We listened for a while to the darkness. A small animal moved through the jungle nearby, swiftness hissing through the leaves. The jungle was silent again.
‘I’m fighting the army that trained me,’ he said softly, staring north along the road.
‘The Indian Army?’
At that time, the major military presence in Sri Lanka was the IPKF, the Indian Peace Keeping Force.
‘RAW,’ he replied. ‘They trained all of us. Bombs, weapons, tactical coordination, the whole lot.’
The Research and Analysis Wing was India’s counter-intelligence unit. It held a fearsome reputation throughout the region. RAW operatives were highly trained and motivated, and their By Any Means Necessary status gave them a licence that left a lot of questions where their commando boots landed, and not many answers.
Indian intelligence agents collected information from many sources, including the gangs. Every mafia Company in Bombay knew someone from RAW, openly or undercover, and every mafia Company knew better than to fight them.
‘And now they’re at war with us,’ my contact sighed, ruefully. ‘A diamond, crushing a pearl.’
We heard a noise, maybe the distant grating of gears, and hunkered down in the bushes, staring at the tunnel of the road. Then we heard the unmistakeable grunt and cough of a truck engine, labouring uphill.
The tall, tottering cargo truck rolled into view, and began coasting downhill toward us.
‘Is it ours?’
‘It’s ours,’ he grinned, pulling me up with him.
We walked to the edge of the road, where he waved a small blue-light torch. The truck squealed and creaked to a stop, the engine racing on idle.
As we approached, I noticed that a jeep had been driving behind the truck, lights out, and had stopped in its shadow.
My contact led me to the jeep. I glanced into the back of the truck and saw fifteen or more people sitting on bales of cotton.
‘You’re in the jeep,’ my contact said. ‘You’re a journalist, remember? Can’t have you travelling with the common folk.’
My cover name was James Davis, Canadian, a stringer for Reuters news agency. My passport and accreditation were impeccable: I’d made them myself.
We shook hands, knowing that we’d probably never see one another again, and that one or both of us would probably be dead within the year.
He leaned in close to me.
‘Remember, check in at the Castlereagh, keep a low profile, you’ll be contacted within forty-eight hours. Good luck. May Maa Durga be your guardian.’
‘And yours.’
He broke away to clamber up the tailgate of the truck and onto a cotton bale. He waved, and smiled at me.
For an instant, it looked exactly like the throne of sacks in the courtyard of the Cycle Killers, but with ghosts of war, instead of hired assassins.
I took the passenger seat of the jeep, shaking hands with the driver and the two young men sitting in the back.
The truck pulled away and the jeep followed. My contact’s face hovered in the swaying shadow, carrying him south. His eyes held mine.
People who abhor crime, as I do, often ask why men who commit crimes, as I did, do such things.
One of the big answers is that the low road is always easier, until it crumbles away beneath desire. One of the small answers is that when life and freedom are at stake, the men you meet are often exceptional. In other lives, they’d be captains of industry, or captains of armies.
In the jungle, on the run, they’re friends, because a friend is anyone prepared to die beside you. And men who’ll die beside you without even knowing you are hard to find, unless you know a lot of cops, soldiers or outlaws.
The truck turned onto a side road. Shadows closed over my contact’s face. I never saw him or heard about him again.
We rode on for twenty minutes, and then the driver stopped the jeep in a clearing, beside the road.
‘Get your passport and papers ready. We’re going through a few checkpoints. Sometimes they’re manned, sometimes, not. Things have been quiet here, for a while. Put this on.’
He handed me a dark blue flak vest with the word PRESS on the chest. The driver and the two men in the back donned flak vests, and the driver stuck a white square bearing the same word on the windshield.
We rode on past scattered cabins and shacks, and then the first large houses. What seemed to be the light of a forest fire on the horizon was the bright city, only ten kilometres away.
We passed through three unmanned checkpoints, slowing to a crawl each time, and then speeding up quickly. Skirting the city, we reached the coastal vantage point of Orr’s Hill, and the Castlereagh hotel, in just under an hour.
‘Damn lucky,’ the driver said, as he stopped the jeep in the driveway. ‘There’s a Bollywood actress doing a show tonight for the Indian troops. Guess they couldn’t tear themselves away.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Don’t mention,’ he smiled. ‘May Jesus be with you, comrade.’
‘And with you.’
The jeep backed out of the driveway and sped away. The local contacts had been a Muslim, a Hindu, and a Christian, and they’d all used the word comrade. My contacts were always black market hustlers: men you knew how far to trust. The comrades were a new touch. I wondered what other surprises Sanjay had in store for me. I shouldered my backpack, and looked up at the gabled prow of the Castlereagh hotel.
It was in the white colonial style that colonial white men built for themselves, wherever they could steal gold. The gold in the vest, strapped to my chest, was coming back home to one of those colonies, and I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.
I paused, and did a name check. A smuggler has to live in a new fake name and accent for a while, before using it. As a fugitive with a price on my head, I collected accents and practised them whenever I could.
I’m James Davis. James. My name is James Davis. Maybe not. I’m Jim Davis. Was I Jimmy, as a kid? Jim Davis, pleased to meet you. No, please, call me Jim.
