The Sultan's Tigers

by Josh Lacey

  “Wait till we authenticate the tiger, then we can talk about money.”

  With that he was gone again, this time not giving my uncle the chance to call him back.

  We stood on the edge of the roof, watching J.J. settle himself into his seat, strap a belt over his shoulders, and clamp a pair of big headphones onto his ears.

  I waited for him to turn and wave, or even cast a glance in our direction, but he appeared to have forgotten us already and was peering at a computer on his knees. The glowing screen lit up the lenses of his glasses, giving the illusion, just for a moment, that his eyes were on fire.

  30

  Once the helicopter had sped away, its lights dwindling into the darkness, Meera escorted us into the elevator and down to the main lobby. Uncle Harvey gave her all his best pickup lines, but she seemed much more interested in her phone than him.

  When the elevator reached the ground floor, Meera marched us across the lobby, her high heels clattering on the polished floor. We followed a few paces behind.

  My uncle winked at me.

  A long black limousine was parked next to the tower, a driver in a sober uniform standing by the open door. I stared through the blacked-out windows and wondered who might be inside. Only when Meera nodded to the driver did I understand it was for us.

  We settled on the long back seat.

  Meera opened a fridge built into the door. “What would you like?”

  I had a Coke. Uncle Harvey took a beer.

  It was quite a contrast to Suresh’s rickshaw.

  I could get used to this, I thought. Then I remembered Marko. Had he and J.J. sprawled against these seats? Had they driven through the city, drinking beer, discussing how to get the letters from my grandfather? What had Marko asked for? What had J.J. ordered him to do? What did they decide?

  We drove through the city for about an hour, moving slowly through traffic jams, kids clustered around the windows, knocking on the glass, trying to get our attention. One of them looked so like Suresh that I thought he’d actually followed us here. What would he be doing now? Eating supper with his mom and his brother and sisters? Or driving around the streets, searching for a fare, trying to earn a few more rupees for his mom’s medicines?

  Meera spent the whole journey on the phone, carrying on conversations in at least two languages and maybe several more, never giving Uncle Harvey a chance to talk to her.

  When she was deep in a particularly intense discussion, Uncle Harvey turned to me and, speaking almost in a whisper, asked what I had been playing at.

  “I wanted to know about Marko,” I replied.

  “We made a deal, remember. One thing at a time. First we’ll sell the tiger, then we’ll worry about Marko.”

  “Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  “I want to see him punished for what he did. Of course I do. But we can’t get to him, whereas we can do something about the tiger. And once we’ve got the money, we’ll be in a much better position to deal with the police.” He glanced at Meera. She was still deep in conversation and didn’t seem at all interested in us. There was no way she could have heard what we were saying, but he carried on talking in a whisper that seemed even quieter than before. “Don’t worry, Tom. I’m not going to forget about Marko, but I want to sell this tiger first.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “We shouldn’t have come here. We should have gone straight to the airport and taken it home. Then we could have kept it and told the police about Marko. If J.J. is so hot to buy it, he’ll come and meet us there. That would be perfect. If he had something to do with Grandpa’s murder, the police could arrest him too.”

  “They’ll never arrest him without evidence. Anyway, I can’t imagine he had anything to do with the murder. Billionaires usually have subtler ways of getting what they want. If Marko did murder my father, I can’t imagine he was following orders.”

  “If? What do you mean, if?”

  “You don’t know what Marko actually did. He might just have been showing off, trying to scare you.”

  “He was telling the truth,” I said. I was sure about that. I remembered Marko’s eyes. Yes, he’d wanted to scare me, but he hadn’t been lying. “Let’s get out, Uncle Harvey. Let’s go to the airport. We can take the tiger with us. It’s the perfect solution.”

  “You’ve forgotten one thing,” said Uncle Harvey. “I need to go home with at least ninety grand, or an angry Glaswegian is going to break both my legs. I promise you, Tom, once we’ve got the cash, I’ll do everything I can to track down Marko and make him pay for what he’s done.”

  I wanted to argue with him, but I knew it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d already made up his mind. What should I do? What could I do? Call the police? They’d just take me home and give me back to Mom and Dad. Then I wouldn’t have a chance of getting revenge for Grandpa’s death.

  I slumped back in my seat and stared angrily out the window. If only I could have come here alone. That’s the problem with traveling with someone else. You have to do what they want, rather than what you want. Yes, yes, I know, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as the airport without Uncle Harvey, let alone to the temple, but I couldn’t help wishing he’d leave me alone now.

  Then I had an idea.

  I tried not to smile. I didn’t want to give Uncle Harvey any hint of what I was thinking.

  The more I thought about my idea, the more I knew I had to do it. I just had to. It was as simple as that. Yes, I know, I’d made a deal with him, but some deals have to be broken.

  He’d be furious. I might even be the cause of him getting his legs broken. But I thought not. Uncle Harvey was a smart guy. He got himself in bad situations, but he always managed to get out of them. He’d find some way to pay off his angry Glaswegian.

  One day, he might even thank me.

