The Sultan's Tigers

by Josh Lacey

Several security guards lingered by the entrance, watching our progress. Long wooden batons hung from their belts. That explained the lack of beggars.

  The temperature outside was tropical, even after dark, but the lobby was so efficiently air-conditioned, we could have been back in Ireland.

  Six gorgeous women were sitting behind a long, shiny desk. Any of them could have gotten a job as a model. Three were answering calls on their headsets, two more were talking to visitors, and the last in line smiled at us. “Good evening, gentlemen. Can I help you?”

  “I very much hope so,” said my uncle, giving her a flirtatious smile. We’d only been apart from Tanya for a couple of hours, but he’d forgotten her already.

  The receptionist remained strictly professional. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Jalata Jaragami.”

  “Very good, sir. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “Then I am afraid Mr. Jaragami will be unable to see you. Would you like to discuss your business with someone else?”

  “No, thanks. I just want to see Mr. Jaragami.”

  Finally the receptionist smiled. Now she understood who we were: a pair of dumb tourists who had wandered into the wrong place by mistake. “If you would like to make your way to the Welcome Chamber, you can see an audiovisual presentation about Mr. Jaragami and the Jaragami Corporation. Please, I will have someone show you the way.” She beckoned to one of the guards.

  “I don’t want to see an audiovisual presentation,” replied Uncle Harvey. “I’d like to see Mr. Jaragami.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but that will not be possible. Mr. Jaragami is a very busy man.”

  “I’m sure he is. But I promise you, when he knows what I’ve got, he will want to see me.”

  “I could connect you to one of his secretaries if you would like to make an appointment.”

  “Yes, please.”

  The receptionist pressed a button and spoke into her headpiece. Then she picked up a phone and handed it to my uncle. “Please, you will tell this man why you wish to see Mr. Jaragami.”

  Uncle Harvey took the phone and explained about the tiger. Then he did it again. And again. And once more. Each time, he was talking to someone more senior, higher up the tower, closer to J.J. himself. Finally he handed the receiver back to the receptionist. “He wants to talk to you.”

  When she next looked at us, there was a different expression in her eyes. I thought I could detect a mixture of surprise and respect. We weren’t the dumb tourists she’d taken us for.

  “Mr. Bharati will see you at once,” she said. “He is the personal assistant to Mr. Jaragami. Please, follow this man.”

  A man in a uniform led us to the elevators. We stepped inside. The buttons went up to 30. Our escort pressed 29. The doors closed and we were swept smoothly and soundlessly toward the top of the tower.

  When we arrived on the twenty-ninth floor, another guide was waiting, wearing an even smarter uniform. This one took us through a maze of corridors to a meeting room with a long table, eight chairs, and a big window with a view of the city. On a sideboard there were glasses and cups and drinks and a plate piled high with strange-looking snacks, not quite samosas and not quite croissants, but something in between. The guide told us to wait.

  We stood around for five minutes, then the door opened and a heavyset man marched into the room. He had big hands, a steady smile, and very dark skin.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Welcome to the Jaragami Corporation. My name is Vivek Bharati. You are Tom and Harvey Trelawney, that is correct? If you don’t mind me asking, which of you is which?”

  We introduced ourselves. He asked us to sit down, although he managed to make it sound more like an order than a request, then told us that he was Jalata Jaragami’s advisor. “I am his right-hand man. When you are speaking to me, you are speaking to Mr. Jaragami. I am most interested to hear that you have the eighth tiger from Tipu Sultan’s throne. We have been searching everywhere for this, not just in India, but all over the world. May I see it, please?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But, why not?”

  “I’m only going to show it to Jalata Jaragami himself.”

  “You have nothing to fear, Mr. Trelawney. As I have told you already, when you are speaking to me, you are speaking to Mr. Jaragami. What you are showing to me, you are showing to him. I am his eyes and ears. Please, let me see the tiger.”

  Uncle Harvey shook his head. “If your boss really wants it, he’s going to have to talk to me himself.”

  “I am confused, Mr. Trelawney. Don’t you want to sell this tiger?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Then you must to show it to me.”

  “I’ve told you already, that’s not going to happen. I’ll only show it to Jaragami.”

  “He will not see you.”

  “Then I won’t waste any more of your time.” My uncle nodded to me. “Come on, Tom. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  I almost said, Hotel? What hotel? Luckily my brain moved a little quicker than that. I grabbed my bag and stood up.

  “Wait a minute,” said Bharati. “There is no need for any hasty actions. I will talk to Mr. Jaragami and ask if he wishes to speak to you.”

  29

  I thought we’d only be waiting there for a couple of minutes, but we were actually alone for about an hour. I spent the time pacing up and down, thinking about what my uncle had said to me. I hope you’re ready for who you’re going to be. What did that mean? Who was I going to be? Would I be like him, forgetting about my grandfather’s killer, only caring about money? Was that how real Trelawneys behaved? If so, did I really want to be like that? No, of course not. I didn’t care about the money. Sure, no one was threatening to break my legs, but that wasn’t the point. I wouldn’t care even if they were. I just wanted to find Grandpa’s killer.

