The Sultan's Tigers

by Josh Lacey

  Ignoring everyone else, J.J. marched straight up to my uncle and held out his hand. “My tiger, please.”

  “We have to talk first,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “It is here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where? I want to see it.”

  “You’ll see it soon enough. First we have to talk.”

  “If you want to talk, you can talk with my lawyers. They say you don’t have a case. You are a dealer in stolen property. The tiger is not yours.”

  “I know it’s not.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes. My ancestor stole it. I don’t have any rights over it. I know that.”

  “Then give it to me.”

  “It’s not yours, either. It’s theirs.” Uncle Harvey pointed at Ram and the other priests.

  They were wearing plastic flip-flops and white sheets wrapped around their waists. J.J. and his advisors had phones and computers and a helicopter waiting outside. If I had been Ram or another of the priests, I would have felt intimidated, if not actually terrified, to be confronted by this slick parade of money and power, but they didn’t seem bothered, just smiling and nodding, confirming that the tiger was theirs. “This is correct,” said Ram, speaking for all of them. “The tiger is ours. It has resided in this temple for many years, bringing good fortune to our people.”

  J.J. didn’t argue about ownership. His lawyers must have advised him already that a judge would rule in the temple’s favor. He simply said, “I want to buy it.”

  “That is not possible, sir.”

  “Name your price.”

  “I am sorry, sir. The tiger belongs in our temple. It is not for sale.”

  “I will give you two million dollars,” said J.J. “U.S. dollars. American dollars. Will that satisfy you?”

  Ram smiled. “I am sorry.”

  “That’s not enough?”

  “We do not wish to sell.”

  “How about two and a half million!”

  “No, sir.”

  “You don’t want two and a half million dollars?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, my friend. You’re a good negotiator. But I want this tiger and I’m willing to pay for it. If you let me take the tiger away today, I will give you three million dollars.”

  Ram appeared to believe this whole thing was a joke. He was smiling broadly, shaking his head, refusing to be bought. “Thank you, sir, but I will not take your money.”

  “You understand how much that is?” J.J. turned to his entourage. “Meera, what’s three million dollars in rupees?”

  Her face scrunched up in concentration. “Three million dollars is—”

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” said Ram. “But there is no need to make a calculation. I understand what is a dollar. I know what is three million. The answer is no. The tiger will be staying here.”

  “You’re refusing three million dollars?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about four million?”

  “This tiger is not for sale, sir.”

  “Are you serious? You won’t sell it for four million dollars?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Four. Million. Dollars. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t. You’ve never seen the power of money like that. I have. I can tell you, it means everything.” J.J. shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Do you know how much this tiger is actually worth? Two million at the most. Probably one and a half on the open market. You’re never going to be made an offer like this again. Take the cash!”

  “No, sir,” said Ram.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the tiger is not for sale.”

  J.J. still wasn’t ready to give up. He glanced around the chamber as if he was checking who could hear him, then very slowly said, “I want this tiger and I am willing to pay for it. I will give you five million dollars.”

  Meera put her hand on J.J.’s arm, but he pushed her away. All his attention was focused on the priest, waiting for an answer.

  Ram said, “Five million dollars U.S.?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much this is in rupees?”

  Meera told him.

  Ram smiled at J.J. “Yes, sir.”

  J.J. gave my uncle a fierce grin of triumph. Then he was hidden behind Meera and Vivek and his other advisors, who crowded around him, slapping him on the back and taking turns to shake his hand as if he was a boxer who’d just won the biggest fight of his life.

  46

  J.J. arranged for us to be provided with new passports. He could afford to be generous. He’d got what he wanted. He’d had to pay for it, of course, but we soon understood that the whole thing had been a coordinated PR stunt, designed to wash away the blood spilled at his museum. Giving five million dollars to a temple, paying for repairs and renovations, made him look like a good Hindu and a true Indian patriot. That’s what the papers said. The headlines proclaimed him a saint. No one was rude enough to mention the deaths of a cleaner, a guard, or an Australian mercenary.

  J.J. settled things with the police, too. He even offered to pay us ten thousand dollars for Horatio Trelawney’s letters. They would be housed in the museum’s archives, he said, and made available to historians who wished to research the life and times of Tipu Sultan.

  Uncle Harvey negotiated the price up to fifty thousand, then said yes. The money would cover our tickets and help to pay off a few of his most dangerous debts. He’d missed out on five million dollars, but at least his legs were safe.

  J.J. swore that he had known nothing about my grandfather. He admitted that Marko had been his employee, but claimed to have no control over the Australian. I didn’t believe him, but my uncle told me not to worry about it. There was nothing we could do, he said. His father, my grandfather, was dead, and the man who killed him was dead too, and that was the end of that.

