Depth Charge

by Jason Heaton

  “Power and militancy do not seem compatible with most people’s notion of Buddhism,” Rausing said.

  Dhammasara laughed. “You in the west have this image of Buddhists as lotus-eating, meditating pacifists, but there is a long tradition of our religion standing up for what is just and right, and of strong Buddhist warriors.”

  The monk rubbed his head thoughtfully. “It’s not only the Muslims who can have their holy wars.”

  “You feel that Islam is not right and just?” Rausing countered. “I have no love for the Muslims, but then again, I’m not terribly fond of any religion.”

  Venerable Dhammasara shifted in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. “Buddhism is not a religion as you think of Islam or Christianity. It is more a way of life, a perspective on the world and a connection of one’s spirit with nature. We just happen to follow the teachings of one particularly wise, or as we say, enlightened, man—the Buddha.”

  Rausing didn’t react. In truth, he didn’t care about the reasons Dhammasara had hired him and he regretted even being contrary.

  Dhammasara continued. “Sri Lanka was historically a Buddhist land until the Europeans came and brought slaves from India with their own religions. Anagarika himself was the first to really stand up to this intrusion.” He gestured to the scowling portrait. “The BBH is not against Muslims per se. But Islam has its holy lands in the Middle East. We Buddhists have ours here. The country is over seventy percent Buddhist as it is. It used to be higher.” An enigmatic smile. “I’d like to return to that.”

  Rausing studied the monk’s smooth face and dark eyes. “So, after you get rid of the Muslims, are the Christians next?”

  “As Lord Buddha said, ‘There is nothing mightier than patience’,” Dhammasara replied.

  “And no error greater than hatred,” Rausing shot back.

  The monk smiled. “You know your teachings, Mr. Rausing.”

  “Your motivation is of no concern to me. By the time you put your plan in place, I will be gone from this country.”

  “Well then, enough of the philosophical discussion,” Dhammasara said. “Are you confident you can retrieve the weapon?”

  “Certain.” Rausing said. “We located it earlier this week but had a slight setback.” He shifted uncomfortably, thinking of McElroy’s failure and the Taprobane’s interference. Both problems had been eliminated; there was no need for this monk to know the details. “We’ll be diving on the wreck later this week as soon as this weather system passes.”

  There was a flash and a loud crack of thunder. The monsoon rain was drumming on the roof above their heads.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the monk rubbed his head and smiled. “Ramadan is in two weeks. We would like to be ready by then, for maximum effect.”

  “We’ll make the exchange at our agreed-upon location. From there, you can do with it what you wish.”

  “As you like,” Dhammasara said, “I will remain here and send some friends to collect it. The sea air doesn’t agree with me.”

  Rausing hesitated, then asked, “What exactly are your plans with the weapon? It surely can’t be used in its current state.”

  “That is none of your concern, Mr. Rausing,” Dhammasara’s tone grew colder. “We have friends with more experience who can help us with our needs.” Then, he softened and said with a smile, “Just as you are helping us.”

  Dhammasara stood and gestured towards the door. The meeting was over. Rausing didn’t rise. “We agreed on half of the money up front.” He looked coldly up at the fat monk.

  “Of course. It’s already taken care of. I’ve had it loaded into your vehicle.” Dhammasara gave a thin smile and pulled the door open. Rausing stood and followed him out.

  “And the government will continue to not give us trouble?” Rausing stopped at the door. The rain had subsided and the air was heavy with moisture and the sound of insects, which had started their incessant nocturnal cacophony.

  “The president is aware of our plans and has been fully supportive.” The smile hung on Dhammasara’s face, but his eyes were empty. Rausing looked away and nodded.

  Venerable Dhammasara shuffled heavily through the quiet temple alongside Rausing, who was now eager to leave. “I trust the Chinese are paying you handsomely for your company’s work in the new harbor?”

  “Yes, they are a reliable and wealthy client,” Rausing said, annoyed at the monk’s prying question. He paused at the door to collect his shoes and fixed Dhammasara with his grey eyes. “Given the way the Chinese are buying up Sri Lanka, the Muslims won’t be your only problem for long. But then, as you say, it’s none of my concern.” The slightest of smiles creased a corner of his cruel mouth. Venerable Dhammasara didn’t react, but only pressed his palms together, then turned back into the temple.

  As Rausing descended the steps outside, the Land Cruiser rolled up to collect him. Rausing slipped into the passenger seat and looked at his driver, Scholz, who nodded back. “All OK, sir?”

  “Fine,” Rausing replied, distractedly looking out the tinted glass at the dark scenery as Scholz pulled away. “Get me back to my ship.”

  The monk was a fanatic, a fool, and he despised him. But in a week it wouldn’t matter. He would be far away from this forsaken island. The Land Cruiser passed Kandy Lake and headed onto the A9, back east to Batticaloa.

  The China Bay Club

  Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. That evening.

