The Sultan's Tigers (8 page)

I flicked through the pictures and read a couple of the articles. They were actually pretty interesting, even if they didn't give me any ideas for how or where to make my fortune.

We landed at Heathrow and switched terminals. The last time I saw Marko, he was standing in a line at passport control, staring angrily after us. Our line moved much faster than his and he was still waiting while we were hurrying into the main part of the airport. Once again, I lifted my arm and waved at him. Once again, he didn't wave back.

Uncle Harvey stopped at a cash machine and pulled three cards from his wallet. Each of them allowed him to take out five hundred pounds.

“That should keep us going for a few days,” he said.

“I thought you didn't have any money.”

“I don't.”

“So how can you get out all this cash?”

“That's the definition of a credit card,” said Uncle Harvey. “Buy now, pay later. I already owe about ten thousand bucks on mine.”

“Plus ninety thousand from your poker game.”

“And a few thousand here and there for other debts to other people too.”

“If you added it all up, how much would it be?”

“I don't know and I don't want to know. Life is too short. Anyway, you don't have to worry about my financial situation. When we find this tiger, all our problems will be over.”

“What if we don't?”

“Then I'll have to run away and start a new life under a different name.”

“What about me?”

“You'll be fine. You don't owe anything to anyone. Apart from me, and I'll forgive you.”

He had another card in his wallet that got him free entry to the British Airways executive lounge. We bagged a couple of sofas and lay down. Our flight left in nine hours. There was nothing to do till then but snooze.

“Good night,” said Uncle Harvey.

“What about Marko?”

“What about him?”

“What if he finds us? What if he comes in here while we're sleeping? What if he steals the bag?”

“Even if he finds us, which he probably won't, he can't steal the bag. She'll be watching us.” Uncle Harvey nodded at the woman sitting behind the reception desk. Now I understood why he had chosen the sofa directly in her line of sight. “Anyway, I'm a light sleeper.” He was using his bag as a pillow and had looped its straps through his wrists. No one would be able to get near the zip without disturbing him.

“When do we have to wake up?” I said.

“Don't worry about that. I've set my alarm. Now get some sleep. You're going to need all your energy when you get to India.”

He lay down. So did I.

I tried to sleep. I really did. But I lay awake for a long time, worrying about Marko. I remembered his dark eyes, the glint of his knife, and the menacing tone in his voice. Where was he now? Pacing around Heathrow, searching for us? Wouldn't he find us here? Would that woman at the desk really protect us? I knew I wouldn't find the answers to any of these questions, but they spun around my head until I finally fell asleep.

I was woken by Uncle Harvey
shaking my shoulder. He thrust a cup at me. “Drink this,” he said. “You'll feel better.”

“What is it?”

“Coffee.”

“You know I don't like coffee.”

“Don't be an idiot. Everyone likes coffee.”

“I don't.”

“Try it.”

“No, thanks.”

“Fine. I'll drink them both.”

He took a sip from one cup, then the other.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. A different woman was sitting at the desk. She smiled at me. I smiled back.

The bag was still sitting on the sofa beside Uncle Harvey. So we hadn't been robbed. That was good.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. A text had arrived while I was asleep.

 

Where are you? Please come back and help clean this house. Mom.

 

Should I ignore it? No. Better to reply now and keep her off the trail. I tapped in a quick message.

 

Back soon. Tom

 

I pressed Send and switched off my phone.

We gathered our gear and left the lounge. I searched for Marko as we walked through the airport, but I didn't see him anywhere. He wasn't in the line to get on the plane. But that didn't mean he wasn't there. He could have been up at the front in first class.

Once we were airborne, I unbuckled my seat belt and stood up. “I'll be back in a second.” I didn't know what I was planning to say to Marko if I found him. Would I run back and get Uncle Harvey? Or confront him myself? I hadn't thought that far ahead. First I wanted to discover if he was here.

“Where are you going?” asked my uncle.

“To the bathroom.”

“You went just before we boarded. What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you have a bladder infection?”

“No. I just need to pee. I've been drinking a lot of water.”

He gave me a quizzical look, then returned his attention to the
Sunday Times.

Why didn't I tell the truth? I guess I didn't want to be told to relax again. I'm relaxed enough already. I just don't enjoy being followed around by psychopaths with knives. I prefer to know about it if they're on the same plane as me.

I snuck into first class. The flight attendant gave me a stern look, but I just smiled and she didn't stop me or tell me to go back to the cheap seats where I belonged.

Marko wasn't there.

We'd escaped.

Or had we?

Would he know where we were going? Could he find out? He could get on the next plane. He might be a few hours behind us, but that wouldn't matter to him. He could call a friend or an armed heavy and tell him to wait for our flight. He'd watch out for us as we emerged from the airport and follow us wherever we went, and we'd never know he was there, because we wouldn't know who he was or what he looked like.

I went back to my seat and settled down for the rest of the journey. Uncle Harvey was halfway through a plastic cup of something fizzy. I said, “What's that?”

“Gin and tonic. You want one?”

“Yes, please.”

He grinned and shook his head. “You're too young for gin.”

“I'm old enough to try.”

“No, you're not. But I'll give you a tip for when you're older. Always drink gin on a plane. It sends you straight to sleep. In fact, I think I need another.” He tipped the rest of the glass down his throat and waved at the nearest flight attendant.

The gin did its job
and Uncle Harvey soon fell asleep. I wasn't tired, so I just sat there, playing with the in-flight entertainment system and eating the free spicy peanuts. I just wanted to get there and start hunting for treasure.

