The Sultan's Tigers (19 page)

“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.

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?”

“He's the guy you hired to kill my grandfather.”

That was when everyone started shouting at once. My uncle told me to calm down and J.J. said he didn't know who I was talking about. Two of the advisors jumped in as well, although I'm not actually sure what either of them was saying. I didn't say a word. I just stood there smiling. I didn't care how much they shouted at me. I just wanted to find the man who killed Grandpa.

When the shouting stopped, I repeated my offer. “You can have the tiger if you hand over Marko to the police. But you also have to get him to confess. There's no point in them arresting him if he denies what he's done.”

“This person, this Marko,” said J.J. “Who is he? Why do you think I have anything to do with him?”

“Oh, come on. You don't have to keep pretending you don't know him.”

“I am not pretending. I really don't know him.”

“He knows you.”

“Many people know me. I do not know all of them. What does he say about me, this Marko? What has he been telling you?”

My uncle stepped in. “Wait a minute. Let's all calm down. Marko has nothing to do with the tiger. It's a separate issue and we'll deal with it later.”

“No, we won't,” I said.

“Tom—”

“He's a murderer. He killed Grandpa. You can't just let him get away with it.” I turned from my uncle to J.J. “You told him what to do. You sent him to kill my grandfather. That makes you a murderer too.”

The atmosphere in the room had changed. It was as if someone had opened a window and a chilly draft had blown past us all, sending a shiver up our spines. Smiles had gone from faces. Everyone was looking serious. J.J. was glaring at me as if I were an idiot, some little fool who had managed to sneak past his guards and get inside his private palace. He didn't appear to be frightened or even worried; he just looked cross.

“I want to do a deal with you,” he said. “I will offer you a certain sum of money. You will want to earn more. I shall wish to pay less. We shall discuss the precise amount and, I hope, come to an agreement which is acceptable to us all. This is business. If you do not wish to do this—if you wish to make accusations and talk nonsense—then you are welcome to do so, but, please, not here. Not with me. I am too busy for such games. I have people waiting to see me. There you have it, Mr. Trelawney. The situation is not complicated. Do you want to deal with me or not? Yes or no?”

I managed to answer before my uncle. “Yes,” I said. “But I've told you already, we don't want money. We want Marko.”

“You don't want to sell the tiger?”

“No.”

J.J. looked at my uncle. “He is talking for you both?”

“Not exactly.”

“I thought not. Because he looks quite small to be in charge.”

“He is younger than me, yes, but we're a team, him and me. We work together.”

“So he speaks for you?”

Uncle Harvey hesitated. I could imagine what he was thinking. He wanted the money. He
needed
the money. But he cared about his father, too, and he wanted to catch his father's killer, just as I did. “Can I have a moment to talk to my nephew?”

“Of course you can.” J.J. spoke to one of his assistants in a low tone. She answered him. Another of them stepped in. I wished I could speak their language. They talked for a minute or two, and then J.J. turned back to us. “We will talk tomorrow,” he said. “Meera will call you in the morning. I am busy with meetings, but you can negotiate with her. She speaks for me. I hope we manage to reach an agreement. Goodbye, Tom. Goodbye, Harvey. It has been very interesting to meet you both.”

Meera escorted us out
of the museum. I was worried my uncle would double back and say we've changed our minds, here's your dumb tiger, give us the cash, but he stuck with me.

Meera said goodbye at the museum's entrance. Uncle Harvey gave her his card and told her the name of a hotel where we would probably be staying. It was where he always stayed when he was in Bangalore, he said. She tucked the card carefully into her purse and promised to call him in the morning. Then she folded her arms and waited for us to leave.

Uncle Harvey and I walked across the moat. Searchlights illuminated the enclosure below us. The three tigers were pacing silently back and forth.

My uncle said, “What's up, pussycat?”

The nearest tiger glared at him for a few seconds, as if it were measuring the distance between us, then dipped its head and continued padding around its drab home.

The black limousine was still waiting outside the museum, but its doors stayed firmly shut and the driver didn't even glance in our direction. We'd have to find our own way home.

We walked along the driveway toward the gates. I could see the guard in his uniform, standing under a spotlight, waiting for us. From here he looked like a toy soldier.

Uncle Harvey's voice came out of the gloom. “Tom?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you before,” I said. “But I couldn't. I knew you'd try to stop me.”

