Reprisal

by Mark David Abbott

  Rajiv walked back into the room, again running an experienced eye around the room, looking for clues. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed and the writing desk. The room was clean. Getting to his feet, he adjusted his uniform shirt and walked over to the window. He looked down at his Bolero parked outside the entrance, approximately where he had parked earlier that day. Well, that’s how he was spotted. The man must have seen him and was frightened off. But who is he? Could it be John? One thing was for sure. It was time to give Sunil a hard time and find out more.

  51

  John pulled onto the side of the road and switched the engine off, parking on a small country lane on the northern outskirts of Bangalore.

  After seeing Detective Inspector Rajiv Sampath outside the hotel, he had flown into a panic. Whatever connection he had with Rajiv from before, he was still a policeman, and John had no idea which side of the law he would fall on. It was a risk John could not afford to take.

  What John couldn’t understand was how the hell Rajiv had known where he was. It made little sense. John hadn’t used his name anywhere and had gone through all the trouble of sneaking across the border twenty-five hundred kilometers away. Yet within a couple of days of arriving in Bangalore, Rajiv was outside John’s hotel. John screwed up his face and pounded the steering wheel. He needed to think, to regroup, assess the way forward. Opening the door, he stepped out into the lane—he thought best when he was moving. Usually, a run gave him the best ideas, but he couldn’t do that now. John moved around to the front of the car and gazed out across the fields. A lone cow stared back at him, its jaw moving in rhythmic motion while a white egret perched on its hindquarters. John heard a shout and turned as two boys, riding pillion on a motorbike whizzed past, a hand raised in greeting.

  Within five minutes of spotting Rajiv, John had stripped his room bare of any sign he had been there. Bundling all his possessions into his backpack, he had taken the stairs four flights down to the basement and slipped out the service exit, avoiding the need to pass the reception. Sunil hadn’t even noticed him leaving until the car pulled out of the hotel forecourt, and by then, it was too late.

  John turned, locked the car with a blip of the key fob, and walked into the field, the cow watching him pass. The ground was packed hard, the grass burned to nothing by the sun. John walked aimlessly, following a well-worn path along the edge of the field as it wound between patches of scrub and the occasional tree. A startled rabbit burst into action and streaked away from him while high overhead in the cloudless expanse of sky, a bird of prey screeched a call to its mate. It was an idyllic setting, completely at odds with the turmoil in John’s head.

  He couldn’t fathom how Rajiv had found him. He had disguised himself, growing a beard and lightening his hair, had even changed his eye color with contact lenses. How would Rajiv have recognized him? Had the hotel staff informed him? But they didn’t know who he was. Was it all an unfortunate coincidence? More importantly, what should he do now? There was no way he would give up, not after all this effort. Things wouldn’t be easy, but then, nothing worthwhile doing ever was.

  The more John walked, the more he calmed, and the clearer he began to think. He could worry about Rajiv all he wanted, but it wasn’t going to help John achieve his goal. So, first things first. He needed to find somewhere else to stay. Perhaps Vijaya Palace? That would be the easiest solution, he could easily afford it, and would help him get close to Patil, but John thought it unlikely he could check into a reputable hotel like that without providing any identification.

  Could he get a fake ID? John stepped over a low stone wall, then skirted a thicket of thorn bushes. Where would he do that? He could try another budget hotel and bribe the staff to get a room, but until he figured out how Rajiv had found him, that too was risky. Perhaps, all hotels were on the lookout for him? Maybe the hotel had CCTV, and Rajiv now had a photo of him, the way he currently looked? John kicked a stone from the path in frustration. He stopped in the shade of a tree and leaned against the trunk. Unable to think of a solution, he moved on to the next problem. The car was compromised. He had seen Rajiv take a photo of the registration. He would find out in no time the number plates were fake. John blew out a puff of air between pursed lips and shook his head. He was screwed. He needed transport. Mobility was important, and he didn’t want to be dependent upon someone else. That was the whole reason he got the car in the first place. The hassle of getting another vehicle was something he really didn’t need right now, but... That’s it! A white Hyundai hatchback was a common sight on the roads of Bangalore. He would find another one and swap the plates. It would pass any cursory inspection. John allowed himself to smile for the first time since he left the hotel. That’s what he would do. And while he solved that problem, his subconscious would no doubt come up with a solution about where he could stay.