We landed at one o'clock in the morning, local time. As we walked out of the air-conditioned aircraft and into the terminal, I pulled off my sweater and tied it around my waist. Even at this time of the night, the heat was astonishing. My bag was stuffed with sweaters, jeans, and thick socks, perfect for Irish mountains, but dead weight here.

I switched on my phone. It took five minutes to work out where it was. The poor thing must have been very confused. Home, England, Ireland, India—where was it now? When the display finally bleeped into life, a text arrived from the phone company, telling me the charges to make and receive calls, swiftly followed by seven voice mails from Mom and Dad. They started angry and quickly got panicked. I'd have to call them back. But what would I say? How much of the truth should I tell? I put the phone away and added that to the list of things to think about later.

When we reached the front of the line, the passport officer turned the pages of my passport, then Uncle Harvey's. “You are father and son?”

“Uncle and nephew,” Harvey replied.

“What is the purpose of your visit?”

“We're on holiday.”

“Where is your visa?”

“I'm afraid we don't have visas,” said Uncle Harvey.

“For visiting India, you must have a visa.”

“I know. Where can we buy them?”

“The best place to get a visa is the embassy in your capital city at least one month before you are arriving in India.”

“We're here now,” replied Uncle Harvey. “We don't mind paying. Where do we go to buy our visas?”

“That is not possible,” said the passport officer. “You must return to your own country and purchase a visa. Then you may enter India.”

Uncle Harvey reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it up to show the bills inside. He didn't actually pull out any money—he wasn't that blatant—but he made it obvious what was on offer. “There must be some way for us to get a visa,” he said.

“That is not possible.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because there are rules and regulations governing every aspect of entrance and exit from this country. The rules are stating most clearly that all visitors must have a visa.”

Uncle Harvey fingered the money. “We're here now and we really need these visas. We don't mind paying for them. Couldn't you see if you could help us? Please?”

The passport officer thought for a moment. He cast a few glances around, checking to see if he was being watched. “There is a possibility,” he said in a quiet voice. “But it is very expensive.”

“That doesn't matter,” said Uncle Harvey.

“You will come with me, please.”

The passport officer spoke to one of his colleagues, who took his position, then led us through a maze of corridors to a windowless room crammed with tired, anxious people. One woman was weeping silently into a handkerchief, her shoulders shuddering. The passport officer wrote our names on a sheet of paper and asked for ten thousand rupees. Uncle Harvey didn't have any local currency, but the passport officer was happy to accept British pounds instead. He counted the notes, folded them carefully, and slid them into the top pocket of his jacket. Then he told us to wait.

I said, “For how long?”

He just smiled and walked away.

“What if he never comes back?” I said.

“He will,” replied my uncle.

“How do you know?”

“He had a good face. I trust him.”

I hoped he was right. What if the passport officer decided to keep our money and pretend he'd never met us? We wouldn't be able to prove anything. We'd sit here for a day or two, sweltering, then they'd shove us on a plane back to London.

Uncle Harvey found a newspaper lying on the floor, the pages covered in dusty footprints. We were just settling down to read it when his phone rang. He looked at the display.

“It's your father,” he said. “Do you want to talk to him?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“I haven't decided what to say.”

“It's always best to tell the truth.”

“I can't do that!”

“Of course you can.” He put the phone to his ear. “Hello, Simon. I'm fine, thanks. Yes, he is. He's right here, I'll pass you over.”

I took the phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where are you?” said my father.

“India,” I replied.

“Where?”

“India,” I repeated.

“Where's that?”

“It's a big country near China.”

“Don't be funny with me, Tom. Where are you?”

“I just told you. I'm in India.”

“How can you be in India? How did you get there?”

“On a plane.”

There was a pause. Then Dad said: “Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“You're really in India?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Bangalore.”

“You are in serious trouble.”

“I don't care.”

“I mean it. You are in very serious trouble.”

“Whatever.”

I could hear the steam coming out of his ears.

“Hand the phone to your uncle.”

“Sure.”

I handed the phone to Uncle Harvey. I could only hear one side of their conversation, but I could fill in the rest for myself. Dad asked what we were doing in India and Uncle Harvey said he'd explain when we got home again. Dad asked when that would be and Uncle Harvey said he wasn't quite sure. Dad said he would call the police and Uncle Harvey asked him not to. It carried on like that for a couple more minutes, back and forth, back and forth, and then Uncle Harvey ended the call. He shook his head. “Your father needs to learn how to relax.”

“Was he any different when you were kids?”

“Exactly the same.”

I slumped in my plastic chair, praying to myself that we would find the tiger so I could return home with enough money to placate Mom and Dad.

I'd buy them a new house.

A couple of cars.

The best vacation of their lives.

They'd have to forgive me.

They'd have to.

And if they didn't?

I'd never come home. I'd have enough to live alone. I'd hire a cook and a chauffeur. Forget school. I'd be like Uncle Harvey. I'd travel around the world, searching for treasure and having adventures.

I was lost in imaginings of my future life, alone and free and rich and happy, when Uncle Harvey's phone rang again. This time it was Mom. She insisted on speaking to me. Not bothering with any small talk, she said, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“Are you in India?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing there?”

I told her everything. Well, not all the details about the treasure. We were in a crowded room and anyone might have been listening. But I told her enough that she'd understand why we had no choice about jumping on a plane and coming to India.

“Oh, Tom,” said Mom.

“You don't have to worry about me,” I said. “Everything's going to be fine.”