When I found the fake name I could trust, I found my way into the new life I had to live for a while. The problem was simplified by war for my companion, my contact, who’d ridden away as a shadow in the back of a truck. When he wasn’t with those he loved or trusted, he had no name at all.
I climbed the granite and tile steps, crossed the wooden veranda and tapped on the filigreed glass of the main door. In a few moments, the night porter opened the door a crack.
‘Davis,’ I said, flipping easily into a Canadian accent. ‘Jim Davis. I have a reservation.’
He waved me inside, locking the door securely, and led me to the reservations desk, where he copied my passport details into a ledger that was half the size of a pool table. It took a while.
‘The kitchen is closed, sir,’ the attendant said at last, closing the book a page at a time as if he was making a bed. ‘There are very few guests at the moment. The season proper begins in three months. But there are cold snacks, and I can mix you a very nice drink, if you like. The house special.’
He walked across the large hotel reception area and switched on a lamp beside a comfortable, linen-covered couch. Moving nimbly, he crossed the room again, and opened a door leading to the bathrooms.
He switched on another light, and plucked a towel from the rail.
‘If you’d like to freshen up, sir?’ he said.
I was hungry and thirsty. I didn’t want to spend half an hour or longer creating a safe hiding-place in the hotel room for my golden vest. So long as I was wearing it, the vest was safe.
I accepted the towel, washed my face and hands, and then sat down on the couch, where a place had already been set for me.
‘I took the liberty of preparing a drink, sir,’ he said, placing a tall glass in front of me. ‘With coconut, fresh lime, a bite of ginger, a dash of
bitter chocolate flakes, and a few secret ingredients of my own. If it’s not to your liking, I’ll prepare another of your choosing.’
‘So far, I’m happy to let you do the choosing, Mr – may I know your name?’
‘Ankit, sir,’ he replied. ‘My name is Ankit.’
‘A nice name. The Complete. I’m Jim.’
‘You know Indian names, sir?’
‘I know Indian names, Ankit. Where are you from?’
‘I’m from Bombay,’ he said, placing a tray of sandwiches in front of me. ‘Like you.’
He was either my contact at the hotel, or he was an enemy. I was hoping for the contact. The sandwiches looked good.
‘Wanna sit down?’
‘I can’t,’ he said, speaking softly. ‘It wouldn’t look right, if someone came in. But thank you, anyway. Are you okay?’
He meant, Did you bring any trouble with you? It was a fair question.
‘I’m good,’ I said, dropping the Canadian accent. ‘We passed through empty checkpoints. We were lucky. There’s a movie star in town, entertaining the troops.’
He relaxed, allowing himself to lean on the back of an armchair.
He was a little taller than I was, thin, perhaps forty-five years old, and had thick, grey hair. His eyes were sharp, and he was fit. I guessed that his confident, graceful movements had been learned in boxing, or some other martial art.
‘I made veg, and non-veg options,’ he said, gesturing toward the tray of sandwiches.
‘Right now I’m hungry enough to eat the napkin option. Mind if I go ahead?’
‘Eat! Eat!’ he said in Hindi. ‘I’ll fill you in, while you fill yourself in, so to speak.’
I ate everything. The cocktail was good, too. My contact, Ankit, a Hindu from Bombay in the middle of a war involving Buddhists, Muslims and other Hindus, was a good host and a valuable resource. While I ate, he listed the requirements for my two- or three-day role of journalist.
‘And most importantly, you have to report to the checkpoint every day before noon, to get stamped,’ he said in conclusion. ‘That’s a must. If you’re here for a few days, and they see a single day missing, you’ll be detained. Have you ever had the feeling that you’re not wanted?’
‘Not recently.’
‘Well, if you miss a day, and they catch you, you’re going to feel like the Universe doesn’t want you any more.’
‘Thanks, Ankit. Doesn’t anyone in this war have a sense of humour? The Universe doesn’t want me any more? That’s such a depressing thought that I insist on one more of your special cocktails, immediately.’
‘Just don’t miss that checkpoint,’ he laughed, returning to the small bar in the lounge area.
He went back to the bar several times, I guess. I lost count after the third time, because everything after that was the same thing, somehow, like watching the same leaf float past on a stream, again and again.
I wasn’t doped. Ankit was a damn good bartender: the kind who knows exactly how drunk you don’t need to be. His voice was soft, kind and patient, although I had no idea what he was saying, after a while. I forgot about the mission, and the Sanjay Company.
Flowers so big I couldn’t put my arms around them tried to press my eyes closed. I was tumbling, slowly, drifting, almost weightless, in feathered petals.
Ankit was talking.
I closed my eyes.
The white flowers became a river. It carried me to a place of peace, among the trees, where a dog ran toward me, frantic with happiness, and pawed at my chest happily.
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘Davis!’
The dog scratched and pawed at the edge of the dream, trying to claw me back to that place, that sacred space.
‘Davis!’
I opened my eyes. There was a blanket over me. I was still sitting where I’d slept, but Ankit had put a pillow behind my head, and a blanket over my chest. My hand was in my jacket pocket, holding the small automatic. A deep breath told me that the golden vest was still in place.
