Six Suspects (33 page)

'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 are 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!

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 carnival. 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.

The tribal eyed the open packet. 'Can Eketi also have one?'

Ashok raised his eyebrows. 'I thought you had vowed not to
touch tobacco till you got the
ingetayi
?'

'Yes. But this is not my island. Here I can do as I please.'

'No, blackie,' Ashok sneered. 'Here you do as I please. Now go
to sleep.'

Eketi lay down on the cold floor with the canvas bag as his
pillow and chewed on a strip of dried boar. Soon he could hear
Ashok's loud snores, but he found it difficult to sleep. The drumbeats
appeared to be coming closer, making the wooden floor
tremble. He got up and sat by the open window, watching the
glow of a
pandal
in the far distance, observing the junkies and
the dogs sheltering under the awnings in the street, breathing
in the air of this vast and mysterious city, feeling a frisson of guilty
pleasure.

The next morning he tagged along with Ashok, who was going for
a walking tour of the area around the hotel. In the next two hours,
he saw the white-domed Birla Planetarium, the impregnable
brick-and-mortar octagon of Fort William, and the verdant green
Maidan, full of gardens, fountains and memorials. He saw men
exercising with huge weights, running, skipping, and walking with
dogs. He smiled when he came across a group which was standing
in a circle and simply laughing, and fell silent upon seeing the
grandiose baroque of the Victoria Memorial, its white marble
shading pink under the nascent sun. It was the biggest building he
had seen in his life and the most beautiful. He shivered with the
thrill of discovery.

They continued to walk, passing the tall Shaheed Minar
column tower at the northern end of the Maidan, and ended up
in Esplanade. The relentless bustle of thousands on the move, the
high-rise buildings, the cacophony of sounds thrilled and amazed
Eketi. He was especially fascinated by the sonorous trams, moving
at a leisurely pace in the middle of the road. 'Can Eketi ride one?'
He tugged at Ashok's sleeve and the welfare officer grudgingly
relented. They boarded the next tram that came along. It was
moderately crowded and they managed to squeeze themselves in.
But at the very next stop a throng of commuters charged on and
the tram became choked to the gills. Eketi got separated from
Ashok and found himself trapped between two executives with
briefcases in their hands. The crush of people was unbearable.
Eketi began to feel suffocated. Fighting for breath, he dropped
down and began burrowing through the legs of passengers, inching
towards the rear exit. Managing eventually to reach the door,
he swung himself out through the metal railing, used the open
window as a ledge and nimbly hoisted himself over the top. Now
he sat on the roof of the tram, just below the overhead electricity
cable, with his black canvas bag beside him, and felt the liberating
rush of a bird released from its cage.

The tram moved into Dalhousie Square, now known as BBD
Bagh, the administrative epicentre of the city, and that is where
his journey ended. A traffic constable on duty gaped at him in
amazement, then ran in front of the tram and brought it to a jerky
halt.

Inside the crowded tram Ashok Rajput had finally managed to
find a seat. He wiped the sweat and grime from his forehead,
looked distastefully at the seething mass of humanity swirling
around him and wondered whether this would be his last journey
by public transport. Kolkata, he had concluded, did not suit him.
There was something about the air of the city – it congealed at the
back of the throat like phlegm. And the snarling traffic, the sickly
beggars, the filthy streets did not help matters. By this evening, if
all went well, he would have the sacred rock in his hands.
He had done considerable research on the
ingetayi
. It was
reputed to be a piece of black sandstone, approximately thirty
inches tall, shaped like a phallus and carved with indecipherable
hieroglyphics, dating back at least seventy thousand years. He
would get Eketi to steal it from Banerjee. Then he would get an
exact replica made from a sculptor he knew in Jaisalmer. Eketi
would then be quietly sent back with the replica to his hell hole
on Little Andaman, and he would sell the original to Khosla
Antiques, who had already agreed to pay him eighteen lakh rupees
for the oldest engraved
shivling
in the world.

Ashok Rajput thought of all the things he would do once he
got the money. First of all, he would go to see Gulabo. He had
taken up the demeaning job of junior welfare officer on that faraway
island, cut off from civilization, only to spite her for turning
him down. He had not visited her in five years, though he had
continued to send her money orders for two thousand rupees a
month to pay for Rahul's education. But he had been unable to
forget her. Gulabo called out to him over the expanse of all those
thousands of kilometres of land and sea separating Rajasthan from
the Andamans, invaded his dreams, still made him hot and furious
with longing.

Now he would go to Jaisalmer, shower her with wads of thousand-
rupee notes and taunt her, 'You always called me a good for
nothing. Well, what do you say now?' And then he would propose
to her again. He was quietly confident she would accept him this
time. Without any preconditions. He would give up his third-rate
job dealing with wretched tribals in the middle of nowhere and
settle down in Rajasthan. The
ingetayi
was the ultimate good-luck
charm and it would change his life for ever.

He was jolted out of his reverie by the tram suddenly screeching
to a halt.

'
Korchen ta ki?
' the cop barked, pointing a finger at Eketi and
gesturing him to get down. '
Namun dada namun
.'

As soon as Eketi descended from the roof, the tram conductor
confronted him. 'Did you want to commit suicide?
Ticket kothai?
'

The passengers craned their necks out of the windows to stare
at him.

'
Nam ki?
' the constable demanded.

Eketi simply shook his head.

'This fellow is not Indian,' the conductor declared. 'See how
black he is. He looks African to me. Let's check inside his bag. He
must be a drug-dealer.' He tried to pull the canvas bag from
Eketi's shoulder.

'No!' Eketi cried and pushed the conductor away.
The constable caught his ear and twisted it. 'Do you have a
ticket?'

'Yes,' Eketi replied.

'Then where is it?'

'With Ashok Sahib.'

'And where is this Ashok?'