Reprisal

by Mark David Abbott

  John waited for her response, watching the myriad of emotions playing across her face.

  She looked up. “I know.” She shivered and rolled over, pulling the sheet up to her chin and gazed up at the ceiling. “When?”

  John sat up, swung his legs off the bed, looking across the room. He reached down for the swimming trunks he had discarded on the floor and pulled them on, then paced across the room to the window. Pulling the curtain aside, he stared out across the deep blue of the Gulf of Oman. In the distance, a fishing trawler made its way back to port, a trail of sea gulls flying behind it. Pink tinged a solitary cloud in the sky as the sun descended toward the horizon.

  John turned his head and looked back over his shoulder at Adriana, who was sitting up.

  “I think the sooner, the better.” He turned fully to face her. “I want to begin the next phase of our lives together without the threat of someone coming to hunt me down.” He looked down at the floor, sighed, then raised his head, his eyes moist. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Adriana, knowing we are safe and can grow old together.”

  “You’ve still not said when.”

  “I don’t know.” John shrugged and let out a long breath of air. “I’ll need to plan, make some calls, but... I think by the end of the week?”

  “How will you do it?”

  John walked across the room and dragged a chair close to the bed. He sat down, leaned forward, and took her hand in his, stroking the back with his thumb.

  “I don’t know. I still have to figure it out.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.

  Adriana watched, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “It...” Her voice caught, and she looked away. “It will be dangerous?”

  John looked up, noticing the emotion in her voice, her hand still held to his lips. He nodded and watched the tear trickle out of her eye and roll down the side of her face.

  “Promise me you’ll come back?”

  John nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I promise,” John murmured as he looked directly into her eyes.

  Adriana forced a smile, then laid back, and with her free hand, she pulled back the bedsheet.

  “Then come back to bed. There’s no time to waste.”

  John gazed down at her, and despite the emotion, the sadness, the fear of losing her, he smiled.

  5

  John stopped, bent double, his hands on his knees as he sucked air into his lungs, his thighs trembling. Straightening up, he shook the tension from his legs. Behind him, a trail of footprints on the otherwise untouched surface of the beach glistened in the early morning sun. He had just finished his tenth sprint, and his legs were finished. Once his breath returned to normal, he lowered himself to the sand and did a max set of press-ups until he could no longer raise himself off the sand, his arms and chest quivering.

  John prided himself in maintaining a reasonable level of fitness but had upped his activity in the past week. He still hadn’t worked out what he would do with Surya Patil but wanted to be physically ready. Standing, he walked over to where he had left his flip-flops and water bottle in the sand and sat down. Taking a long swig of water, he gazed out across the glass-like surface of the bay. It was still cool, but beads of sweat ran down his face. Grabbing the hem of his t-shirt, he mopped them away and thought about what lay ahead. Visualizing a map of India in his mind’s eye, he pondered how to get into the country without alerting the authorities. He was sure Surya Patil, with his political connections, would have alerted authorities to be on the lookout for him, so he couldn’t fly directly into Bangalore, the security in the airport second to none. The minute he presented his passport, alarm bells would ring, and the next thing John knew, he would find himself in a prison cell... or worse. He could try flying into another city, but it was still risky. That left arriving in India by sea or land. John didn’t like the sea route, it would take too long, but overland didn’t give him many options either.

  He couldn’t go via Pakistan, the two countries coexisting in a constant state of tension with border controls among the tightest in the world. China was similar, and as a foreigner, he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the border on the Chinese side. That left Bangladesh, Bhutan, or Nepal. John took another sip from the bottle and watched as a black-and-white oystercatcher alighted at the water’s edge and strutted along the beach, its head bobbing up and down as it searched for food.

  Bangladesh would be difficult, India patrolling the border constantly to prevent illegal immigration from the country. Bhutan was possible, but if John remembered correctly from when he and Charlotte had planned a trip, visas were restricted for foreign passport holders, and itineraries had to be specified in advance.

  Which only left Nepal. It was an easy country to get into, used to many foreign visitors, and shared an open border with India. In fact, Indians had visa-free entry to Nepal and could drive in and out with ease.

  He screwed the top back on the water bottle and stood up.

  Yes, that was how he would do it, and he already knew someone who could help him.

  6

  Thapa checked the timer beside the French Press; only twenty seconds left. He took a paper cup and a plastic lid from the shelf behind the counter and set them down. The timer beeped, and Thapa slowly pressed the plunger, his experienced eye observing the color of the coffee. Satisfied, he poured it into the cup, popped on the lid, placed a stirrer and a sachet of brown sugar on the counter, and called out, “French Press, Single Origin, takeaway for Jacob.”

  A tall westerner in a business suit looked up from his phone, then walked toward the counter. “Thank you.” He picked up the cup, slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, scooped up the stirrer and sugar in his spare hand, then pushed his way out the door.

  Thapa grinned and looked over at Celia, who was busy at the espresso machine.

