The Sultan's Tigers (9 page)

“When are you coming home?”

“I don't know. Soon.”

“Why don't you just come home now?”

“I don't want to.”

“But, Tom . . .” she sighed. Then she told me to be careful, and said she loved me, and that was that. She just ended the call. No threats to get the police involved. No shouting or screaming. Just me alone in India with Uncle Harvey, and Mom and Dad and Grace and Jack halfway around the world, soon to be on their way home. I was so glad I wasn't with them.

We sat in that room
for a long time.

It was hot and boring.

Nothing happened.

Most people were dozing. Others just stared into space. One family had made a little shelter for themselves, hanging clothes and blankets over the chairs, as if they expected to be here for several days, or already had been.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep.

I was woken by Uncle Harvey poking me in the ribs.

The passport officer was standing over us, holding both our passports. He thrust them into my uncle's hands and smiled.

“Welcome to India, Mr. and Mr. Trelawney.”

At a booth in the main part
of the airport, Uncle Harvey changed some British pounds into Indian rupees. Then we went to find a taxi. It was still early in the morning, but we were going to head straight to the station and get a train to Mysore. From there, we'd take another taxi to Srirangapatna—as Seringapatam is now called. Then we'd head north, following Horatio's instructions, searching for the hill where he'd buried Tipu's tiger.

Indians have two types of taxi, Uncle Harvey told me: cars and rickshaws. Both sorts were packed outside the airport, waiting for passengers. The cars looked like normal cars, just older. The rickshaws were little three-wheelers, half-motorbike, half-van, with a driver sitting alone at the front and a seat in the back with room for a couple of passengers. I would have liked to ride in one, but Uncle Harvey said they were only good for short journeys. They had no doors or windows, and nowhere to put luggage, so you had to keep your bag at your feet or on your knees.

He must have seen my disappointment, because he told me not to worry. “We're going to be here for a few days,” he said. “You'll definitely get the chance to ride in a rickshaw.”

Once we were sitting in the back seat of a yellow taxi, Uncle Harvey called forward. “Hello? Excuse me? Could you turn on the meter, please?”

“Yes, sir. No problem.” The driver tapped the meter and the dials reverted to a line of zeros. If he hadn't done that, we would have had to pay the last passenger's fare on top of ours. I didn't know that at the time, but Uncle Harvey gave me a few tips on surviving India, and dealing with taxis was number four on the list. In case you're wondering about the others, number one was toilets, number two was water, and number three was food, and his advice was 1) always squat, 2) only drink bottled, and 3) be very careful what you eat.

The driver said to my uncle: “What is your destination, sir?”

“The railway station.”

“Coming right up, sir.”

As we sped away from the terminal, I peered out of the back window, searching for Marko. If he'd been quick enough, the time we spent in the visa department would have given him a chance to catch up with us, taking a flight here via Mumbai or Delhi. Even if he hadn't managed to get a ticket on another flight, had he called his friends who lived here? Or had he told J.J.'s other thugs to watch out for us? Had we been followed as we emerged from the airport?

I was just in time to see a second car peeling away from the lines of taxis. It stayed a steady distance behind us as we drove down the road. Of course it did. We were heading out of the airport and into the center of the city. Wouldn't anyone take the same route?

I told my uncle what I'd seen. I'd imagined he would tell me to relax, but he actually turned around and stared thoughtfully at the taxi.

“Did you see Marko?” asked my uncle.

“I couldn't see who was inside. Do you think it's him?”

“Almost certainly not. But let's still keep an eye on it.”

The taxi stayed with us as we drove over a bridge, but fell behind as soon as we joined a larger highway, fading into the mass of cars and trucks jamming the road, and we soon lost sight of it.

That seemed to satisfy my uncle, but I couldn't help worrying about Marko. What if he followed us to Mysore, waited for us to find the tiger, and then grabbed it from us? We'd have done all the hard work and he'd walk away with the reward. I glanced behind us every few moments all the way to the station, trying to work out if we were being followed. I saw lots of taxis, but I didn't know if any of them was the particular taxi that had left the airport at the same time as us.

