Reprisal

by Mark David Abbott

  39

  Five minutes later, the hysterical laughter had subsided, and a wave of exhaustion overcame him. He needed to find somewhere to sleep, to recharge his batteries, to plan his next move. John motherfuckin’ Hayes—who was he kidding?

  He could do it, though. He had to. If only for Adriana’s future, their future together. That was enough motivation. He had to be careful... and lucky. He had been lucky before. He sighed. Unlucky too... He pushed that thought back down. No, he could do it. He needed a plan, but first, rest and a decent shower.

  Heading north, back toward the outer ring road, just before the Hebbal flyover, he pulled into the service road, took the underpass, and turned into R. T. Nagar. Following the road through the houses, he took a right at the Sai Baba temple, driving on for about another kilometer until he found the hotel he was looking for. It was still in business—a clean, privately owned, three-star hotel. He would get a clean room and decent food there, providing they let him stay without I.D. Indian law required all hotels to request identification from their guests, and so far, John had avoided it, but the places where he had stayed on the way down from Siliguri were more interested in money than complying with the law. Bangalore would be tougher, especially a better-quality hotel like this one, but John couldn’t face another mosquito-ridden night in a filthy, low-grade hostel. He needed to rest if he was to function properly. He pulled into the forecourt and turned off the engine. Reaching over to the backpack lying on the rear seat, he removed a large wad of rupees and folded them over before stuffing them in the side pocket of his cargos. He stepped out and took a deep breath, summoning up a smile, then climbed the steps into the reception.

  “Good afternoon, Sir.”

  “Hello.” John returned the greeting and assessed the receptionist—a middle-aged man in a crumpled white shirt, his plain black tie not quite covering his top button. Good. John didn’t want a young person trying to prove himself and make a career. A middle-aged man would be easier, hopefully jaded, resigned to a lack of advancement, with a family and commitments.

  “How can I help you, Sir?”

  “I would like a room, please. For about a week.”

  The man smiled. “Of course, Sir.” He tapped on the keyboard. “We have a room available for you. Single or double bed, Sir?”

  “Double, please.” John had slept on enough single cots with rock hard mattresses the last few days.

  The receptionist tapped a few more keys, then opened a drawer, and pulled out a key card. He placed it on a machine, stabbed at the keyboard again with his index finger, then placed the keycard on the counter.

  “That will be three thousand rupees per night, including breakfast, Sir. Taxes will be extra.”

  “That’s fine.” John pulled out his roll of rupees and counted off enough for a week and placed it on the counter. “I’ll pay in advance.”

  The man raised an eyebrow but reached over for the money, counting it out before placing it in the drawer below the counter.

  “Of course, Sir. I will send a receipt up to your room.” He placed a form and a pen on the counter in front of John. “I just need you to complete the registration and provide a copy of your passport.”

  John cursed inwardly and increased his smile, glancing at the man’s name tag.

  “Sunil,”—that was ironic—“I need your help.” John looked around the reception, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. Sunil too leaned forward.

  “You see, it’s like this. I need to stay here… anonymously.”

  Sunil frowned and leaned back.

  “I have been a bit naughty.”

  Sunil cocked his head and leaned forward again, curiosity getting the better of him.

  “I have been seeing a lady and...” John looked around the reception again. He turned back to Sunil, who was leaning closer. “Well... she’s married, and her husband found out.”

  Sunil broke into a grin.

  John reached into his pocket, peeled off another couple of thousand from the roll of rupees, placing it on the counter, and winked at Sunil.

  “It’s not safe for me to go home, and I don’t want him to know where I’m staying. Do you think you can help me?”

  Sunil paused for a second, glanced up at the security camera in the corner, then slipped the registration form over the rupees. Beaming, he slid the key card toward John.

  “Room 313, Sir. Please enjoy your stay.”

  John took the key, winked again, then turned away before Sunil could change his mind. Ignoring the lift, he took the stairs three floors up and found his room.

