The Sultan's Tigers (16 page)

My uncle looked at me, his mouth twisted into a strange little smile. I couldn't tell what it meant. What he said next was strange, too. “I hope you're ready for who you're going to be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what I said.”

I repeated his words to myself. “
I hope you're ready for who you're going to be.
” Then I shook my head. “No, I don't know what that means.”

“You'll work it out soon enough.” He was grinning more straightforwardly now, his face breaking open with the happy smile of a man who can already see a million dollars in his bank account.

Then he rushed into the bathroom and washed two hundred years of dirt down the drain.

The guy who owned
the hotel tried to make Uncle Harvey pay for the night, even though we'd only been in the room for a few minutes. Tanya came into the lobby when they were arguing and asked what was going on. Uncle Harvey started looking a bit hassled. “We have to go,” he said.

“Where?”

“Back to Bangalore. Just for the night.”

“Oh.”

“Give me a moment and I'll explain everything.” Then he glanced at me, meeting my eyes for a moment as if to say:
Don't worry, I won't tell her the truth, I'll make something up.

He managed to get us out of the hotel without having to pay. As for Tanya—I don't know what he said to her, but whatever it was, she wasn't impressed. Uncle Harvey kissed her on both cheeks. He tried to kiss her on the lips, too, but she dodged out of the way.

“I'll call you once we've finished our business in Bangalore,” he said. “We can meet up there. Stay in a nice hotel. Go out for dinner.”

“Maybe,” said Tanya. “Bye, Tom. Have fun.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And you.”

A rickshaw took us to the train station. I would have liked to get a ride with Suresh, but he'd gone.

The clerk in the ticket office told us that the Mysore–Bengaluru express would be passing through in forty minutes. We bought two tickets, then ducked outside and found a street lined with clothes shops. I said I only needed fresh underwear, a T-shirt, and some sneakers, but Uncle Harvey insisted on buying me a whole new wardrobe.

“We're meeting a billionaire,” he said. “We don't want to look like tramps.”

“I don't get it. Why would J.J. care what I look like? We've got the tiger. He wants it. Isn't that enough?”

“Not at all.” Uncle Harvey held up a shirt against me, then winced and put it back on the shelf. “If you look like you need to sell, your price goes down. When we meet J.J., we have to look like we don't need the money. We'd like him to buy it, but if he doesn't, we don't care. That's the only way we're going to get a decent price. Appearance is everything. That's the first rule of business. Ah, this one looks perfect. Here. Try it on.”

We hurried back to the station carrying our purchases and boarded our train. It was packed, but we managed to find ourselves a couple of seats by the window. Once the train left the station, I took my shopping bags to the bathroom. It wasn't the perfect place to change your clothes—there was a big pool of what I hoped was water in the middle of the floor—but I managed to do it without getting my new pair of pants wet. When I returned to the carriage, my uncle looked me up and down, then told me to tuck my shirt in. Finally he nodded. “You'll do.”

“You mean, I look cool?”

“No. But you'll do.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He went to the bathroom and got changed too, and, I had to admit, he looked dapper. Gone were the dusty pants and the grubby shirt, replaced by black trousers, black shoes, a white shirt, and a dark brown jacket. These were the clothes that he'd worn to Grandpa's funeral, but he didn't look deathly. If you saw him striding briskly along the street, you would have thought he was a successful businessman on his way to do a deal. He sat down opposite me and pulled out his phone. He said he had to do some research. I asked what that meant. He wouldn't tell me, but in a few minutes he said, “Come and look at this.”

“What is it?”

“Come here and I'll show you.”

He'd connected to YouTube. When he pressed Play, the screen lit up with a bright orange logo, a capital J imposed over a roaring tiger.

“
The Jaragami Corporation is one of India's most remarkable success stories,”
said a deep voice. “
But this extraordinary company was originally nothing more than an idea, a vision in the imagination of one mathematical prodigy and business visionary, the company's founder and owner, Jalata Jaragami.
”

The screen now showed a slim man standing at a podium, addressing a conference.

The voiceover continued: “
Jaragami started his company with only a few thousand rupees, borrowed from a family member, and traded from his own bedroom in a modest suburb of Bengaluru. Today, the Jaragami Corporation employs more than one hundred thousand people in India and abroad, and has an annual turnover of more than five billion U.S. dollars.
”

More footage followed of Jalata Jaragami shaking hands with various famous people. I recognized only two of them, Bill Gates and Barack Obama, but Uncle Harvey told me the names of the others.

The screen showed a picture of a young Indian boy with glasses. The narrator said, “
Jalata Jaragami learned to program a computer at the age of six. He started his first software company when he was eleven and earned his first million rupees only three days after his fourteenth birthday.
”

“You'd better hurry,” said Uncle Harvey.

“I'm going to earn my first million today.”

“So you are.”

The carriage was full of people. Some of them were reading books or newspapers and others were staring at their own phones, but a couple of them now crowded around my uncle, staring at the film, and soon others joined them too. I could hear them whispering in their own language. One of them said, “Jaragami, yes?” When I agreed, he gave me a big smile. “Very rich man.”

The film was still playing. After a few minutes of boring information about J.J.'s company, its computers and their software, the narrator offered one little snippet of personal information about the founder, owner, and boss of the company.

“
Jalata Jaragami is not just a wealthy businessman and a generous philanthropist
,” said the deep-voiced narrator. “
He is also a collector of valuable art and antiques, with a particular interest in India's ancient heritage. Over the past decade, he has amassed the world's finest collection of material related to Tipu Sultan, one of the foremost fighters in the battle against British rule of the subcontinent. After the battle of Seringapatam and the murder of Tipu Sultan by British forces, his treasures were stolen and scattered around the world. Jalata Jaragami is bringing these treasures back here to India, where they belong, creating a magnificent museum devoted to one of the foremost figures in the history of the subcontinent.
”

Accompanying the last words, the screen had shown a series of images: a painting of a man in a turban; a sword with intricate carvings along the handle; a large white building surrounded by trees; a vast, airy room inside the museum, with pictures and objects hanging around the wall.

Uncle Harvey paused the video.

We stared at the image of J.J.'s museum.

In the center of the room, squatting like an immense frog, was a large, ornate throne, its seat covered with scarlet cushions, its back lined with eight spears. Seven of them were topped with little tiger statues. The eighth remained empty.

Night had fallen
by the time we arrived in Bangalore, and in the darkness the streets seemed even fuller, packed with a billion cars, buses, and trucks, and a billion people, too, dodging between the lanes of traffic.

A taxi drove us from the station to the business district and dropped us at the foot of an enormous tower. I tipped back my head and stared at the thousands of windows above us, every one of them blazing bright light. It was the type of skyscraper that you might find in New York, filled with busy office workers making money, money, money.

Over the entrance stood a line of huge proud steel letters.

J A R A G A M I

Uncle Harvey and I strolled into the entrance lobby. The huge glass doors slid silently shut behind us. I wondered if Marko had been here. Was this where he came to get his orders? Did he come here to meet J.J.? Or was there no real connection between them? Did J.J. just order one of his ser-vants to get the tigers using any means necessary, not wanting to know what would actually happen? Would Marko be here now? I wasn't sure if I dreaded the idea of seeing him or relished it. I wanted to confront him, yes, and take my revenge, but he scared me too—I don't mind admitting that. And if we ran into him here, it wouldn't even be a fair fight; he'd have all the advantages. This was his territory. We wouldn't have a hope.

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.”