Venkatesh nodded and backed away, slipping out the door quietly.
Patil reached forward, opened the bottle, and poured three fingers of whisky into the glass. He grabbed a handful of ice and dropped it in, then sat back in his chair, the glass resting on his stomach. It had been his first day back in the Vidhan Sabha, Karnataka’s state legislature since he had returned from Dubai, and it had been a long but important one. There had been a lot of maneuvering, negotiating, and deal making to get his latest bill passed. Months of hard work, diplomacy, promises, and backroom deals to get it through, but now that it had passed, it promised to make him and his supporters a lot of money. He should celebrate, but he couldn’t relax, the thought of the bloody foreigner threatening him constantly in his mind. Normally, he wouldn’t worry—he was untouchable—but the man had somehow defeated two ex-French Foreign legionaries in Oman. He couldn’t afford to underestimate him again.
Opening his eyes, he took a long drink of the whisky, holding it in his mouth, savoring it before swallowing. He felt the amber liquid warm his throat, spreading into his chest. Taking another sip, he felt the tension easing away.
He knew just what he needed to cheer him up. He would pay a visit to Maadhavi later.
10
The flight from Dubai to Kathmandu arrived just after midnight, and despite being only a little over four hours, John was happy to get off. It had been a long day, and the flight was full, so he was keen to stretch his legs. After disembarking, he completed the arrival card and joined the long, snaking queue of tourists applying for the Visa on Arrival. There were plenty of other foreigners among the Chinese and Indian tourists, so John was confident he wouldn’t stand out, and sure enough, the Immigration Officer stamped his passport with a thirty-day visa without even looking up. Thirty days would be more than enough for what he had to do. John only had a carry-on, the bulk of his belongings left with Adriana, so he wasted no time exiting through the green channel and out into the arrivals hall. He scanned the line of waiting drivers for a sign with his name on it but couldn’t see anything. Frowning, he checked his watch. Thapa had said his uncle would meet him at the airport. He checked again, then not seeing his name walked past the drivers into the main hall. He looked around and noticed a man staring at him. The man looked down at his phone, then slipped it into his pocket and approached John, his hand outstretched.
“Mr. John?”
“Yes.”
The man smiled, his face lighting up in a big display of white teeth and laugh lines. “I am Tamang, Thapa’s Uncle.”
“Hello, Tamang.” John shook his hand. Tamang was small, not much more than five foot six or seven, but he was stocky and broad shouldered, looked fit, and his handshake was firm with a strong grip. John instantly liked him.
“How did you recognize me?”
“Thapa sent me a photo.” Tamang looked at the bag in John’s hand. “No more luggage?”
John smiled. “I travel light.”
“Okay.” Tamang grinned again. “Please come, my car is waiting.”
John followed him through the crowd to the exit door and into the night air. It was cool outside, but the air held the familiar smell of smoke and dust John had experienced in Indian cities. Tamang led him to a double-parked Toyota Hi-Ace, opened the passenger door for John, then walked around the front and climbed into the driver’s seat.
A string of colored Buddhist prayer flags stretched the width of the windscreen, and in the middle of the dashboard, a brass statue of the goddess Maa Kali, a small garland of flowers wilting at her feet.
“Are you tired, Mr. John?”
“Please, just John, and yes, a little.”
“Then don’t worry, Mr... ah, John. My home is not far from here. About twenty minutes.”
John smiled. “It’s okay.”
Tamang started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Glancing over at John, he gestured toward the glove compartment.
“There is a local SIM card in there for you.”
“Thank you, Tamang.” John reached forward, opened the glove box, and removed it. “Please let me know any expenses, and I will cover them.”
Tamang honked as a pack of stray dogs ran across in front of them.
“Don’t worry. Thapa told me you have been very good to him, and I was to look after you. You are my guest... John.”
“Thank you.” John settled back in his seat, the packet containing the SIM resting in his lap, and gazed out the window as the streetscape rushed past. He and Charlotte had never made it up to Nepal during their time in India, but it felt so familiar—similar architecture and street scenes, but disparities too, little things like names and the script on the signboards. The cars were different, too, more Japanese cars among the Indian models on the road.
Traffic was light, and they pulled up outside Tamang’s home in less than the twenty minutes he had originally indicated. John stepped out and looked around at the quiet, unremarkable suburban street. Two- and three-story homes lit by the amber glow of the streetlights lined each side, and a dog curled up in the middle of the road, raised its head, regarded them for a moment, then tucked its head back into its legs, and went back to sleep.
“Please come,” Tamang led him across the small concrete front yard, past a battered Vespa and a row of potted begonias, and pushed open the front door. “Welcome to my home.”
John stepped inside and looked around at a modest-sized living room, furnished with carved wooden chairs. A display cabinet sat against one wall, housing various knick-knacks, and on another wooden cabinet sat a large television shrouded with a plastic cover.
Tamang watched John shyly and visibly relaxed when John smiled.
“You have a nice home, Tamang.”
