all the way to the Shannon airport, keeping a safe distance between his car and ours, then dropped away and disappeared once we reached the car rental place. We didn't see him again in the airport, but he must have followed us inside, watched us checking in, discovered where we were going, and bought a ticket for himself.

He sat at the other end of the plane. I thought of going back there and talking to him, asking him to leave us alone, but Uncle Harvey told me not to bother. “We'll shake him off later,” he said.

“What if we can't?”

“We will.”

“How do you know? He's followed us all the way here. He'll probably be able to follow us all the way to India. What if we find the tiger and he grabs it from us?”

“Relax, Tom. We'll be fine. He's just one guy. He can't do anything to us.”

“There might be others. He might have a whole team. Maybe they're waiting for us at Heathrow. What if they mug us and grab the letters?”

“Didn't I tell you to relax? Shut up and read your magazine.”

Uncle Harvey had bought me a copy of
History Today
in a shop at the airport. I said I wasn't interested in boring magazines about dead people, but he told me not to be so narrow-minded. “You're interested in Tipu's tigers, aren't you?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you were interested in John Drake's diaries? And Francis Drake's gold?”

“That's not the same as—”

“Read the magazine,” he said. “You might learn something. Even better, you might find someone else who buried some treasure for us to go and dig up.”