We stopped at some traffic lights. Immediately our taxi was surrounded by kids. They pushed stuff against the glass, trying to persuade us to buy sweets or drinks or newspapers. The driver waved them away like flies, but they took no notice, rapping their knuckles against the glass, trying to get our attention.

There were more kids at every subsequent set of lights, selling more sweets and drinks and trinkets and newspapers and magazines. Often they didn't even need to wait till we came to a red light; the traffic moved so slowly that they could just run alongside us, knocking on the glass, shouting a few words of English at us:
Hello, sir! Please, sir! You will buy, sir? You will take one, sir? Only one rupee! Very good price!
When the lights changed and the taxi started moving, the kids leaped aside, dodging through the cars and stepping onto the safety of the pavement, where they stood patiently, chatting, laughing, passing the time, waiting for the lights to go red again and give them another chance to earn some money. I'd seen some movies about India and they'd all shown scenes like these, kids crowding around cars, trying to earn a little money, but the reality was completely different from watching it on a screen. In a movie, India looked cute and fun and unusual and exciting. Up close, it looked grubby and depressing. These kids weren't having fun. They were just trying to scrape together a few pennies to buy themselves something to eat. I asked Uncle Harvey for some money to give them, but he said no.

“Why not?”

“When you come to India, you have to make a choice. Do you give money to everyone? Or no one? It's up to you.”

“Couldn't I just give some to those kids?”

“No.”

After about an hour of this, the driver stopped his taxi, turned around, and grinned at us. “Here is our destination, sir. Bangalore Main Terminus. The charge will be ninety-seven rupees.”

Uncle Harvey pointed at the meter. “It says thirty-seven.”

“Airport charge, sir. Fifty rupees.”

“That makes eighty-seven.”

“Also ten rupees must be charged for crossing the city boundary.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“It is the rules and regulations, sir. Here, I will show you.”

The driver reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

While he and Uncle Harvey were arguing about the price, I opened my door and stepped out of the car. The sun had risen higher and the heat was even more intense. The air smelled of spices. The road was four lanes wide and busier than a highway, filled with traffic moving at unbelievable speed. Pedestrians nipped between the cars. How could anyone cross this road? I saw a crosswalk, but it was obviously only for decoration, because the cars didn't bother stopping for anyone walking across it. Pedestrians just had to run. Someone jostled me. I gripped my bag tighter. A man tugged my sleeve. “You want good movie?” He offered a sheaf of pirated DVDs. I couldn't bring myself to answer. I don't know why not. I guess I was stunned. I'd never been anywhere like this, never seen streets that were so busy, so full of noise and movement, packed with so many smells and colors.

The DVD salesman was still tugging my sleeve and asking questions, but I heard another voice that was louder than his: “Come on! This way!” My uncle was already on the move. I pushed past the DVD guy and hurried after him.

The street might have been crowded, but the station was crammed. We had to fight our way through the entrance, pushing past porters carrying luggage, kids selling newspapers, and people hurrying in every direction, shouting and hugging and laughing and pushing and generally getting in one another's way. No one apologized for treading on my toes. No one stepped out of my way. Soon I found myself struggling as hard as everyone else. I didn't want to get separated from my uncle. I knew I'd never find him again.

A voice boomed out the times, destinations, and platforms of various trains. Beggars were everywhere, stretching out their hands. Some were missing arms, others had no legs, and I saw one who didn't have any limbs at all, just four stumps sticking out of his body.

“You give me money,” demanded one of the beggars, a kid about my age with a flapping sleeve where his right arm should have been. I mumbled some kind of apology and hurried past.

Now I understood what my uncle had said in the car. How could we give a coin to one of these beggars and not the others? How could we choose who was worthy of our charity? But wouldn't it be better to give some money to one of them rather than none at all?

