Six Suspects

  My leg was still bleeding, but in my excitement I had forgotten all about it. I just kept driving that forklift till I hit a T-junction. I had to decide whether to go left or right. I chose right, and just five minutes later ran into an army picket. Fifty Pakistani soldiers swarmed all over the forklift, cocked their rifles at me and told me to get down.

  'Whoa, hold your horses, fellas, I surrender.' I put up my hands, stepped down from the hi-lo and fainted on the road.

  I learnt later that I was taken to a town called Muzaffarabad and put in a military hospital. It took me a week to recover. In the meantime Mom called and blabbered something about the President having called her up, though she was more excited about being able to wear all the shoes she wanted for free coz she had just got married to Mr Hinson who owns the Fabulous Shoe Store in downtown Waco.

  An officer called John Smith from the American Embassy over in Islamabad came to meet me, wearing a dark suit and dark shades. 'We know all about you, Mr Page,' he said. 'We've been trying to track you down for the past two months.'

  'Well, here I am,' I said. 'What you gonna do? Put me in jail?'

  'No, Sir, we are going to send you to New Delhi in a USAF plane. Your case officer is Miss Elizabeth Brookner. She will de-brief you.'

  'Holy cow! You mean she'll take off my underwear?' I cried.

  'No, Sir, that's just company slang for extracting humint,' John Smith said, making me even more confused.

  Two days later, on 22 March, I was back at New Delhi airport.

  It was a chilly morning, but Mizz Brookner was waiting for me, together with a stretch limo, right on the tarmac.

  'It's an honour to welcome you back to New Delhi, Mr Page,' she said. 'You look different.' She was damned right. I had lost sixty pounds of fat since she last saw me. I looked leaner, trimmer and fitter.

  'You sound different, too,' I replied.

  'I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?'

  'I've had enough of bad news. Out with the good first.'

  'Well, in recognition of your sterling role in the elimination of three dangerous terrorists, including one on our most-wanted list, on the recommendation of the Secretary of State and the Attorney General, you have been awarded fifteen million dollars under the Rewards for Justice programme. The cash is waiting for you at the Embassy. And it's all tax-free. Congratulations!'

  It took me a minute to digest this info. 'Fifteen million dollars!' I couldn't believe my mouth. That jerk Abu Khaled wasn't boasting. 'Then what's the bad news?'

  'An inter-agency process has determined that there may be continuing danger to your life from Al Qaeda and other terrorist elements. You are therefore required to accept our Witness Protection Programme and agree to relocation.'

  'You mean just like in that flick Eraser?'

  'Kind of. You will have to assume a new identity, a new name – even a new face, if you so wish.'

  'I got no problem with that. To be honest, I never liked my name all that much. Can I look like Arnie Schwarzenegger?'

  She smiled. 'That might take some doing. But do you have any ideas with regard to a new career? This is your chance to do what you've always wanted. With fifteen million, you can even retire on a ranch in Texas if you want.'

  'Tell you what, I've always been fascinated by the Fibi guys.'

  'Fibi? Oh, you mean FBI?'

  'Yeah. I was there outside Mount Carmel in '93, when the Fibi guys were doing their siege of the loonies at the ranch.'

  'Oh, the Branch Davidians? What were you doing there?'

  'Mom thought my pa may have joined that Koresh dude, but he wasn't there.'

  'So you want to be an FBI agent?'

  'Yeah.'

  'I'm sorry, Mr Page, but that's out of the question. To become an FBI agent you need a bachelor's degree and at least three years of related full-time work experience.'

  'Do I also need a degree to become a Hollywood producer?'

  'A Hollywood producer?'

  'Yeah. Those guys who make movies.'

  'I don't think so.'

  'Then can I become one?'

  Lizzie thought about it. 'That should be possible, I reckon. We could probably set you up within a week.'

  'That would be just great. Then I can meet Arnie Schwarzenegger and Harrison Ford and—'

  Lizzie cut me short. 'We'll talk about that when you come in for your de-brief. I've scheduled it for 15:00 hours at the Grinder.'