  The China Bay Club of Trincomalee can trace its origins back to 1882, when the British Navy bought the former home of a wealthy Dutch trader and turned it into a club for officers. The China Bay Club adhered to the protocols of the countless other clubs across Britain’s vast empire: white-coated, dark-skinned servants waited on black-jacketed, white-skinned men of privilege who sipped gin and planned the course of history. The club, which was named for the crescent of water out its breezy windows, remained much the same up until the 1920s, when it opened up to a wider clientele, including civilians, wives, and the occasional mistress. By World War II, it became the center of the social scene in eastern Ceylon, peopled by international journalists, spies, and RAF pilots on leave from the nearby air base. After the war, and Ceylon’s independence, locals were finally allowed entry and over the years the club has evolved into a thriving, diverse social scene, retaining its imperial charms but with more of an egalitarian buzz.

  A flock of giant fruit bats flapped silently overhead as Tusker and Ian walked across the lawn. It was a warm night, with a sea breeze that coated everything in a salty sheen. Tusker wore a black linen shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of khaki trousers. He’d left his red Mount Gay cap behind for once, a sure sign he was dressing up. It was only the second time he’d worn long pants in Sri Lanka, but though the club had relaxed its jacket and tie policy, shorts were still frowned upon. Ian wore a pair of lime green pants and a dark blue polo shirt.

  They were greeted warmly by a beautiful Southeast Asian woman at the reception, who asked if they had a reservation for dinner. “No, we’ll just sit in the bar if that’s OK, love,” Ian said with his gap toothed grin. “By the way, do I detect a Vietnamese accent?” The woman blushed and nodded, gesturing to the room to her left and the two men passed into the bar side of the club.

  The bar ran the length of the room, and sunburned European tourists, well-heeled locals, handsome businessmen in blazers and long-legged women in short cocktail dresses were all bellied up to it. It was warm inside and Tusker pushed through to the wide verandah out back. A very drunk man and his date were just getting up from a table and Tusker swooped in to claim it, sliding the collection of tonic water bottles and a heaped ashtray to one side.

  A Sri Lankan waiter appeared immediately. He wore a stiffly starched white shirt with a black bowtie. Some things at the China Bay Club hadn’t changed.

  “We’re waiting for a third, but I’ll take a gin and tonic please, with plenty of ice, and a wedge of lime.” The man nodded and looked at Ian, who ordered a lager a
nd a bowl of spicy cashews.

  The drinks arrived, glasses sweating in the humidity. The manicured lawn sloped away from the verandah into some coconut trees, the bay twinkling beyond. The ice in Tusker’s glass was melting quickly and he drank it fast and ordered another. He was tired from the day’s long drive and thinking about Upali. Ian tried to make conversation.

  “That Samanthi is a real cutie, eh?” He swigged from his bottle. Tusker didn’t say anything. “Then again, you know what they say about dating the innkeeper’s daughter.” He laughed. Still nothing from Tusker. He tried a different tack.

  “I wonder what Dinesh got out of the police. Did he call you?”

  “Only to arrange a time to meet tonight,” Tusker said, still looking out at the dark bay. He turned and banged his fist on the table so that the glass and tonic bottle clinked. Ian jumped. “It just can’t have been an accident! Upali was as careful as they come and boats don’t just catch on fire.”

  “Yeah, but gas, electronics… and that Ranjith smoked like a chimney.”

  Tusker shook his head. Just then, a small, bald man with round glasses approached their table. Tusker’s immediate impression was of Mahatma Gandhi, though instead of a robe, this man wore a striped button-down shirt and perfectly pressed grey trousers.

  “Dinesh Ranasinghe.” He smiled and extended a hand. Tusker stood up and pumped Dinesh’s hand, then gestured for him to sit. The white-coated waiter returned.

  “Just some cool water with lemon, please,” Dinesh said and the waiter disappeared. “Upali spoke very highly of you, Mr. Tusk,” he said, turning to Tusker. “Said you were schoolmates.”

  “Yes, we were,” Tusker replied. “Upali tends, er… tended to exaggerate though.” He managed a smile. He was impatient with small talk. “What have you learned about the sinking?”

  Dinesh shook his head and shifted in his chair. “The police seem to know very little and have no way of investigating what happened to the Taprobane. They don’t have divers with that level of expertise and their relations with the navy are not good.”

  He took off his glasses and carefully wiped the lenses with a handkerchief. “I’ve offered MOCHA’s assistance for crime scene photos. Our experience with sensitive archaeological sites would be of value, I’d have thought.”

  “But?” Ian chimed in.

  “But this police captain, Gooneratne, was not interested,” Dinesh said. “They’re relying solely on eyewitnesses, which is slim evidence indeed, seeing as the boat was anchored offshore and it was 7:00 in the morning.”

  “Well, I’d like to go speak with this policeman myself tomorrow. Maybe we can wear him down and at least be allowed to produce some photos and evidence and…” he hesitated, “recover any bodies.”

  Just then, a tall man strode up silently to their table and stood over Dinesh.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, in an accent that was hard to place. Scottish? Danish?

  “You are Dinesh Ranasinghe from the Ministry of Culture, Heritage and Archaeology, correct?” The man was very pale and, despite the heat, wore a thin navy turtleneck and cream-colored linen trousers. He was not sweating from what Tusker could see, and had a beard and silvery hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail, showing a scar on his forehead.