  We emerged out of the crowded streets and accelerated down a highway. We came to fields, then a thick woodland. A high wall ran along one side of the road. The driver slowed down. Six or seven chickens were blocking the road. He hooted and they squawked out of our way. We were alongside a village of rickety shacks built from loose bricks and bundles of hay. A moment later, we came to a tall steel gate, which opened to let out a uniformed guard. He tipped his cap at our driver.

  I asked Meera why that village was here, so close to the museum.

  “They are the families who used to live on this site,” she explained. “Mr. Jaragami has offered them very large sums of money to resettle in a different vicinity, and most of them have done so, but a few refuse to go. They claim this land is sacred to their ancestors. I’m afraid our country is steeped with these ignorant superstitions. Mr. Jaragami wishes to reach a compromise, so he has given them permission to stay here until the museum opens.”

  “What will happen then?” I asked.

  “They will have to move.”

  “What if they don’t want to?”

  Subject closed, her tight smile said, so I didn’t ask any more questions.

  The gates slid open. The guard stepped aside. We drove up a long pathway lined with trees to the museum itself, an enormous white building lit by spotlights.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Uncle Harvey. “Who’s the architect?”

  Meera said a name I didn’t know, but Uncle Harvey seemed very impressed. The museum didn’t look very beautiful to me; it was more like a building that had been blown up and put together by someone who’d lost the plans. Bits stuck out all over the place.

  The museum had its own moat bisected by a long wooden bridge leading to the main entrance. We stepped out of the car. I looked down into the moat. Sprawled in the dust were three tigers. One of them twitched its tail and I jumped backwards.

  Uncle Harvey was laughing at me. “You don’t have to worry, Tom. They’ll never climb up this.”

  “I’m not scared, Humperdinck. I was just surprised.”

  “If you ever call me that again . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t know exact
ly what I’ll do, but it will be very unpleasant.”

  “Okey-dokey. But can I ask you one question?”

  “You can ask. I might not answer.”

  “Where did you get that middle name?”

  “It was my father’s idea of a joke.”

  “He gave you a middle name as a joke?”

  “He thought it was funny. He was an idiot. You must have realized that by now.”

  When Grandpa died, he had barely been on speaking terms with either of his sons. Now I began to understand why. How could you choose your own son’s name because you thought it was funny? It might bring a smile to your face for a day or two, but he’d have to live with it for the rest of his life. Suddenly my own dad didn’t seem so bad after all.

  “This way, please,” said Meera.

  She led us over the wooden bridge. The tigers were dozing under us. Their enclosure had steep sides, but no railings, no walls, no fence. One false step and you’d be slithering down the bank toward them. And was Uncle Harvey right? Were they really confined down there? Couldn’t they scramble up the walls and get out? Meera didn’t seem bothered, and she’d presumably been here hundreds of times before. We’d have to hope the tigers didn’t jump that little bit higher just for us.

  Meera led us into the museum’s huge white entrance hall. Two massive portraits looked down on us from the ceiling, a pair of men standing side by side, their huge bodies and heads dominating the room. The first showed Tipu Sultan, dressed in a green jerkin and trousers, the material embroidered with diamonds and pearls. The other was of J.J., wearing his own ordinary clothes, jeans and sandals and a T-shirt that didn’t look terribly clean. We may be two hundred years apart, the paintings seemed to be saying, but we are brothers.

  The man himself was standing directly under his own portrait. In the time it had taken us to drive here through Bengaluru’s traffic, he’d flown around the city and finished his meeting. As soon as he saw us, he called out, “Welcome to my museum. It is glorious, do you not agree?”

  We agreed.

  “I wish the public to see this,” he said. “I wish them to understand the importance of this man to our nation, our national identity. They must know who he was and what he did, so they will never allow themselves to be conquered again. They will never permit a foreign invader to take control of our country. You see, my friends, we were ruled by you British for many years. I hope you will not mind me saying so, but we hated you very much. Nowadays, when India is so different, and Britain too, it is important to remember our histories.”

  “Of course it is,” said my uncle. “I hope you’ll also remember that the British brought some good things to India.”

  “Good things? You think so? Such as just what exactly?”

  “The railways, for instance. And democracy.”

  “We would have built railways without you. As for democracy, I cannot give the British any credit for the creation of our democratic state, since they made so much effort to prevent it. Thankfully we are free of you today. We are our own masters. Look at us now. Look at me. My company is always in profit. We have six hundred thousand employees and an annual turnover of many billions of dollars. Do I need the British to help me?”

  “I suppose not,” said my uncle.

  “Of course not. Now let us put our differences aside. Come and see my museum.”

  31

  J.J. walked us through the rooms, talking constantly, explaining the purpose and provenance of different pictures or objects. I can’t imagine why he was spending so much time with us. Perhaps he really did believe that we would be more likely to sell him the tiger if we thought it was going to a good home. You can save your breath, I wanted to say. But I held my tongue and nodded and smiled, trying to look interested as he bombarded us with information. Here was Tipu Sultan’s favorite sword and there was a painting of his father. Here was a collection of coins from his treasury and a tent in which he once slept.