  An ant crawled over his hand, and he let go of the tree trunk and shook it off. He looked around, realizing for the first time how far he had walked from the road. Turning, he retraced his steps, following the path back to his parked car. As he stepped back onto the road, a tractor rumbled past, towing a trailer, filled with village women, dressed in brightly colored saris, their heads wrapped in cloth to protect them from the sun. A small girl in a school uniform sat on the back of the trailer, her dress torn and dirty, but her hair was tied in two immaculate plaits with red ribbons at the ends. Her bare feet swung back-and-forth over the back of the trailer as she stared at John with huge brown eyes. John gave her a wave and climbed into his car. As he reached forward to start the engine, he realized where he could stay.

  52

  It was John, it had to be. Why else would a westerner be hiding out in a hotel in Bangalore at the same time there was a threat to Surya Patil’s safety?

  Rajiv glanced in his rearview mirror and changed lanes as he drove slowly back to the station, deep in thought. It couldn’t be a coincidence, surely. Granted, the hotel staff’s description didn’t match what John looked like, but it didn’t take much to change one’s appearance. Any man can grow a beard, and he could have dyed his hair.

  If only the bloody hotel CCTV had been working. Rajiv shook his head in exasperation. What was the point in having a security system if you didn’t maintain it? He had given the hotel receptionist a hard time, but it wasn’t his fault. He was paid a meager salary, and decisions regarding the hotel had nothing to do with him. Hell, he couldn’t even blame him for taking under-the-table money to check in a guest without registration. Everyone knew Bangalore had become an expensive city. It was enough of a struggle for Rajiv to make ends meet. He’d had enough arguments with Aarthi about earning more money, but there was no way he would compromise the law he was employed to uphold, just to make some extra money. Rajiv sighed as his eyes flicked to the mirror again. It wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had happened. Truth be told, half of the police cameras didn’t work, but it made his job so much more difficult. Yet these businesses were the first to complain about the police not doing their jobs. Fix the bloody cameras, and we’ll catch the criminals much faster.

  Rajiv pulled into the station carpark, switched off the engine, and stared unseeingly out the windshield. The big question was, what did he do now? He liked John, but he also had a duty to perform, and that duty was to protect the citizens of Bangalore, even if that included men like Surya Patil. Rajiv sighed, opened the door as his driver approached, and tossed the keys to him.

  “Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Rajiv strode across the parking lot, and just before entering the police station, he stopped and turned.

  “Manjunath.”

  “Yes, Sir.” His driver jogged toward him.

  “Get me Surya Patil’s security team on the radio.”

  53

  John drove slowly along the row of modest and ramshackle homes, some simply comprising a concrete box with a tin or asbestos roof, many with additional blue plastic tar
paulins draped over them as extra protection against the monsoons. Pulling over next to a narrow lane, he peered through the windshield. He thought he had the correct place, but it seemed to have changed a lot since he was last here almost four years ago. Deciding, he indicated and pulled onto the dirt track, lined with gutters filled with stagnant black water. Some things hadn’t changed. He crawled along, the car rocking and twisting on the rough track. There it was. He recognized the house, small and modest but notable as one of the cleaner ones in the slum, the bare ground outside swept clean, and a colorful design drawn with colored sand on the scrubbed front step. John stopped the car and looked for a space to park. The last time he had been there, he had found a vacant site opposite, but now, all the empty spaces were filled with huts. He put the car in reverse and backed out onto the road, leaving the car on the side. He picked up the box of sweets he had bought, locked the car, and walked back down the track. A woman sitting on the front step of her home eyed him curiously as she checked her child’s hair for lice. John nodded, and she smiled, bobbing her head from side to side in the way only Indians can. John stopped outside the house and tapped on the front door with the back of his hand.