Okay.
There was a stranger stooping over me.
Not okay.
‘Back off, friend.’
‘Sure, sure,’ the man said, straightening up and offering his hand. ‘I’m Horst.’
‘Do you often wake people up to meet them, Horst?’
He laughed. It was loud. Too loud.
‘Okay, Horst, do me a favour. Don’t laugh like that again, until I’ve had two coffees.’
He laughed again. A lot.
‘You’re kind of a slow learner, aren’t you?’
He laughed again. Then he offered me a cup of hot coffee.
It was excellent. You can’t dislike someone who brings you good, strong coffee, when you’ve been thirty-minute drunk only four hours before.
I looked up at him.
His eyes were sun-bleached blue. His head seemed unnaturally large, to me. I thought that Ankit’s coconut lime drinks were to blame until I stood, and saw that he had an unnaturally large head.
‘That’s a big head you’ve got on you,’ I said, as I shook hands with him. ‘Ever played rugby?’
‘No,’ he laughed. ‘You can’t imagine how hard it is to find a hat that fits.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I can’t. Thanks for the coffee.’
I started to walk away. It was still in the half-light. I wanted to beat the dawn to my bedroom, and sleep a little more.
‘But you have to report, at the checkpoint,’ he said. ‘And believe me, it’s much safer for us just after dawn, than at any other time, ja.’
I was still wearing the flak vest marked PRESS. He was inviting me, as a fellow journalist. If I had to do it, it was better in company. Sleep no more.
‘Who are you with?’ I asked.
‘Der Spiegel,’ he replied. ‘Well, I’m freelancing for them. And you?’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Long enough to know the safest time to report to the checkpoint.’
‘Do I have time to wash up?’
‘Make it quick.’
I ran upstairs to my room, stripped off, had a cold shower, and was dried and re-vested in six minutes.
I came down the stairs in a jog, but found the lounge area empty. The windows of dawn light were at exactly the same intensity as the lights in the room: a light without shadows.
A soft, scraping sound stirred the stillness. Gardeners were working already.
I walked through to the long, wide veranda, directly above the open wound of lawns surrounding the hotel: a wound that the jungle ceaselessly sought to heal.
Seven servants were hard at work, hacking, chopping and spraying herbicide on the perimeter: the urban front line in the war with nature.
I watched them for a while, waiting for Horst. I could hear the jungle, speaking the wind.
Give us twenty-five years. Leave this place. Come back, after twenty-five years. You’ll see. We’ll heal it of all this pain.
‘I’d like to have a few of those fellows working for me,’ Horst said, as he came to stand beside me. ‘My girlfriend has a place in Normandy. It’s lovely, and all that, but it’s a lot of work. A couple of these guys would fix it up in no time.’
‘They’re Tamils,’ I said, watching them drift across lawns lit by hovering dew. ‘Tamils are like the Irish. They’re everywhere. You’ll find hard-working Tamils in Normandy, if you look hard enough.’
‘How do you know they’re Tamils?’ Horst asked suspiciously.
I turned to face him. I wanted another coffee.
‘They’re doing the dirty work,’ I said.
‘Oh, yeah, yeah,’ he laughed.
It wasn’t funny. I wasn’t laughing. He pinched his laugh to a frown.
‘Which agency did you say you’re with?’
&
nbsp; ‘I didn’t say.’
‘You’re a real secretive guy, aren’t you?’
‘The shooting is wallpaper. The real war is always between us, the journalists.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Horst asked nervously. ‘I just asked you who you’re with, that’s all.’
‘See, if I make friends with you, and I break a story, and then I find out you stole it from me, I’d have to hunt you down and beat you up. And that’s not good.’
He squinted at me. His eyes flared.
‘Reuters!’ he said. ‘Only you Reuters pricks are so stingy with a story.’
I wanted another coffee. Ankit appeared at my elbow. He was carrying a small glass of something.
‘I thought that a fortification might be required, sir, if you will forgive the impertinence,’ Ankit said. ‘The road you walk this morning is not kind.’
I drank the glass, discovering that it was sherry, and damn good.
‘Ankit,’ I said, ‘we just got related.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Ankit replied equably.
‘You there,’ Horst said to Ankit. ‘Can you find out, please, if any of these fellows have work permits for outside of Sri Lanka?’
I held Ankit’s response with a raised hand.
‘Are we gonna get going, Horst, before the bears wake up?’
‘Bears?’ he said, making it sound like beers. ‘There are no bears. It’s tigers, not bears. The Tamil Tigers. They’re absolutely crazy, those fucks. They all carry suicide capsules, in case they’re caught.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘They don’t seem to realise that when they do that, commit suicide like that, they make the other side even more determined to throw them out of the country.’
‘Are we gonna do this?’
‘Yeah, yeah, sure. Don’t set fire to your pants.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t set fire to your pants,’ he repeated crossly, crossing the lawn.
‘Already with the rules,’ I said, following him out onto the main road.
Fighting in Trincomalee had ceased, and a slender ceasefire had prevailed for weeks. The German staff of Der Spiegel had returned to their home offices for other assignments. Horst, an Austrian stringer, had stayed on.