“Thank you, John. Are you hungry?” Tamang gestured toward the staircase. “I will wake my wife and ask her to prepare some food.”
“No, no. Please don’t disturb her. I ate on the plane. I’m happy to go to sleep. You must be tired as well?”
“Are you sure, John? No formalities.”
John walked over and put a hand on Tamang’s arm. “I’m sure, Tamang. Thank you.” He smiled. “Now show me where I can sleep, and we’ll get better acquainted in the morning.”
11
John sat on the single bed, kicked off his boots, and sighed. He felt alone, already missing Adriana. They had spent so much time together recently, it felt strange she wasn’t with him. Still, it couldn’t be helped. There was no way he could involve her in what he would do next. He looked at his G-shock and made a quick mental calculation. It was just after nine p.m. in Lisbon. He took the phone from his bag and removed the cover. Taking out the Dubai SIM card, he swapped it for the Nepal SIM Tamang had given him and waited for a signal. Once connected, he dialed Adriana’s number. It took a while to connect, then rang four times before she answered.
“Hi, John.”
John smiled at the sound of her voice, and his eyes teared up.
“Habibi. How did you know it was me?”
“Who else will call me from a foreign number? You made it?”
“Yes. How was your flight?”
“Good. Comfortable. Yours?”
“It was okay. This is my number for a few days. You can call me anytime.”
“Okay.” There was silence for a moment. “I miss you.”
John rubbed his face with his spare hand. “I miss you too, but it won’t be long.”
John heard a sniff, then she replied, “I hope so.”
“When is your interview?” he asked although he already knew the answer.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“And you’re staying with your parents?”
“Yes, I’m heading there now.”
John nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see him. “That’s good. They’ll be pleased to see you.”
“Yes.”
There was silence again, the distance and the emotion making the conversation stilted and awkward.
�
��John?”
“Yes, my baby?”
“Be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”
John’s chest ached, and he gulped. Composing himself, he replied, “Neither...” He swallowed to clear his throat, “Neither do I. Don’t worry. I’ll be with you in Lisbon before you know it.”
“I hope so.”
“I’ll let you go now. It’s very late here, and I want to start early. I love you.”
“I love you too, John.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
John ended the call, then wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Turning off the phone, he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He had a big task ahead of him, and it wouldn’t be as easy as he made out to Adriana. He didn’t know what he would do, but above all else, he had to make it back alive. Closing his eyes, he held a picture of Adriana smiling in his mind’s eye, and within a minute, he was fast asleep.
12
Despite John’s best intentions, it was after eight before he woke. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around, trying to remember where he was before realization struck him. Sliding off the bed, he looked down at the clothes he had slept in. He would need to do some shopping today. Walking through to the small, attached bathroom, he filled a bucket with hot water before stripping off. Squatting down beside it, he used a small plastic jug to pour hot water all over him and scrubbed away the smell and grime from the previous day’s travel. Feeling refreshed, he changed into a fresh shirt and underwear, slipped back into his cargo pants, then stepped out into the hallway, making his way downstairs. The smell of spices mingling with incense filled his nostrils. Reaching the ground floor, he followed his nose into the dining room where Tamang was reading the newspaper.
Tamang looked up as John entered and greeted him with a big smile.
“Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you.” John returned his smile.
Tamang waved to the chair opposite him. “Please.” He turned toward the open kitchen door. “Mira?”
A tiny lady, large gold hoop earrings framing a round happy face, her hair tied in a long black plait, appeared in the doorway.
“John, this is my wife, Mira.”
John joined his hands together in front of his chest. “Namaste.”
Mira smiled shyly and nodded, then retreated to the safety of her kitchen.
Pulling out a chair, he sat down as Tamang folded his newspaper and placed it to the side.
“You must be hungry.”
John grinned. “I am. Something smells delicious.”
Mira walked out and placed a bowl of potato soup and a plate of spiced chickpeas in the center of the table, and John’s mouth watered. She returned with a plate of puris, the deep-fried unleavened bread eaten by both Nepalis and Indians.
“Please start, John.” Tamang took a puri and started spooning the potato soup into a small bowl. “I’m also hungry, and Mira makes the best puris in Kathmandu.”
Mira smiled, gave Tamang a playful slap on the shoulder, and said something in Nepali that made him chuckle.
John helped himself, his stomach growling at the sight and smell of the food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. Breakfast was followed by a cup of hot, sweet, and milky chai. Finally full, John wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and pushed his chair back as Mira cleared the table.
He was keen to get started but wasn’t sure how much he could ask of Tamang and had been wrestling through the whole meal about how to broach the subject. He needn’t have worried.
Tamang wiped his fingers clean on a paper napkin and cleared his throat.
“Thapa told me you needed help? That you need to get into India undetected?”
“Yes.” John breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you have any ideas?”
“I do.” Tamang sat forward in his chair. “I’ve been giving it some thought since Thapa called me. One second.” He stood up and left the room, returning a moment later with a folded map. Spreading it out on the now empty table, he pointed at a spot on the map.