“You owe me a lot of money.”

“You mean for the flights?”

“I mean the money I would have got from J.J. The money that would have paid off my debts. The money that would have saved me from getting two broken legs. Did you think I was joking around?”

“No, but—”

“I've got to get the money by the end of next week or he's going to break my legs. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, but—”

“We were this close to walking away with two million dollars. All my problems would have been solved. And you had to screw it up. I hope you're feeling pleased with yourself.”

“Don't you care about catching the guy who killed Grandpa?”

“Of course I do. But I can't believe J.J. had anything to do with it. Marko looked to me like a loner. If he really killed Grandpa, he wasn't following orders.”

“What do you mean,
if
he killed Grandpa? He told me he did.”

“Like I said before, he might have been lying. Trying to scare you.”

“He wasn't lying. He killed him. Now you just blew our one chance to catch him.”

“I don't want to sound callous,” said Uncle Harvey. “But Grandpa's dead. I care about my legs. And I'm a bit worried you might have blown my one chance to save them.”

I thought about that for a moment. Then I said I was sorry.

“So am I,” said Uncle Harvey. “I'm quite attached to my legs. I'm not looking forward to having them broken.”

“Couldn't you borrow some money?”

“No one will lend me anything. I've already tried everyone I know.”

I had thought I was being clever. I thought I'd thought of the perfect way to take my revenge on Marko and force him to face justice. Now I began to feel quite stupid. Was Uncle Harvey right? Had I messed everything up?

“We've still got the tiger,” I said. “If you sold that, wouldn't you make enough money to stop them from breaking your legs?”

“I hope so. I'll let J.J. calm down overnight, then ring him in the morning.”

“Are you going to sell it to
him?
”

“Who else? I'm sorry, Tom. I know you want revenge for Grandpa, and maybe we'll find a way to do it, but it's not going to happen right now. I need that money.”

The guard opened the gate for us. We wished him good night and walked down the dark street that ran alongside the museum's high walls.

There were no streetlamps and the only light came from a few flickering lanterns in the village. Someone from there must have seen us, or been watching from the moment that we walked out of the gate, because he came running through the darkness toward us. As he came closer, I saw he was just a kid, smaller than me and skinnier, too.

“Money,” he said. “Money.”

If he'd been bigger, I would have thought he was mugging us. He looked hungry.

“Sorry,” said my uncle. “I don't have any cash.”

“Please give him something,” I said.

Uncle Harvey stared at me. “What?”

“Just a few coins.”

“You've just cost me a million dollars. Now you want me to give what little money I've got to a kid I don't know?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Uncle Harvey opened his wallet and handed over a note.

The boy wrapped his fingers around the money. “Thank you,” he said, addressing me rather than my uncle. He knew who had really given him the money. “You are from which country?”

“The U.S.”

“Why are you here? Where do you go?”

“We've been in the museum and now we want to find a taxi. We need to get back to the center. Do you know where we should go?”

“Come with me. This way.”

He gestured into the dark woods. I glanced at my uncle. Should we really dive in there, away from the light, away from the road, into the darkness, following a kid who we didn't know?

My uncle shrugged his shoulders. “Lead the way.”

The boy led us into the woods. He told us his name. It sounded like “Methi,” although I couldn't be sure; when I asked him to spell it, he just laughed. He didn't know how to spell in his own language, he explained, let alone ours. So we called him Methi.

As we walked through the dark woods, he chatted to us, asking our business, but he soon saw that we didn't want to tell him. So he told us his own story instead.

He had been born right here on this land, the same place that his family had lived for generations. Two years ago, a group of men arrived and announced that the land had been bought for development. They wouldn't say who had bought it or why. That didn't matter, they said. But you can no longer live here. You must move. We will pay you to go away.

Some of the villagers took the money and bought themselves plots of land in another village, thirty miles outside the city, but Methi's mother and father refused to move. This was their land, they insisted.
Our parents had lived here, our grandparents too, and we aren't going to leave, no matter how much we're offered.

I asked Methi what he thought of their decision—what would he have done? Taken the money? Or stayed?—but I couldn't get him to understand my questions.

Architects and engineers came next, he said, taking photographs and surveying the land. Then the builders arrived. Huge machines ripped down trees and tore up the earth.

The villagers had watched the digging of the foundations, the construction of the walls, the arrival of trucks delivering great slabs of marble and sheets of glass.