  Opening the door, he walked in and bolted the door behind him. He kicked off his boots, collapsed on the bed, closing his eyes. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he remembered he had left his backpack in the car, but the pull of sleep was too much, and he passed out.

  40

  Rajiv stood to attention in front of S.P.I. Muniappa’s desk, listening to his telephone conversation. Judging by his boss’ responses, he was being given a hard time, and Rajiv didn’t have to try hard to guess who was on the other line.

  Muniappa placed the phone back on the desk and forgetting that Rajiv was there, let out a long breath, and rubbed his face with his hands.

  Rajiv waited while Muniappa sat with his eyes closed, his forehead resting on his clasped hands.

  “Sir?”

  Munaippa looked up with a start as if remembering where he was, then scowled at Rajiv.

  “That was Patilji.”

  “Sir.”

  “He’s not happy.”

  “Sir?”

  “What’s happening, Rajiv? You must have some leads on this...” He waved his hand as if trying to summon the name out of thin air. Rajiv didn’t help him. “Uh… Hayes.”

  “Nothing, Sir.”

  Muniappa thumped the desk.

  “What do you mean, nothing? I don’t have to remind you, Rajiv, what this will mean for your career if something happens to Patilji because of your negligence.”

  “No, Sir.” Rajiv ground his teeth and fought to control his irritation. “Sir, there’s been no record of Mr. Hayes entering the country via Bangalore Airport. In fact, we have enquired countrywide, and there is no record of him entering the country.”

  Muniappa just glared at Rajiv.

  “Sir, have you considered this might all be a false alarm? Has Mr. Patil explained why this man is a threat to his life? He left India three, maybe four years ago. Why would he come back now?”

  Muniappa raised his hand and pointed his finger at Rajiv.

  “Now listen to me, Inspector Sampath. If Patilji says there is a threat to his life, we must take it seriously. He is a good friend to the force, and I want to keep it that way. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Rajiv kept all emotion from his tone, his face expressionless, hiding the contempt he felt for the man in front of him.

  “Now, get out of my office and bring me some results.”

  “Sir.”

  Rajiv turned and walked out of the office, making no attempt to close the door behind him. He marched back to his office, pulled the door shut, and threw his uniform cap on the desk. Closing his eyes, he counted to ten, then breathed out slowly. It didn’t help. He opened the door and looked out.

  “Manjunath,” he barked.

  The constable looked up with a start. “Sir.”

  Rajiv lowered his voice and forced a smile.

  “Bring me some chai, please.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Thank you.” Rajiv turned and walked back to his desk. Sitting down, he swiveled his chair and gazed out the window, his arms crossed in front of his chest. A gentle breeze rippled through the leaves of the Peepal tree outside the window, and as Rajiv observed the movement of the leaves, his anger slowly subsided. This wasn’t the first time his idiot boss had threatened him, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

  Rajiv sighed, and his thoughts switched to John. What he had told Muniappa was the truth.
There was no record John Hayes had crossed any border into India, but Rajiv didn’t believe for a minute John couldn’t enter the country without being picked up. He couldn’t enter by air, India’s airport security and immigration monitoring was world class, but if he entered by land, it was highly possible he wouldn’t be spotted. Over fifteen thousand kilometers of land border was hard to monitor, and people came in and out all the time without being caught, but he wouldn’t mention that to his boss.

  It had been three or four days since he had received the call from John from an overseas number. Perhaps it was as he had suggested, all a false alarm, and John was still in Dubai. John was a resourceful guy, but would he really risk everything and come back to India? Put himself in danger unnecessarily? And if he did, what should Rajiv do? Rajiv had never proven what John had done, but Rajiv’s duty was to uphold the law, and whatever the justification, if Rajiv caught John breaking the law this time, he would have to do his duty and put him behind bars. But... he would have to break the law first. He would not arrest him without reason. Rajiv sighed. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

  There was a tap on the door, and Rajiv turned around as his constable entered with his chai.