  There were more tigers wherever we looked. They were engraved on the handle of a flintlock pistol, painted on the back of a helmet, woven into a carpet, decorating every available space.

  A British soldier’s uniform was on display, along with the weapons that he would have carried in the siege of Seringapatam: a musket, a bayonet, a dagger, a box of powder. They might have belonged to one of Horatio Trelawney’s men, the soldiers who followed him up the walls and into the city, hacking their way through Tipu’s army, heading for the palace and its treasures.

  J.J. explained how he had acquired his collection. He hired two professors and thirty researchers. They hunted through the libraries, museums, and mansions of Britain, Europe, and America, following the trail of Tipu Sultan’s belongings, bringing back to India all the objects that had been looted two hundred years ago.

  Once the place was opened to the public, there would be guards in every room, watching the exhibits.

  “We have no need for them now,” said J.J. “The walls are enough to keep out unwelcome visitors.”

  “Don’t you have alarms?” asked my uncle.

  “Yes, of course. There are motion sensors in every room and alarms on all the doors and windows. But you don’t have to worry—burglars won’t even reach this part of the museum. There are high walls surrounding us. If someone did climb over them, which is most unlikely, they would be seen by the guards. If they got past the guards, which is even more unlikely, I have my secret weapon. You saw my babies on your way in?”

  “The tigers?” asked Uncle Harvey. “They’re magnificent.”

  “Thank you. They are also the most perfect guards. Every thief for miles around knows about my tigers. They have heard what happens to any robber who is caught in this museum.”

  “What does happen?” I asked.

  J.J. grinned at me. “They become tiger food.”

  “You feed burglars to the tigers?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Are you allowed to do that?”

  “It is not strictly legal, but the police are not complaining. One less robber is one less problem for themselves.” He watched our faces for a few moments, then burst out laughing. “Don’t worry! Don’t worry! I’m only joking. The tigers are for show, nothing more.”

  Still chuckling, he led us into the heart of the museum, a vast, airy room, its walls hung with big paintings in gilt frames and ceremonial swords in scabbards dangling with golden braids. Glass cases held coins, daggers, and a scepter.

  And there was the throne, just as it had looked in the video, scarlet and gold, eight spears standing around the back, seven occupied, the eighth empty, awaiting its tiger.

  Two men were standing beside the throne, one white, the other Indian. They came forward to meet us.

  “May I introduce Mohibbul Nagra,” said J.J. “He is the curator of my museum. This is Professor Timothy Watkins, a world expert on Tipu Sultan, who is currently consulting our archives. He has kindly agreed to lend his expertise today.”

  They shook hands with my uncle and said how pleased they were to meet him. No one took any notice of me.

  J.J. said, “Now, please, will you allow Professor Watkins and Mr. Nagra to have a look at the tiger? If all is well, they will confirm its authenticity.”

  My uncle turned his attention to the experts. “What kind of tests do you want to do? I’m not happy for the piece to be manipulated or damaged in any way.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” said Professor Watkins. “We’ll simply use our eyes. Mohibbul and I have many years of experience in identifying and classifying the works of this period. I can recognize a forgery without the need for tests. I do have one question, though. I’m fascinated to know how the tiger came into your possession.”

  “It’s a long story,” said Uncle Harvey. “But I’ll give you the short version.” He repeated the same tale that we’d told J.J.

  Professor Watkins asked a few questions, but didn’t seem to doubt a word. Then he said, “Could I see the tiger?”

  �
��That’s why I’m here.” Uncle Harvey unzipped his bag.

  The professor and the curator huddled together. They took turns holding the tiger, inspecting it from every angle, and talked in hushed tones. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I searched their faces for clues.

  J.J. didn’t have much patience. He gave them about five minutes, then demanded to know what they’d decided. “What is your verdict, gentlemen? Is this the genuine article?”

  “I’m a scientist,” said Professor Watkins. “I can’t give you any guarantees until I’ve seen the results of more detailed tests. But I would be astonished if they didn’t confirm our intuitions. This is the one.”

  The curator added his voice to the chorus. “It is the real thing, Mr. Jaragami. I’m sure it is. We have finally found the missing tiger.”

  “That’s excellent.” J.J. was beaming. “Thank you so much.”

  The professor and the curator knew they had been dismissed. They returned the tiger to my uncle and headed for the door.

  When they had gone, J.J. turned to us with a huge smile. “So, to business. Let us not beat about the bushes. I wish to buy your tiger, Mr. Trelawney, and you wish to sell. Shall we make a deal?”

  “I hope we can,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “I hope so too,” said J.J. “What is your price?”

  Uncle Harvey must have prepared himself for this moment. He would have rehearsed it in his mind, going over and over the best words to use, the price where he would begin, the price at which he would be willing to end. But he never got a chance to say anything, because I jumped in before him.

  “Marko,” I said.

  32

  J.J. stared at me. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asked, “You are talking about this Marko again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s our price.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’ll give you the tiger if you give us Marko.”

  “Marko, Marko—who is this Marko that you keep talking about?”