  “People are always in a hurry in Hong Kong. What happened to sitting down and spending time, enjoying a nicely brewed cup of coffee?”

  “Why are you complaining?” Celia replied as she frothed a jug of milk. “It’s good for business.”

  “That’s true.” Thapa shrugged as his phone vibrated under the counter. He looked down and frowned. Not a dialing code he recognized. Wiping his hands on the cloth tucked into his apron, he picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Thapa?”

  “John!” Thapa broke into a wide grin at the familiar voice. “How are you? Where are you? I don’t recognize the number.”

  “I’m good, Thapa. I’m in Oman.”

  “Oman?”

  “Yes, my friend, but tell me, how are you? How’s the café going? Business good?”

  Thapa looked around the cafe. The tables were full, and two customers were waiting at the counter for takeaway coffee.

  “I can’t complain, John. Business is booming.”

  “That’s good.”

  Thapa could hear the smile in John’s voice. John Hayes was a good man. Thapa had known him for almost three years now, first as a regular customer. But when John got into trouble, major trouble, Thapa, along with his father, Tejpal, had helped him out. The shared danger and consequent financial rewards had formed a bond between them. John later enlisted Thapa’s help with rescuing the family in Bangladesh. He wondered if John was in trouble again. He seemed to have terrible luck.

  “How’s your dad doing?” John continued.

  “He’s well, John. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thank you.”

  Thapa sensed a hesitancy from John’s end, so he asked, “Is something wrong, John?” He heard a sigh on the other end.

  “Yes, Thapa, I’m going to need your help again.”

  Thapa pursed his lips and looked around the cafe, “Just give me a minute, John.” He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and called out to Celia, “I have to take this, Celia. Look after everything, will you?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Thapa stepp
ed around the counter, pushed open the door, and stepped out onto the street, narrowly missing a group of Chinese tourists shuffling past, staring at their phones. He waited, then walked down the slope and stopped in an empty doorway three shops down. A passing taxi honked impatiently in the road, and covering his ear with one hand, he brought the phone up to the other.

  “How can I help, John?”

  7

  “Have you got everything?”

  Adriana checked her passport and boarding pass, then nodded. She looked up at John.

  “Are you sure I can’t come with you?”

  John smiled and pulled her close. He kissed her forehead, then pulled her head to his shoulder.

  “It’s better I do this alone,” he murmured as he stroked her hair.

  Adriana pulled away and gazed up into his eyes, “Promise me, Mr. Hayes, you will be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  “I...” she gulped and looked away. Looking back, she said, “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t.” John gave her a smile and squeezed her arms. “When is your interview?”

  “Thursday.”

  “You’ll do well.” John nodded. “I’ll be back before you know it, and you can tell me all about your new job.”

  Adriana smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, which were moist with tears. She swallowed again, not taking her eyes off John.

  John turned his head and listened to the announcement over the airport intercom. “That’s your flight. Last call.” Leaning forward, he kissed her on the lips.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, John. Be careful.”

  “I will.” John guided her by the arm toward the gate. “And good luck with the interview. I know you’ll rock it.”

  Adriana nodded, looked down at her boarding pass, then back at John.

  “Come back soon.”

  John winked, struggling to control his emotions.

  “Go, or you’ll miss it.”

  Adriana turned and walked to the gate. John watched as she handed over her boarding pass, then walked toward the air-bridge before turning and waving. Forcing a smile, he waved back, then watched her disappear around the corner. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He didn’t want to be apart from her, but there was no way he could risk taking her to India. It was too dangerous. What he had to do, he had to do alone.

  Opening his eyes, he glanced at his watch. Still an hour before his flight to Kathmandu. He walked over to the window and watched as the air-bridge disconnected from the plane, and the Emirates flight to Lisbon prepared for departure. He would be much more relaxed, knowing Adriana was safe in Lisbon while he was pursuing Surya Patil. Fortunately, the newspaper, Publico, had offered her a job, a job she had always wanted, after seeing her work on the human trafficking scandal in Thailand. John, although sad to be apart from her, was happy she would have something to occupy her mind while he was away.

  As the plane pushed back, he turned and looked around Dubai’s busy Terminal Three, bustling with travelers from all over the world. He joined the flow of people thronging the main thoroughfare and considered his next steps. Thapa had once again been very helpful and put John in touch with one of his uncles in Kathmandu, who promised to help. John hadn’t spoken to him yet, but Thapa assured him his uncle would provide John with any assistance he needed. The first thing was to find a way across the border into India without alerting immigration officials or the police. John had researched and had a couple of ideas, but until he was on the ground in Nepal, he wouldn’t know which ones would work.

  Spying an optician’s shop, he paused and looked in the window. An advertisement for colored contact lenses caught his eye and gave him an idea. He walked inside and bought two boxes of blue lenses, slipping them into his carry-on. He glanced again at his watch. Time for a quick drink in the lounge before the flight.