I thought of my home, my possessions, my clothes, the food that appeared on our table every day, the big bags that Mom brought home from the supermarket once a week, and I wasn't sure whether to feel guilty or grateful that I was born in America rather than here.

At the ticket office, we were greeted by a long line snaking down the corridor. We shuffled slowly toward the booths. Women fanned their faces with newspapers, men grumbled and sweated.

A couple of skinny boys walked up and down the line, carrying buckets and calling out, “Chai! Chai! Chai!”

They were selling tea, my uncle told me. Inside their buckets they had metal teapots and little glasses, and sold the tea already mixed with milk and sugar. There was nothing better in this hot weather, said Uncle Harvey, than a cup of hot, sweet tea. It cooled you down more effectively than any number of cold drinks. “It's called chai,” he explained. “That's the Indian word for tea. Do you want to try it?”

I said I didn't like tea, but Uncle Harvey insisted on buying me a cup, and another for himself.

I took a sip. To my surprise, it wasn't bad. Even more surprisingly, it did seem to cool me down.

The kid with the bucket carried on down the line, then returned to collect our empty cups.

When we reached a ticket booth, my uncle said, “When is the next train to Mysore?”

“The Udyan Express leaves in twenty-three minutes.”

“Two tickets, please. Second class.”

“At this late notice, it is not possible to have a reservation.”

“That's fine, thank you. We'll find a seat ourselves.”

The clerk gave a little sigh, as if he was disappointed about the reservations even if we weren't, then printed out our tickets.

Uncle Harvey handed over a sheaf of dirty banknotes, then took the tickets and his change. “Where do we go to get the train?”

“You must proceed immediately to platform eighteen. The express is boarding already. You must hurry, sir.”

“Thanks!”

Uncle Harvey grabbed our tickets and the change.

We sped through the station. My uncle was taller than me, and bigger, too, so the crowd parted to let him through. What if I got left behind? What if we were separated? I was struggling to keep up with him when someone grabbed my arm.

I tried to shake them off.

They wouldn't let go.

One of those beggars asking for money.

Sorry, pal. Don't have any. Try someone else. Get off my arm.

He wouldn't let go.

I shook harder.

He still didn't let go.

I turned around, ready to tell him I didn't have any rupees, and found myself face-to-face with Marko.

He was holding me with his left hand. His right hand was under his jacket, gripping something dark and angular and metallic. I could see just enough to know it was a gun.

“Call your uncle,” Marko said.
“Tell him to come back here.”

“What do you—?”

“Do it!”

“No.” I don't know what made me so brave. Maybe it was jetlag, or maybe just stupidity, but for whatever reason, I tried to pull myself free. “Get off me.”

“I've got a gun,” said Marko.

“You can't shoot me here.”

“I can. And I will.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“That's what your grandfather said just before I killed him. I'll do the same to you if you don't call your uncle.”

I felt myself shivering. I don't know if I was scared or furious. Had he really killed Grandpa? Could he be telling the truth? I didn't know much about the way my grandfather had actually died. Only what Mom had told me. How much did she actually know, though? Had the police investigated? Probably not. If an old man has a heart attack in front of the TV, you probably don't bother searching for clues. You wouldn't think he'd been murdered by a thug on the trail of some old letters.

Marko must have seen that I was about to throw myself at him, because he jabbed the gun into my chest and said in a low voice, “Call your uncle. Now.”

“Did you really kill him?”

“Call him now or I'll kill you, too.”

There was something in his eyes that told me he was serious. I turned my head and yelled, “Uncle Harvey!”

He'd managed to get halfway across the station and didn't hear me.

I shouted louder: “Uncle Harvey!”

He was moving quickly through the crowd, leaving me behind. Another moment or two and he'd be gone forever. I'd be stuck in the middle of Bangalore Station with a million beggars and an angry Aussie with a gun.