  'Grinder? What's that?'

  'That's company jargon for a secure room. Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Now get into the limo.'

  Later that day I went to the Embassy and received my fifteen million dollars in a spanking new Samsonite suitcase, together with a thank-you letter from the President. I thought he lived in Washington, but he actually lived in a place called White House.

  'Your wish has been granted, Larry,' Lizzie told me. 'Under the Witness Protection Programme, you will be relocated to Los Angeles, California. A production company called Sizzling Films has been registered in your name. A bucket squad of two undercover FBI agents will provide you round-the-clock surveillance and protection.'

  'Well I'll be dipped! So when do I start meeting Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts?'

  'Actually you won't.'

  'I won't? Why?'

  'Because Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt charge twenty million dollars per movie. So with fifteen million dollars you can forget about producing Hollywood blockbusters. We are therefore setting you up as a producer of, er . . . adult films.'

  'You mean films with only adult actors?'

  'No, it's a polite word for porn.'

  'Oh no! What if my mom finds out?'

  'She won't. We are giving you a completely new identity. Now tell me, how familiar are you with the adult film industry?'

  'I don't know a thing. Mom would have killed me if she caught me watching that filth.'

  'I thought so. That's why I got you their latest directory. It's the most comprehensive database of all actors and actresses working in the US porn industry. Study it, or you'll blow your cover.' Lizzie handed me a thick red book.

  I flipped through the first few pages and suddenly stopped. Sandwiched between Busty Dusty and Honey Bunny was a handsome man wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. 'Oh my God!' I said.

  Lizzie peered at the photo. 'It says he is called Big Dick Harry and he has been in the business since 1989. Do you know him?'

  'Yeah,' I said, squirming like a worm in hot ashes. 'That's my pa!'

  'Are you certain?'

  'Well, he sure looks like my pa, only slightly older.'

  'I'll put Langley on the job right away. We'll have positive ID within forty-eight hours. And here's your new passport.' Lizzie handed me an envelope.

  I opened it and discovered that the passport belonged to a gentleman by the name of Mr Rick Myers. 'Hey, you got me the wrong passport,' I cried.

  'No. That's your new name, Rick Myers,' said Lizzie. 'A private jet is standing by to fly you to the States. Is there anything you want to do before you leave India?'

  'Well, there was one other thing . . .' I hesitated.

  'Just tell me, and it will be done, Mr Myers.'

  'I was wondering if I could meet the actress Shabnam Saxena just once before I go back.'

  'That can be arranged.'

  'She lives in Mumbai.'

  'Well, tomorrow she'll be in Delhi.'

  'How do you know that?'

  'You are forgetting, Mr Myers, you're talking to the CIA Station Chief. It's my job to know. But the honest answer is that I've just been invited by an industrialist friend, Vicky Rai, to a party at his farmhouse in Mehrauli tomorrow night, and I am told this actress will be there. I have no interest in Bollywood and I was not planning on attending the party, but I can arrange for you to go.'

  'Wow, that'll be great.'

  'Good. But I want you to be very careful. Al Qaeda also has India in its sights. And as long as you're in India, you a
re my responsibility. I don't want to lose my jock-strap medals just because you fail to CYA – that's company code for Cover Your Ass. So here, take this gun.' She opened a drawer and drew out something long and mean. 'It's a Glock 23 with an Abraxas titanium suppressor. Standard supply to all FBI officers. A real hush puppy. Keep it with you at all times, even when you are sleeping.' She passed it to me, butt first. 'I presume, being from Texas, you know how to handle guns?'

  'Oh yeah.' I waved my hand. 'I've been handling guns since I was seven.'

  Lizzie was about to say something when her mobile rang. She listened and then swore. 'Shit!'

  'What happened?' I asked.

  'It's ears-only information. We inserted an indigenous for an over-the-fence op in Tibet. Now the plumbing's come unstuck and I have to arrange a nine-millimetre pension plan for the joker.'