  My uncle sat patiently at the table, reading stuff on his phone. When I asked what he was doing, he replied, “Research.”

  “What kind of research?”

  “I’m learning about J.J. Always be prepared. That’s the first rule of business.”

  “I thought the first rule of business was—”

  “Oh, stop it. Don’t ask me to be logical, that’s not my style. Do you want to know the real first rule of business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Earn more money than you spend. It is a rule that I have broken almost every day of my life. But not today.” He laughed suddenly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just a message from a girl.”

  “I thought you were doing research.”

  “I am. But I’m sending a few messages, too.”

  He tapped the screen.

  Research—yeah, right. He was just flirting with some girl on the other side of the world.

  I went back to staring out of the window. I didn’t bother telling him what I was thinking about. I didn’t want to talk to him about Marko. I knew what he’d say. Shut up, don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine. I didn’t want to have another argument about the rights and wrongs of chasing the money rather than Grandpa’s murderer.

  Around the time that I was beginning to wonder if we’d been forgotten, the door swung open and seven people marched into the room, four men and three women. I was relieved to see that Marko wasn’t among them.

  If I hadn’t recognized Jalata Jaragami from the YouTube video, I never would have guessed he was the richest of the seven, the boss of them all. The others looked far more slick and important than him, the men broad-shouldered and handsome, the women elegant and beautiful, their necks and fingers dotted with discreet jewelry. J.J. himself was a nerdy little man with scruffy sneakers, faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and small, round glasses. He must have noticed my uncle and me, but he paid no attention to us, carrying on his c
onversation with Bharati as if we weren’t even there.

  One of the women was talking into her phone. Another was jotting notes on a tablet. The third shook my uncle’s hand, then mine.

  “Mr. Jaragami is very pleased to meet you,” she said.

  “He hasn’t actually met us yet,” I said.

  She ignored me. “You will appreciate that Mr. Jaragami is a busy man, so he will be grateful if you can state your business quickly and concisely. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “Thank you. Mr. Jaragami has been briefed already. He knows you have possession of an object which interests him.”

  “You mean the tiger?” I said.

  Again she ignored me. “As you know, Mr. Jaragami is very keen to see this object. However, he will also need to see some authentication of the object’s provenance. Are you able to provide any evidence of—”

  She broke off in midsentence as Jaragami swooped down on us. “Hello, hello, thank you for waiting, I hope you haven’t been here long.” He offered his hand to my uncle. “Mr. Trelawney, how very good to meet you.”

  “You too, Mr. Jaragami,” said my uncle.

  “Please call me J.J. Everyone else does, especially non-Indians. The pronunciation of my true name appears to perplex them.” Jaragami turned to me and pressed my hand between his palms. “And you must be Tom. How are you enjoying India?” He managed to make it sound as if he owned the whole place.

  “I haven’t seen much of it,” I said. “We only arrived yesterday.”

  “You came from England?”

  “We were in Ireland.”

  “Near enough. How is the weather?”

  “It’s cold.”

  “And raining?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course it is.” J.J. grinned. “I love everything about England except the weather. Even the food isn’t as bad as people say, but the weather is truly abhorrent. I spent a whole year there, studying at Oxford, and it rained almost every single day.”

  “What an amazing coincidence,” said Uncle Harvey. “I was at Oxford too.”

  “You were at Oxford University?”

  “That’s right. The happiest years of my life. Which college were you at?”

  “I thought you went to Edinburgh University,” said J.J. “Although you were only there for a year, is that not right? Then you were forced to leave after failing your exams.”

  Uncle Harvey was very rarely at a loss for words, but this was one of those occasions. He finally managed to stammer, “H-how do you know that?”

  “Information is my business, Mr. Trelawney. Give me a computer terminal and I will tell you what is happening anywhere and everywhere on the planet. Knowledge is power. You know this phrase? If it had not been said already, I would have to say it for myself, because it is so remarkably truthful. While you have been waiting here, I have learned everything about you, Mr. Harvey Humperdinck Trelawney.”

  “Your middle name is Humperdinck?” I said. “Why did no one ever tell me that?”

  My uncle didn’t react. I guess he was still in shock.

  “I know where you have lived,” continued J.J. “I know where you have traveled. I even know the state of your finances. Which are not looking too good, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” said my uncle. He’d managed to pull himself together and was smiling again, although he still looked rattled.

  “You know about my interest in Tipu Sultan,” continued J.J. “You know I have acquired seven of the eight tigers from his throne. You come here and you say you are the owner, the possessor, of the last of them, the eighth tiger, the object that I covet more than anything else in the world. You say all this, Mr. Trelawney, yet you refuse to show this tiger to my closest advisor. You can imagine why I am intrigued, Mr. Trelawney, but also a little suspicious. Now I am here. And I should like to see this tiger.”

  Uncle Harvey paused for a moment before replying. He seemed to be thinking. Perhaps he was simply enjoying the moment, taking his chance to tantalize a billionaire. Did he have a strategy? Did he really know what he was doing? I hoped so. He kneeled down, unzipped his bag, and pulled out the tiger. It was wrapped in one of his white shirts. He dropped the shirt back in the bag. “Here you are. The eighth of Tipu Sultan’s tigers, taken from his throne on the night of May the fourth, 1799.”