  A girl’s voice cried out from inside, and John waited as he heard a bolt being pulled back. The door cracked open a little, and he looked down to see a young girl looking back at him. He smiled to put her at ease.

  “Geetanjali?”

  The girl looked surprised and pushed the door closed. From inside, John could hear her calling out,

  “Amma.”

  After a moment, the door opened again, and a tired-looking lady in an ankle-length, cotton nightdress looked out. She peered at John, a frown creasing her forehead as she wiped her hands on the front of her dress.

  “Pournima?”

  Pournima raised her eyebrows, then frowned even deeper.

  “It’s me, John. John Hayes.”

  Pournima’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped.

  “Mr. John!” She gathered her wits and opened the door wider. “Come, come.” She beckoned him inside.

  John slipped off his boots at the doorstep and stepped in, watched by Geetanjali from the safety of the kitchen doorway.

  The house was just as he remembered—small, clean, sparsely furnished, and smelling of flowers and incense. The only change was the large framed photo hanging on the wall, a garland of flowers hanging from the top corners. It was a photo of Sanjay, his former driver—the man killed by Surya Patil’s son. John stood in front of it, and his eyes filled with tears. He reached for Pournima’s hands and squeezed them. Although unused to holding another man’s hands, she didn’t flinch. Her eyes filled with tears, but she smiled bravely. She slipped her hands free and waved John toward a chair.

  “Mr. John, please sit.”

  John sat down as Pournima disappeared into the kitchen. He wiped his eyes and smiled at Geetanjali, still peering at him from around the kitchen doorframe.

  “Hello, Geetanjali. My name is John. I knew your father.” Geetanjali said nothing. John held out the box of sweets. “Here, this is for you and Saumya.”

  He flipped up the lid, so she could see inside. Her eyes widening, she shyly stepped forward. Halfway, she hesitated.

  “It’s okay, you can take them.”

  She slowly came closer, then took the box and quickly retreated to the doorway.

  Pournima came out with a plastic tray, holding a glass of water and a plate of biscuits. She placed them on the table beside John and stood back, tilting her head to one side.

  “Is it really you? You look different... your hair.” She raised one hand to her chin. “A beard.”

  John grinned. “Yes, it’s a long story. Are you well?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And the girls?”

  Pournima smiled and turned to look fondly at Geetanjali.

  “I’ve never been able to thank you, Mr. John. The money you send, it...” She turned back to John, then looked down at the floor. “It makes things so much easier.” She looked up, her eyes glistening again, “After Sanjay died... I couldn’t manage. The school fees, the uniforms...”

  “It’s okay, Pournima. It’s the very least I could do after everything Sanjay did for me.” John looked at Sanjay’s photo. “He was a good man.” John looked back at Pournima. “And you don’t have to worry. I’ll pay for the girls’ education until they graduate.”

  Pournima started crying silently, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Amma?” A worried Geetanjali ran over and hugged her leg. Pournima smiled, wiping the tears from her cheeks with one hand as she stroked her daughter’s hair with the other.

  “Thank you, Mr. John, you are a good man,” she replied, looking up at him.

  John shrugged and half smiled. He didn’t think so, not after the things he had done, but maybe paying for the education of Sanjay and Pournima’s two daughters went some way to redressing the balance. Reaching for a biscuit, he popped it into his mouth to avoid answering.

  Pournima went back into the kitchen and a minute later, came out with two glasses of steaming chai, passing one to John, and sat down in the chair opposite. They sat in silence for a while, sipping the hot sweet liquid, lost in their own memories.

  “Where is Saumya?” he asked about Pournima’s oldest daughter.