  'What kind of plan is that?'

  'That's one plan you don't need in a hurry,' Lizzie laughed. 'It's Agency code for termination with extreme prejudice. Look, I have to leave right away. I'll get someone to escort you out.'

  Lizzie took off faster than a prom dress, but no one came to take me. I waited for half an hour before walking out of the secure room on my own. I found myself in a beautiful garden. There was not a soul in sight. With fifteen million dollars in one hand and a gun in the other, I was a pig in clover. I'd been handling toy cowboy guns since I was seven, but this was the first time I had held a real gun in my hand. It was a mighty fancy piece, with a barrel as long as a dog's tail. I was fumbling with the magazine when suddenly there was a click and the dadgum gun recoiled in my hand like a startled mongoose. Little wisps of smoke were curling from the barrel. It seemed to have a mind of its own, so I locked it inside the Samsonite and strolled towards the exit.

  There was a big black limo parked near the steps and a dude with white hair wearing a blue suit was lying face-down on the ground. The marines were all over him like flies on shit.

  'What's the matter with him?' I asked a marine who was bending over the old guy.

  'A sniper just tried to kill the Ambassador!' the marine screamed. 'Get down, get down!'

  I hurried to the main gate, where a guard took back my visitor's badge and waved me through.

  Once out on the road, I patted the Samsonite. If there were crazies roaming the city shooting people, I sure was glad to have some protection of my own. With Lizzie's gun, I'd tell the Al Qaeda dudes to KMRA – that's Page family jargon for Kiss My Royal American!

  12

  The Curse of the Onkobowkwe

  THE TRIBAL from Little Andaman sat on tram number thirty plying between Kalighat and Howrah Bridge and felt the breeze caress his face.

  It was nine thirty a.m. on 19 October. The air was pleasantly warm, the early-morning smog had lifted and the sky was without a cloud – a seamless expanse of blue broken only by the jagged pinnacles of the high-rises. The tepid sunlight tickled Eketi's skin.

  He inhaled the heavy, acrid smell of the city, spread his arms wide, threw back his head and revelled in the dazzling delight of being alive. As if on cue, two grey pigeons fluttered over his head in synchronized unison, sharing in the day's jubilation. He was in Esplanade, the teeming heart of the metropolis, and everywhere he looked he saw people and more people. Children pointed at him excitedly, men simply gawked, and women drew their breath sharply and covered their mouths with their hands; he smiled and waved at them. All around the tram was a vortex of traffic – cars, taxis, rickshaws, scooters, cycles. Horns blared, honked, buzzed and screeched. Swarms of battered private buses hurtled along the road, with uniformed conductors hanging out from the side shouting destinations at the top of their voices. Garish advertisements for toothpaste and shampoo screamed for attention from huge billboards. The tall decadent buildings on either side of the road loomed like a range of ancient hills. Eketi felt as if he was floating through a magnificent dream.

  It was just over a fortnight since that fateful day when he had volunteered to recover the sacred rock stolen by Banerjee. The Elders had been taken by surprise by Ashok Rajput, the junior welfare officer, who had eavesdropped on their deliberations. They had been even more surprised by his willingness to take Eketi to India by ship and help recover the ingetayi. Under duress, they had grudgingly accepted his offer. Not only had he discovered their plans, he was the only one who knew Banerjee's address. But they had cautioned Eketi to be wary of him. The welfare officer was to be used to reach the sacred rock and then discarded like a pesky fly.

  The preparations for the trip had taken more than a week. Ashok had to obtain leave from the Welfare Department. And Nokai, the medicine man, took his time putting together Eketi's 'survival kit' – tubers and strips of dried boar for eating, medicinal pellets for healing, lumps of red and white clay for body-painting, a pouch of pig fat for mixing the clay, and the pièce de résistance, the chauga-ta, a charm to ward off disease, made of the bones of the great Tomiti himself. Eketi had hidden all these in a black canvas bag – a fake Adidas he had picked up from Hut Bay – and covered them up with a few old clothes. Following a night of feasting and festivity, he had received a hero's send-off. The next day he had left Little Andaman with Ashok for Port Blair in a government speedboat. That same night he had been smuggled aboard MV Jahangir, a large passenger ship which sailed three times a month to Kolkata and whose captain was known to Ashok. The welfare officer had taken a deluxe cabin while Eketi had been dumped in a third-class bunk, to stay hidden from prying eyes in a cramped closet close to the engine room.