  “May I?” asked J.J.

  “Please.” Uncle Harvey handed the tiger to him.

  J.J. took it carefully, lovingly, as if it were a delicate flower and not a lump of metal, then turned it over and over and over again, inspecting it from every angle.

  His assistants had put away their phones and now all their attention was focused on their boss, waiting for his reaction.

  Finally he lifted his head from the tiger and looked at my uncle. To my relief, I saw he was smiling. “This is very nice,” he said.

  “It’s a beautiful piece,” replied Uncle Harvey.

  “It certainly is. It looks perfect. But there is such a thing as too perfect. If something is too perfect, I can’t help feeling suspicious.”

  “It might just be perfect.”

  “Mr. Trelawney, every day, people are coming to me, promising that they have what I want. They say they have found a sword which belonged to Tipu Sultan. If not a sword, then a dagger, a cloak, a jewel. I send none of them away. Instead I ask an expert to examine what they have brought me. He will check its provenance. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they are forgeries. Is your tiger going to be any different?”

  “This is the real thing,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “Then why don’t I own it?”

  “Do you own all of Tipu Sultan’s treasures?”

  “Not all, but most.”

  “But you don’t have his eighth tiger?”

  J.J. smiled. “Touché. So tell me about your tiger. Where is it from? How do you come to own it?”

  “Don’t you know already?” I asked.

  J.J. was staring at me, surprised, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that I could talk. “How would I know?”

  “Didn’t Marko tell you?” I said.

  “Marko? Who is Marko?”

  “Marko Malinkovic. Doesn’t he work for you?”

  “I have never heard of him.”

  That was when Uncle Harvey stepped in. “Please excuse my nephew. He’s had a long flight and he’s feeling confused. Let me tell you about this tiger. You wanted to hear about its history. It was taken by a British soldier, who stole it and hid it, and it’s stayed hidden ever since. His name was Horatio Trelawney and was my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. He was among the first group of soldiers who looted Tipu’s palace. He and his comrades broke up the throne and stole the tigers, taking one each. The tiger was passed to his son, and his son’s son, down through the generations, until it reached me.”

  “All this time,” said J.J., “for all these years, none of them thought of selling it?”

  “They respected my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s wishes,” replied Uncle Harvey. “Horatio insisted the tiger had to stay in the family.”

  “So why are you selling it now?” asked J.J.

  “Because I need the money,” said Uncle Harvey.

  J.J. laughed. “You know, this does sound interesting.”

  At that moment, one of his advisors gave him a discreet nod. He didn’t acknowledge her in any way, but he must have understood the signal, because he said to us, “Do you mind if we walk while we talk?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode briskly toward the door, expecting us to follow. Uncle Harvey grabbed my elbow. He gave me a look. He didn’t need to say anything. I understood exactly what he meant. Shut up about Marko. Remember what we agreed. Then he was hurrying after J.J. I went with him. J.J. carried on talking as soon as we caught up with him.

  “I have a meeting now,” he said. “But I’d like to take your tiger to my museum. There, I have exper
ts. They will authenticate this piece. If it is the real thing, we can discuss a deal.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” said my uncle.

  “You don’t want to sell it?”

  “I want to sell it. But I won’t let it out of my sight.”

  “Come to the museum too. You can meet the curator and have a look around.”

  “I’d like that. May I?” Uncle Harvey held out his hand for the tiger, but J.J. pretended not to notice.

  Two elevators were waiting, the doors already open, a man standing inside each of them, ready to the press the buttons for us. J.J. led us into one and the rest of his entourage crammed into the other. The man in our elevator pressed the button marked 30. We went up a single floor in less than a second. Then the doors opened again and we stepped out onto a wide, flat roof. The sky was dark, but the air was still warm and a hot breeze whisked over us. The city was spread out around us, a million lights twinkling in hundreds of tall tower blocks.

  In the middle of the roof, a slim black helicopter was waiting, its rotors whipping the warm air. Through the windshield, I could see two pilots hunched over the controls.

  J.J.’s entourage spilled out of the other elevator. One of the women peeled away from the group and came to meet us.

  “Meera will drive you to the museum,” said J.J. “My experts are waiting there to authenticate this tiger. They will make sure that it is the real thing. I shall meet you there as soon as I can.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Weren’t we going in the helicopter?

  We weren’t.

  Without even bothering to say goodbye, J.J. was already hurrying across the roof.

  Uncle Harvey charged after him. “The tiger!”

  Reluctantly J.J. turned around and handed the tiger to my uncle. He took it with both hands, then yelled to be heard over the noise of the rotors. “We have to talk about one more thing.”

  “Oh, yes? What’s that?”

  “Money.”

  “Money?” J.J. spread his arms wide, encompassing the tower, the helicopter, the city, perhaps the entire country, as if he owned it all. “If your tiger is the tiger, I will give you as much money as you want.”

  “How much is that?” asked Uncle Harvey.