  “Thank you, Manjunath.”

  “You’re welcome, Sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.” Rajiv took the cup and took a sip. “Oh, and Manjunath.”

  “Sir?”

  “Less sugar next time.”

  41

  Maadhavi toyed with the olive in her martini, twirling it around in her glass. The filming for a commercial she was booked for had been canceled, and the agency had been unable to give her a reason. Cancelation of filming wasn’t unusual, it had happened before, but there was always a reason and a new date given. This time nothing. She frowned.

  “Is everything okay, Ma’am?”

  Maadhavi looked up and gave Ramesh, the bartender, a sad smile. “Yes, thank you, Ramesh. Just...” She sighed. “I just had a bad day.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am. I’m sure tomorrow will be better.”

  “I doubt that,” Maadhavi muttered under her breath.

  “Sorry, Ma’am?”

  Maadhavi looked up again and smiled. “Thank you, Ramesh. I’m sure it will be.”

  She noticed Ramesh look nervously over her shoulder, and she glanced in the mirror behind the bar to see the figure of the hotel general manager approaching. The bartender moved away and busied himself, wiping the top of the already sparkling bartop. Maadhavi stared gloomily back into her drink until she felt a presence beside her. Turning, she summoned up another smile and greeted the G.M.

  “Good evening, Anil. How are you?”

  The G.M. gave a half smile, his eyes flicking to the barman and back. Lowering his voice, he leaned in. She resisted leaning back at the stale smell on his breath but raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Maadhavi, Ma’am, might I have a word?”

  “Of course. Is something the matter?”

  The G.M. cleared his throat, glanced nervously around the bar, then continued in a low voice.

  “Ma’am, I didn’t want to have to come and tell you, but last month’s bill hasn’t been paid.”

  Maadhavi stiffened, her brow creased. “I’m sure it’s just a banking error, Anil.”

  The G.M. wrung his hands together.

  “Well, Ma’am, that’s what I said. I’m sure it’s just a clerical error somewhere, but you see...” he hesitated. “The accounts department has checked with the bank, and also with um... Sir’s bank, and there is no error. The payment just hasn’t been made. Of course, Maadhavi Ma’am, if it was just me, I wouldn’t worry. You know I’m a big fan, and I am sure there is a very good reason, but the head office is putting a lot of pressure on me.”

  Maadhavi bit her lip and reached for her martini, took a large mouthful, and gulped it down before placing the glass gently on the bar. Turning on a big smile, she placed a hand on the G.M.’s arm, turning his face bright red.

  “Anil, don’t you worry. I will sort it out and make sure everything is paid.”

  The blushing G.M. smiled, “Of course, Ma’am,” he gushed. “Thank you. If there is ever anything I can do, please don’t hesitate.”

  Maadhavi smiled wider, looking directly into his eyes and keeping her hand on his arm longer than necessary.

  “Anil, you have always looked after me. I will never forget it.” She let go of his arm, and he stepped away, still blushing. He turned to the bartender.

  “Ramesh, please make sure Ma’am is well cared for.” He turned back to Maadhavi. “Another martini, Ma’am? On my account.”

  “Why, thank you, Anil, that’s very kind of you.”

  The G. M. backed away slowly, bumped into the table behind him, then headed for the door as Maadhavi turned back to the bar. Picking up her glass, she knocked back the contents, then dumping the glass back on the bar, she clenched her fists. The bastard—it was all him, it had to be. First, the commercial being canceled, and now, the bill not being paid. Head office? Surya Patil was the head office. He owned the hotel! It was him, showing her his power—the impotent old fucker.

  The barman set a fresh martini in front of her, and she picked it up immediately.