  'Now remember,' Ashok had instructed Eketi, 'no one must find out that you are an Onge from Little Andaman. So you must keep your hair covered at all times with your cap and ensure that the jawbone around your neck is hidden underneath your T-shirt. If anyone asks, you should say that you are an adivasi, a tribal called Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand. Jharkhand is an Indian State which has many primitive tribes like yours. Understood? Now repeat your new name.'

  'Eketi is Jiba Koba from Jakhan.'

  'Idiot!' Ashok knocked him on the head. 'You need to say, "I am Jiba Korwa from Jharkhand." Now put on your cap and repeat after me twenty times.'

  So Eketi had put on his red Gap cap and repeated his new name till he had memorized it.

  The ship had completed its 1,255-kilometre journey in three days, arriving at the Kidderpore Dock in Kolkata the evening before. They had waited for all the passengers to leave and for night to fall. Then they had disembarked and taken a taxi.

  No sooner had the taxi left the docks than the night sky had come alive with a brilliant display of fireworks. The ground shook with the sounds of exploding crackers. 'Are they welcoming me?' Eketi asked excitedly, but Ashok shushed him and tapped the driver's shoulder. 'How come you guys are celebrating Diwali twenty days before it is due?'

  The driver laughed. 'What, you don't even know that you have arrived in Kolkata at the time of our biggest festival? Today is Saptami, tomorrow is Mahashtami.'

  'Oh shit,' Ashok swore under his breath. 'I didn't realize we were landing here bang in the middle of Durga Puja.'

  The city was indeed in the grip of puja fervour. There were magnificent pandals at virtually every street corner, glittering in the night like lighted palaces. Eketi sat in the front seat and gaped at the temporary temples of cloth and bamboo, each competing with the other in raucous gaudiness. Some had domes, some had minarets. One called to mind a South Indian temple tower, while another harked back to a Tibetan pagoda. There was one shaped like a Grecian amphitheatre and another which resembled an Italian palazzo. The approach to these pandals was lined with red carpets and lit with a series of illuminated panels.

  The streets were full of people, more than Eketi had seen in his life, and the city was slick with sound. Loudspeakers boomed from every pandal. Drum beats reverberated from every corner, a primal call for the tribe to gather. And they gathered in their millions, in their starched saris and immaculately ironed shirts and trousers, converting the city into one giant carni
val. The taxi was forced to take several detours as entire streets were blocked off by the police, who blared out cautionary instructions to pedestrians from their megaphones.

  An hour and ten minutes later, the taxi stopped in Sudder Street, the backpacker ghetto full of mildewed hotels and decrepit shops selling food, souvenirs and internet access. Ashok checked into Milton Hotel, which had a strange atmosphere of gloomy decay. The manager looked suspiciously at Eketi and asked to see his passport. Ashok had to produce his government ID card to prevent further questioning.

  They went through dimly lit corridors to a room on the first floor which was very basic, just two beds separated by a small table. In the harsh glare of the strip light, Eketi noticed damp patches on the walls and cobwebs in every corner. A dripping sound came from the adjoining toilet.

  'Eketi doesn't like this hotel.' He curled up his nose.

  Anger flared up on Ashok's face. 'What did you expect, darkie? That I'd put you up at the Oberoi? Even this dump is much better than your lousy huts. Now shut up and lie down on the floor.'

  As Eketi looked on sullenly, the welfare officer enjoyed a meal of chicken curry and naan bread ordered from room service. Then he took out his lighter and lit up a cigarette.