The Mountain Shadow

We headed into the surrounding bushes, and in a few minutes we were moving through a swathe of jungle that ran parallel to the coast. Every now and then we glimpsed dark waves through a tree break, but after a while the sea was too far away to hear, and even the scent faded in the stronger fragrances of jungle damp.

My contact led us again and again into a smothering mass of leaves as big as elephants’ ears, to emerge on a narrow path that was invisible until he plunged us into it.

He wasn’t navigating by the stars: we couldn’t see them. His mental map of the jungle was so precise that he never hesitated in his rapid walk.

I lost him, twice. Each time I froze, listening for his step. Each time I heard nothing until he tapped me on the shoulder, and we headed off through the jungle again.

With my backpack and the smuggling vest, I was carrying thirty-five kilos. But the weight wasn’t the problem. To stop the vest from shifting, and accidentally dislodging the tablets, I’d strapped it tightly to my chest and waist. Every breath was a struggle.

We pushed through a verge of leaves and bushes onto a main road.

‘Gotta save time,’ my companion said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ll risk a side road, for a while. Much faster. If you see any light at all, hit the trees and hide. I’ll draw it off. You stay put. You got that?’

‘Yeah,’ I puffed.

‘You want me to carry the vest, for a while?’

‘I’m good.’

‘Let me at least take the backpack,’ he whispered.

I slipped the backpack off my shoulder gratefully, and he strapped it on.

‘Okay, let’s jog.’

We ran along the rough side road in a silence so complete that the occasional animal or bird cry was shocking. Every breath strained against the constricting vest.

In truth, a Nigerian gunrunner once said to me, the smuggler only really smuggles himself. All the other stuff that he carries, it’s just an excuse, you know? By the time we reached the pickup point, my excuse was threatening to stop my heart.

‘We’re here,’ my contact said.

‘Hallelujah,’ I puffed. ‘You guys ever heard of motorcycles?’

‘Sorry, man,’ my contact smiled, handing me my backpack. ‘But I think we’re in time.’

‘You think?’ I gasped, resting my arms on my knees.

‘Have you got a gun?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘Get it handy. Now.’

I unwrapped my pistol, as he checked and reloaded his ten-shot automatic. He glanced around and saw the small .22-calibre purse pistol.

‘If you run into a chunky woman, wearing a sky-blue hijab –’

‘I know. Don’t show her the gun.’

‘Fuck, man,’ he grinned. ‘You like living dangerously.’

‘Something tells me that this Blue Hijab leaves a lasting impression.’

‘She’s fine. A great comrade,’ he laughed. ‘Just don’t show her the gun.’

He glanced at his watch again, and stared into the darkness that ate the road where starlight failed.

‘If this goes south, so do you,’ he said, glancing at his watch again. ‘Head due south. This road goes to Trincomalee. Stay in the jungle, as much as you can. If you make it, report at the Castlereagh hotel. You’re booked in for two weeks. You’ll be contacted there.’

‘This is where you get off?’

‘Yeah. You won’t see me again.’

He began muttering indistinctly.

‘What?’

‘A diamond, for a pearl,’ he said.

I waited.

‘We shouldn’t be here, us Tamils. We left a diamond, Mother India, for a pearl. And no matter what we do, no matter how many of us die, it’ll never be worth it, because we gave up a diamond, for a pearl.’

‘Why do you still fight?’

‘You don’t know much about us Tamils, do you? Wait! Did you hear that?’

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.