  “Bring me another one Ramesh,” she instructed just before she half emptied the glass in one mouthful, the liquid warming her throat as she drank. She felt a little calmer as the alcohol did its work. Placing the glass down, she drummed her long, manicured fingers on the bartop. The sooner she got away from him, the better, but she needed to keep him onside for just a little longer. Her parents’ house was paid off, but she needed money for herself. She had been building her escape fund for a while and was so close to having the amount she needed—not long now. A few more jobs and she would have enough for an apartment overseas somewhere—maybe Dubai or even somewhere in Europe—and enough cash to tide her over for a while. But it wouldn’t happen if Surya Patil canceled all her work. She took another sip of her drink and nodded a thank you to Ramesh as he set another martini in front of her.

  It had been a mistake to fight with him the night before. She should have held her tongue, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend. Finishing her drink, she slid the empty glass away and reached for the next one. Just a little while longer, and she would be free.

  42

  John woke with a start. It was dark. Disoriented, he reached back into his brain, struggling to remember where he was. Sitting up, he looked around in the dim light filtering from the streetlights through the window. He looked down at his clothes. He was fully dressed, lying on top of the bed. Frowning, he gazed around the room until the synapses in his brain made the right connections, and he worked out where he was—Bangalore. Turning his wrist, he looked at the luminous face of his G-Shock—eight thirty p.m. He’d been out for almost nine hours. His stomach growled but with hunger this time. That was a good sign. Feeling better than he had in a week, he swung his legs off the bed and walked to the phone. Time to order room service and get himself freshened up.

  An hour later, John turned off his headlights and slowly pulled over into an empty parking space at the end of Surya Patil’s street. He wound down the window a quarter of the way and switched off the engine. Leaning back in his seat, he scanned the street ahead of him. There was little sign of human activity, most people inside having dinner. Even the ever-present street dogs were curled up in corners or under trees, dozing in the cooler evening air. The only movement came from outside Patil’s gate. John could see the two police guards stationed there, one sitting on a plastic chair while the other paced back-and-forth, the glow of a cigarette in his hand. Along the curb, the three white SUVs reflected the yellowish light from the streetlamps. All was quiet. John settled back for a long wait, reflecting on how many times he had sat in the same spot, staking out the same house.

  Last time, watching and waiting for Surya’s son, Sunil, he had been a different person, driven by grie
f and a sense of injustice. Since then, he had changed so much and done things he could never have imagined when Charlotte was alive.

  So, even though the stakes were higher, and he was up against a well-trained security team, he was confident he could find a solution. That morning, he’d had a scare, but now, after a decent sleep and a stomach full of food, he was confident he could achieve his goal.

  The high-pitched whine of a mosquito distracted him from his thoughts, and he slapped at his neck. Turning the ignition key one click, he powered up the windows. It wouldn’t help if he got malaria or dengue, but, he chuckled to himself, it was probably too late anyway, the number of times he had been chewed alive by mosquitos in those shitty hostels on the way down to Bangalore. John’s thoughts wandered to Adriana.

  Are there mosquitos in Portugal? I wonder what she’s doing right now? He needed to phone her, tell her he had reached Bangalore safely, find out how her interview went.

  Increased activity by Patil’s gate caught his attention, and he straightened up in his seat. Peering through the dim light, he watched the two guards open the gate and a group of uniformed men walk out. They climbed into the SUVs, and John watched the lights flick on as they started the engines. The lead SUV pulled out into the middle of the road and waited as a white S Class Mercedes exited the gate. The lead SUV headed up the road, the Mercedes following, the two remaining SUVs falling in behind. John waited until the convoy turned the corner, then started the engine and followed them.

  The red flashing lights strobed across the night sky, making the cars easy to follow even though it was dark, so John hung well back as traffic wasn’t heavy. The convoy headed out of Shivnagar and onto Bellary Road, turning north toward Mehkri Circle. John adjusted his position in his seat, making himself comfortable. He was relaxed, now that he had something to do and was confident he wouldn’t be spotted in the darkness. After Mekhri Circle, the convoy continued toward Sanjaynagar, then took a U-turn in the underpass, doubling back south before taking a left into R. T. Nagar. John frowned. He wondered where they were going. This was getting uncomfortably close to his hotel.