  We stayed two more nights in Srirangapatna after J.J. had gone. I had my own room in the hotel and my own cash to spend on whatever I wanted. “Here’s your pocket money,” said Uncle Harvey, handing over a thick bundle of bills. I thought I was rich till I translated them into dollars and realized he’d only given me about twenty bucks.

  “Where’s my half?” I said.

  “Which half?”

  “We agreed to split all the money fifty-fifty, remember? You owe me twenty-five thousand.”

  “I could give you that money, Tom. But then I wouldn’t be able to pay off my debts, and both my legs would get broken. Is that what you want? If it is, I’ll give you the money. Say the word. The choice is yours.”

  I sighed. “Keep it.”

  “Thank you.”

  After that, I didn’t see much more of my uncle. He disappeared with Tanya. We did run into each other once in the hotel lobby, and he apologized for deserting me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help myself. I’ve got to be with her. I think I’m falling in love.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m having fun too.”

  And I was. I liked having the freedom of the city. I spent all my time wandering through the streets, seeing the sights of Srirangapatna, doing the full Tipu tour. I hadn’t realized that the town was an island sitting in the middle of a river, which was what made it such a good fortress. I walked along the remains of the walls, imagining Horatio scrambling over them, dodging cannonballs, ducking under swishing scimitars, searching for the sultan and his treasure.

  I spent most of my time with Suresh. When we weren’t walking around the city, he let me drive his rickshaw. It was fantastic. It didn’t go very fast, but we chug-chug-chugged out of Srirangapatna and down a main road, puttering through the traffic, the wind whistling in our hair. We even picked up a passenger, a woman with six shopping bags. She paid us twenty rupees to take her home and gave me two extra as a tip.

  That same day, Suresh took me to his house, where I met his mom, his brother, and his sisters. They lived together in two tiny room
s, one for eating and the other for sleeping, the six of them sharing a big mattress spread out on the floor.

  When I arrived, Suresh’s mom was sitting in a wicker chair in the corner of the room, and she never moved from there. Her face was gaunt and I could see that every breath was an effort. But she smiled joyfully when she met me, and took my hand in both of hers, and talked to me via Suresh, with him translating whatever she wanted to say. She was pleased to meet me, she said, and pleased I was friends with her son, and thanked me over and over again for the money that we’d given her.

  I said it wasn’t really my money; it was the temple’s. Once the repairs had been paid for, the rest would be used to build a medical center in Srirangapatna and pack it with all the most up-to-date medical equipment.

  On the third day, Suresh drove all three of us to the station in his rickshaw, and we said goodbye. He said he’d email me with news about his mom. I promised to send him a Red Sox shirt as soon as I got back to the U.S.

  I didn’t know how, when, or where, but I was sure I’d see him again one day, and I think he felt the same way.

  We said goodbye to Tanya there too. She was catching a train to Mysore and then heading to Mumbai for the last few days of her vacation. Our train left an hour later than hers, going the other way, taking us to Bangalore. From the station, we would catch a taxi to the airport and take a plane home.

  Kids hurried along the platform, shouting “Chai! Chai!” I remembered the boy in Bangalore whose chai I’d stolen and hoped I’d see him there again. I wanted to pay him for a full pot.

  Tanya gave me a big hug and said she was very happy to have met me. Then she and Uncle Harvey kissed for a long time. They probably would have carried on all day, but a guard blew his whistle and waved a green flag. The train was about to leave. Tanya clambered aboard, swung her backpack into a luggage rack, and leaned out the window, waving and blowing kisses.

  “See you in Tel Aviv,” she shouted as the train pulled out of the station.

  My uncle kept on waving till she was out of sight, then turned to me. “When does our train leave?”

  “Not for another hour.”

  “How about a coffee?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a mango lassi.”

  The station café was crowded, but we found some space at the bar. We sat on tall stools and leaned our elbows on the counter. On the wall above us there was a huge poster of the Taj Mahal. The waiter wore black trousers and a spotless white shirt. He nodded as he hurried past and promised to take our order as soon as he could.

  I asked Uncle Harvey when he was planning to visit Tel Aviv.

  “Oh, I don’t know. One of these days.”

  “I thought you’d fallen in love.”

  “I have. But that doesn’t mean I have to go to Tel Aviv.”

  “I thought you were about to marry her.”

  “Marry her? Why would I want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. You seem to like her so much.”

  “I do like her, but that doesn’t mean I have to marry her. I’m too young to settle down.”