  8

  Detective Inspector Rajiv Sampath looked over the report from his men. He had doubled patrols in Shivnagar and stationed two constables outside Surya Patil’s house in twelve-hour shifts. It was a long time to be standing outside his house, but Rajiv couldn’t spare any more manpower. He was reluctant to divert resources away from the more important task of fighting crime just so a politician could sleep soundly at night. A politician who, if rumors were to be believed, deserved to be put away for corruption, instead of being protected by the police. Rajiv sighed and slid the report onto his desk. The sooner Delhi approved the Z Class security, the better. That would mean four NSG Commandos, known as “Black Cats” and another eighteen policemen. Then he could take his own men off the job, wash his hands of the responsibility, and go back to his real work.

  He pushed his chair back, swiveled, and gazed out the window. A crow alighted on the branch of the Peepal tree and looked back at him, cocking its head from side to side before deciding it had better things to do and flying off. Rajiv couldn’t understand what was going on. Patil had reported a threat from John Hayes, but it made little sense. Rajiv had heard nothing from John for years and thought, after the death of his wife and John’s departure from India, he would never hear about him again. Just one more unsolved case in the pile of files, rotting away in the back room of the station... until last month when Patil asked for his file.

  The request had troubled Rajiv, and eventually, he sent a warning message to the last known email address he had for John. He liked John and deep down, felt John—if it had been John who carried out the vigilante style killings of Charlottes’ alleged murderers—had done the right thing. Rajiv believed in the law, but sometimes, he couldn’t enforce it—particularly, when men like Patil were involved. It frustrated Rajiv, causing many sleepless nights. It went against everything he believed in, everything he had trained for, but the reality was, John would never have got justice any other way.

  Rajiv hadn’t heard back, didn’t know if John had received the email, or if anything had happened, but it was strange that a month later, Patil was warning of a threat from John. He hoped John was okay but was duty bound to carry out his job, and if that meant protecting Patil, he had to suck it up and continue. He swiveled back to face his desk and reached for a file from the ever-growing pile on his desk. Enough time had been wasted thinking about Patil. Time to get back to the real work of catching criminals.

  9

  The driver of the white S Class Mercedes honked as he sped down the street, then pulled up abruptly outside a large, four-story house, waiting for the gate to slide open. In the rear of the Mercedes, hidden behind black tinted windows, Surya Patil watched the police constable jump up from his plastic chair, fumble with his bamboo lathi, and stand to attention. Patil cursed under his breath and shook his head. He didn’t understand how an overweight and sleepy policeman with a wooden stick could protect him. Delhi must approve his Z Class security soon and send him some Commandos to watch the house.

  The Mercedes pulled inside as the gate slid to a close behind it, and Patil waited for the driver to open his door before getting out. The problem was, the new Government was cracking down on the abuse of ministerial privilege and cutting back on who was allowed the security. In Delhi, ministers still drove around in convoys with guards armed to the teeth, but they didn’t think a minister in the southern state of Karnataka was so important. Patil clenched his jaw and looked over at the two men lounging beside the gate. They noticed him looking in their direction and straightened up, trying to look alert. Patil shook his head in exasperation. When he asked the party for men who could handle themselves, they sent him these two thugs. Thugs who wanted to advance in the party but were too lazy to make any effort. They were big and rough and had a reputation for meting out rough justice at party rallies, but bullying poor, undernourished villagers was easy. Whether they could handle a man like John Hayes was another matter. Still, he sighed, it made him feel better to have a few more eyes watching the house, and if nothing else, these men were loyal. They had to be; they were unemployable anywhere e
lse.

  Surya walked inside the house, handed his bag to Venkatesh, kicked off his shoes, and slipped on a pair of house flip-flops.

  “Venky, is Madam home?”

  “Ji, Sir. In her room, Sir.”

  Patil sighed and rubbed his face. His relationship with his wife had been bad before Sunil’s death, but now, it was non-existent. They slept in separate rooms and never spoke. She was barely home, preferring to be out spending his money in the fancy boutiques of Bangalore and Mumbai or abroad in Dubai and Singapore. When she was home, she holed up in her room, avoiding him completely. What happened to the young girl from the village he had fallen in love with?

  “Bring me a drink. I’ll be in my study.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And Venkatesh.”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t forget ice.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The servant turned and scurried off to the kitchen.

  Patil climbed the stairs to the first floor, paused outside the closed door to his wife’s bedroom. He raised his hand as if to knock, then thought better of it and continued along the corridor to his study. Flopping down in the overstuffed leather armchair, he put his feet up on the footstool and closed his eyes. Sunil’s death had been hard on both of them, but it wasn’t his fault, and he couldn’t understand why she seemed to hold him responsible.

  There was a knock on the door, and Venkatesh walked in, carrying a silver tray with a cut crystal glass, an ice bucket, and an unopened bottle of Black Label.

  “Shall I pour for you, Sir?”

  “No, I’ll do it. Leave me.”

  “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “Something to eat, Sir?”

  “No, now get out and leave me alone.”