  Pournima smiled. “She is at tuitions. She is very good at math.” Pournima glanced at the small plastic alarm clock sitting on top of the television set. “She will be back soon.”

  “That’s good.” John nodded and took another sip of the chai. “How old is she now? Nine, ten?”

  “She is nine and very bossy. She thinks she is my mother.”

  John chuckled and winked at Geetanjali, who had come forward and was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him. The family had suffered so much. He was happy to see the girls were growing up in a clean environment and getting an education, something difficult in a single-parent household. John was still racked with guilt at what had happened to their father. There was hardly a day that passed, even so many years later, he didn’t blame himself for Sanjay’s death. Which made it harder for him to ask what he had to ask.

  He took another sip of his chai, then set it down on the table. Clearing his throat, he turned to look directly at Pournima.

  “Pournima, I’m sorry, but I need your help.”

  54

  The police Bolero pulled up outside Surya Patil’s gates, and Rajiv stepped out. He straightened his uniform and donned his cap as the two armed police on either side of the gate stood to attention.

  Rajiv nodded and smiled. “As you were.”

  The two men relaxed.

  “Captain Sharma?”

  One of the policemen jerked his head toward the gate. “He’s inside, Sir.”

  “Thank you.” Rajiv pushed open the gate and stepped inside. Four more policemen sat on plastic chairs, drinking tea in the shade of a tree while in another corner, Surya’s driver and two large but overweight men, presumably Surya’s own security, smoked and played cards.

  The police looked up and jumped to their feet, seeing Rajiv walk in. He raised a hand, indicating they could sit. The private bodyguards ignored him, one clearing his throat noisily and spitting on the ground.

  Rajiv walked to the house and stepped inside, glancing through the open door to the left of the entrance hall. The furniture had been cleared to the side, and more policemen dozed on mattresses spread on the floor, but no sign of the commando captain.

  A door at the back of the entrance hall opened, and a man stepped out, hesitating when he saw Rajiv. Rajiv recognized him as Surya Patil’s servant from a previous visit.

  “Captain Sharma?”

  “Inside, Sir.” The servant pointed to the room on Rajiv’s right.

  “Thank you.”

  Rajiv tapped on the closed door.

  “Come in.”

  Pushing open the door, he saw Captain Sharma sitting at a table, his sleeves rolle
d up, a stripped-down weapon on the table in front of him. He smiled when Rajiv walked in.

  “Inspector Sampath.”

  “Please, Rajiv.”

  “Take a seat, Rajiv.” He held up a pair of oily hands. “Sorry, I can’t shake your hand.”

  “Don’t worry.” Rajiv sat down in a chair as Ankit called out. “Constable.”

  The door opened, and one of the policemen popped his head inside.

  “Ah, see if you can get the staff to rustle up some chai for us, please.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Rajiv watched as Ankit quickly and expertly reassembled the MP-5.

  “I can see you’ve done that before,” Rajiv quipped.

  “I can do it with my eyes closed.” Ankit winked. He slotted the last piece into place with a click, then wiped his hands on a rag.

  “What brings you here, Rajiv? Any developments? Can we all go home?”

  Before Rajiv could answer, the door opened, and the constable stepped in, holding the door wide as the servant entered with a tray and set it down on the table in front of Ankit.

  “Thank you, that was quick.”

  “Venkatesh has a pot brewing all the time, Sir.” the Constable responded from his position by the door.

  “Good.” Ankit smiled at the servant. “Thank you, Venkatesh.”

  He waited for the men to leave, then held out a glass for Rajiv. “There’s sugar here, but it’s probably sweet enough already.”

  Rajiv gave a wry grin. “My wife is always telling me to reduce my sugar.”

  “Ha, mine too.” Ankit chuckled. “What would we do without them?”

  Rajiv blew on the top of the tea, cooling it as he thought about what he would say. Still conflicted, he had to be careful.