  I thought of my dad, who was only two years and five months older than Uncle Harvey but had settled down a gazillion years ago, marrying Mom, having Grace, then me and then Jack, giving himself up to a life of mortgages and retirement funds and working five days a week and washing his car on the weekends.

  Could Uncle Harvey ever be like that?

  Could he ever have a wife and kids and an ordinary life?

  I hoped not.

  47

  We flew back to JFK, then caught a cab into New York to pick up Uncle Harvey’s car. He insisted on driving me home. I said I was happy to take the bus, but he wouldn’t let me.

  He has a nice car, a silver Mercedes with black leather seats, and the ride was so smooth that I fell asleep right away. When I woke up, we were almost home.

  The streets of Norwich looked more familiar than my own face. That might sound poetic, but it’s actually true. I had caught sight of myself in the mirror in the bathroom on the plane and seen someone I didn’t recognize. Who was that guy? Where had he been? He looked rough. There was a purplish bruise around his right eye, his skin was raw and peeling from several days of sunburn, and half-healed scabs speckled his cheeks and forehead.

  We parked outside my house and walked up the front path together. I rang the doorbell. I knew they’d be home, because we’d already called them to say roughly what time we’d be arriving.

  There was a short pause. Just long enough for me and Uncle Harvey to exchange a quick smile.

  Then the door opened.

  Mom took one look at my bruises and wrapped me in her arms.

  I emerged from her embrace to find Dad fixing me with a stern look.

  “You’re grounded,” he said. “Forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re grounded until the end of time. Or the day you leave home. Whichever comes first.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “I can do what I want. I’m your father.”

  “You can’t actually prevent me from leaving the house.”

  “I can. And I will. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before hopping onto a plane with your uncle and running off to some foreign country.”

  “Try to stop me.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  We stared at each other like two Mafia bosses negotiating over a slice of the city. Then Dad said, “Go to your room.”

  “The thing is—” I started to say, but he interrupted before I got any further.

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  “I wasn’t going to make any excuses.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I wasn’t, actually. I was going to tell you about finding the guy who murdered your father.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it. Go to your room.”

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “Not now, no. Go to your room.”

  “I will. When I’ve said goodbye to Uncle Harvey.”

  “Fine. Do it. Be quick.”

  I turned to my uncle. “Bye.”

  “Bye, Tom. Look after yourself.”

  “I will.”

  “Right,” said Dad. “You’ve said goodbye. Now go to your room.” He turned to my uncle. “I think you’d better leave, Harvey.”

  “You’re not going to invite me in for a drink?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a cup of tea?”

  “No.”

  “Can I use your loo? I’ve got a long drive home.”

  “There’s a pub round the corner. You can go there.”

  “Fine.” Uncle Harvey paused for a moment as if he was thinking of the right words to use, but he must have decided it was better to say nothing at all, because he just said, “Bye, guys.”

  I got one last glimpse of him walking down the path toward his car, then Dad closed the front door and sent me to my room.

  I thought Jack and Grace might be lying in wait to hear all about my adventures, but they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they’d been warned not to talk to me. I had bought them both great presents from India: a carved wooden elephant for him, a bundle of spices for her, cardamon pods and cinnamon sticks and fennel seeds and many more, each in its own little muslin bag.

  I dumped my bag on the floor and stretched out on my bed. After several nights of cheap hotels, followed by a night on a plane, my own mattress felt beautiful. But I couldn’t sleep. I was wide awake. Thoughts buzzed through my skull. I lay there, staring at the posters on the walls, the cracks on the ceiling, all the things that I knew so well, and remembered what Dad had said.

  Could he actually ground me forever?

  Would he really be able to stop me leaving the house?

  No way.

  I rolled off my bed and walked to the window.

  Through the glass, I could see the same view I’d seen every morning I could rem
ember. Our car was parked outside the house, but there was no sign of Uncle Harvey’s. He had already left.

  I undid the latch and opened the window. The breeze felt cold. I still hadn’t adjusted to the change in temperature.

  My room was on the second floor, but there was a sloping roof directly under me.

  I climbed out the window, scrambled down the roof, and dangled my legs off the edge. If anyone had been looking out the front window, they would have seen my shoes. Best not to hang around. I pushed myself off.

  The ground came to meet me with a bump.

  I sprang up, dusted the gravel off my hands, and started walking quickly down the street.

  About the Author

  JOSH LACEY worked as a journalist, a screenwriter, and a teacher before becoming a children’s book writer. He is the author of the Misfitz Mysteries and the Grk series, as well as the first Tom Trelawney adventure, Island of Thieves. Josh lives in London with his wife and daughter.