  Dinesh stood up. He was a full head shorter than this man. “Yes, I am he,” he replied, extending his hand. “And you are…?”

  “Rausing, Malcolm Rausing,” the man said. “I wanted to express my condolences about your colleagues. What an awful business.”

  Dinesh was taken aback. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Rausing.” he managed. “How did you know I worked for MOCHA?”

  Rausing smiled and ignored the question. He turned to Tusker. “And your friends?”

  “This is Mr. Julian Tusk and Ian Walsh,” Dinesh introduced them. “They were friends of one of the men who was on the Taprobane.”

  “As I said, awful business,” Rausing said, shaking his head while eyeing Tusker. “I own the Depth Charge, the ship doing some work in the new harbor. If there’s anything we can do to help...”

  Tusker didn’t like the man and was impatient to get back to the conversation with Dinesh. “Thank you, Mr. Rausing. We’re working with the police to find out what happened to the Taprobane.”

  “Of course, of course,” Rausing nodded vigorously. “But my offer stands. I have a crew of accomplished divers ready to help.”

  “Thank you very much,” Dinesh chimed in, sensing the tension between Rausing and Tusker. “Mr. Tusk and Mr. Walsh are actually expert divers as well.”

  “Is that so?” Tusker thought he saw the shadow of surprise cross Rausing’s face. “Well, do be careful out here. The currents in the east can be tricky and the sea floor gets deep rather quickly.”

  “I thought your crew was in the harbor,” Ian said. Rausing’s eyes blazed at him, then he eased into a smile.

  “We are, but have managed to take the odd day off for some offshore diving fun,” he said. “Well, I won’t keep you from your drinks. It was nice to meet you, gentlemen.” He turned to go, then paused. “And do give my regards to Captain Gooneratne.” Then he was gone. Tusker watched the tall figure stride across the crowded verandah and into the darkness.

  A Police Matter

  Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. The next day.

  “It was an explosion,” Captain Sunil Gooneratne said, blowing ripples across the surface of his cup of tea. “The fishermen said it went up like fireworks. Sank fairly quickly too.”

  Tusker sat across the worn metal desk and mopped the sweat from the back of his neck. He and Ian had endured an hour in the lobby of the Batticaloa police station, waving away flies with a small queue of locals who were waiting to file some complaint or other.

  “Did any debris wash ashore? Any sense of how it happened?” Tusker already didn’t like the chubby captain and his indifference. He controlled his annoyance, knowing that to show exasperation would only make things worse.

  “We collected a couple of life jackets and a wetsuit. Empty of course, but nothing else.” The captain smiled, as if at a joke. “I’m sure with all those scuba tanks and electronics on board, that boat was a floating bomb.”

  Tusker leaned forward in his chair, a blood vessel in his neck pulsing.

  Ian put a hand on Tusker’s arm and interjected. “Have you been able to examine the wreck yet? Surely that would help explain how it exploded.”

  “Mr. Walsh, we are a busy police force here in Batticaloa and don’t have the time or resources to be out scuba diving.” He made it sound like it was a holiday snorkel.

  “You see, here in the east, we are understaffed and have other serious matters. Surely you know, we have all these Muslims here, not like in Galle or Colombo…” He gave a knowing look at Ian and Tusker, as if they would sympathize.

  After the Easter bombings, the country had descended into the same paranoid divisions that plagued Europe and the West, and there was tension between the Buddhist majority Sinhalese and the Muslim population, which was concentrated in the cities of the east coast.

  Ian smiled back, ignoring Gooneratne’s thinly veiled bigotry. “What about the Navy? Or the coast guard? Wouldn’t this fall into their jurisdiction to investigate? It seems awfully suspicious that a boat would just explode.”

  “This is a police matter, Mr. Walsh,” he replied. “Anyway, I told all of this already to your friend, this Dinesh from Colombo.” He stood up as if to signal their time was up. “We’ll be completing our investigation, interviewing witnesses, and will release a report when we finish.”

  The police captain walked around his desk and extended his hand. “I know things in England and America work differently, but here in Sri Lanka, we have our own process. Now, thank you for your concern and your time. I have a number of other citizens who require my attention.”

  Outside, Tusker was silent — fuming. “Guess it’s time to go check out the Taprobane,” Ian said.

  “Yes,” Tusker said. “Let’s do tha
t, now.”

  Sebastian was nowhere to be found when they returned to the Deep Blue. Tusker walked past the workshop to the small swimming pool used for dive training, its surface matted with yellow leaves and dead bugs. At one end, a girl was splayed out on a towel in a bikini, her arm shielding her face from the sun. She was talking to an older man who squatted in the shade, smoking a cigarette. They both looked up at Tusker.

  “Hello.” The girl sat up and squinted “You must be Julian.”

  “Tusker,” he corrected her. “Have you seen Sebastian?”

  She ignored his question. “I’m Anja.” She smiled a brilliant white smile and peered over the top of large dark glasses, assessing him. Her accent was musical, Scandinavian. The Swedish girl Sebastian had told them about, no doubt. She was deeply tanned and beautiful, with the lithe body of an athlete. Cross-country skier, Tusker let himself muse.