“This is Kathmandu.” He slid his finger down the map. “And here, Birgunj, where you would normally cross by road into India.”
John nodded, moving around the table, so he could see clearly.
“The problem is everyone crossing here is checked. If you are Indian, it’s no problem, but as a foreigner, you will have to go through the passport control.”
“I prefer not to do that.”
“Yes, I thought so.” Tamang nodded and studied John’s face for a moment. He pursed his lips and studied the map before continuing. “There are some other places where you could slip across the border, but as a foreigner, someone will notice you, and there is a risk they could report you. A small risk but a risk, nonetheless.”
John frowned and chewed on his lip. He wasn’t sure how far Surya Patil’s tentacles reached, wasn’t even sure he had access to Immigration officials, but he wasn’t prepared to risk it. If he could get into India without being recorded, it made things easier, reducing his risk of detection.
“So, what do you suggest?”
Tamang slid his finger to the right. “Here.”
John leaned forward and peered at the map.
“Sandakphu. Have you heard of it?”
John shook his head, still peering at the map.
“It’s a very popular trekking route that crosses the border from Nepal to India. Many, many foreigners do this trek. If you cross here, you won’t be noticed.”
“But there must still be a border checkpoint?”
“There is.” Tamang posted at a small town. “This point here at Pashupatinagar is the main crossing point from Nepal, but that too is monitored.” Tamang slid his finger to the north. “But see here.”
John leaned closer and looked at what appeared to be an empty area with a small road running through it.
“This is all jungle. You can cross here, near the village of Jaubari, avoid the checkpoint, and join the trekking path. You will already be in India. That’s the Singalila National Park in India. Once you reach the end of the forest road, you’ll be safe. The forestry officials will assume you are one of many tourists trekking in India.”
“What do you think?”
“I like it,” John replied, nodding slowly. “How do I get there from here?”
“You can go by road, but it will take over fourteen or fifteen hours. Or...” he pointed at another town. “You can fly here. Bhadrapur. It’s only a fifty-minute flight. You can go there by road and cross the final part on foot.”
“When are the flights? Every day?”
Tamang grinned. “Five times a day, John. Five times a day.”
“Good.” John straightened up. “That’s how I’ll do it. But first, I need to do some shopping.”
13
“What do you mean you don’t have the budget?” Surya Patil growled into the phone. “Every minor Bollywood star is driving around with commandos and armed police.”
He heard a sigh on the other end of the phone.
“Suryaji, I’m sorry, my hands are tied.”
“Your hands are tied! What rubbish. I’m a State Minister!” Surya shouted, his blood pressure rising. “I don’t think I need to remind you where you came from. I helped you when you were nothing. Just because you’re now home minister, doesn’t mean you should forget the people who helped you on your way up.”
“Suryaji, please calm down. I haven’t forgotten you, but the instruction is coming from Delhi.” The home minister paused and lowered his voice. “Look, I can’t give you Z. No one is getting Z right now. The PM has an eye on the ratings, and there’s been too much publicity about the so-called VIP culture. There’s nothing I can do. But...”
“But what?” Surya gripped his phone with white knuckles.
“I can get you Y for now, then let’s see in a couple of months when the media fuss dies down, we’ll try to up it to Z.”
Surya closed his eyes and tried to
remember what Y Class Security was. If he remembered correctly, it was eleven personnel, including two black cat commandos.
“Suryaji, is that okay?”
Surya sighed and scratched his head, the grip on his phone relaxing. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“It’s not that bad, and I give you my word. When the climate is right, I’ll approve an increase in security for you.”
Surya wasn’t listening. He was calculating. He could supplement the eleven armed guards with some of his own men. He nodded to himself. It would do. He was confident there was no way John Hayes could get through a cordon of armed guards. It was more a blow to his ego that the PM’s flunkies in Delhi didn’t think him important enough to award him the top level of security. Bloody cricketers and starlets were driving around in convoys, accompanied by commandos armed to the teeth, and he, Surya Patil, the Lion of Karnataka, wasn’t important enough. He ground his teeth.
“Suryaji?”
Surya grunted, ended the call, throwing the phone down on his desk, and rubbed his throbbing temples. He had woken up in a good mood, Maadhavi’s scent still lingering on his body, his loins still tingling from the previous night’s activities, but the call had put paid to all that.
“Venkatesh,” he bellowed.
He drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited.
“Sir?”
“Coffee!” he demanded without looking around. He reached for the phone and scrolled through the address book. He needed to mobilize more men.
14
John stepped back quickly as a motorbike, heading the wrong way down the one-way street, narrowly missed running over his toes. He waited as Tamang locked the van and slipped the keys into his pocket, looking at John with a big grin.
“So, John, do you want real gear or fake?”
John looked down the street at the myriad stores and signs advertising trekking equipment, tattoos, massages, and cheap boarding houses. He shrugged and looked back at Tamang.
Reprisal Page 3
