The Mountain Shadow

‘Thank you, baba. There were several big functions tonight, with many distinguished guests, so not many tips. Anything I can do for you?’

‘Keep an eye on Miss Karla. If you hear anything I should know, I’m staying at the Amritsar, on Metro.’

‘Thik,’ he said, rushing to rejoin his colleagues. ‘No problem!’

Didier returned, his expression thoughtful, a fisherman studying the rain.

‘It is established,’ he said. ‘Vishnu is expecting you. We do not have much time. We need more guns, and more cartridges.’

He began to look around for a taxi.

‘I’m not taking a gun. And you’re not coming, Didier.’

‘Lin!’ he said, stamping his foot. ‘If you deny me this adventure, I will spit on your grave. And when Didier says such a thing, it is written on stone.’

‘My grave? Why am I always dying before you do?’

‘And dance on it, like Nureyev.’

‘You’d dance on my grave?’

‘Like Nureyev.’

‘Okay. You’re coming.’

‘Should we not get some others with us?’

‘Who would go?’ I asked, starting the bike.

‘Good point,’ he conceded, still looking for a taxi.

‘Get on.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Get on the bike, Didier. I don’t want to rely on a taxi, if we have to leave that place in a hurry. Get on.’

‘But, Lin, you know about my motorcycle hysteria.’

‘Get on the bike, Didier.’

‘If cars fell over, when we got out of them, I wouldn’t ride in cars, either. It is hysteria and physics combined, you see.’

‘You don’t have motorcycle hysteria, Didier. You’re motophobic.’

‘I am?’ he asked, intrigued.

‘No doubt.’

‘Motophobic. Are you sure?’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. A lot of my friends are motophobic. But it’s okay. There’s a treatment for it.’

‘There is?’

‘Get on the bike, Didier.’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I parked the bike a block away from the mansion, and waited in the quiet side street. Moonlight wrote tree poems on the road. A thin, black cat ran through the streaks of light and shadow in front of us, sprinting to safety.

‘Thank you, Fate,’ Didier said. ‘A black cat. Of course.’

We approached the gate. I paused, looking up and down the long street. Cars passed, but it was quiet.

‘You sure you want to do this, Didier?’

‘How dare you!’ Didier said.

‘Okay. Okay. Sorry.’

I pushed open the gate, and walked to the front door. I was about to press the buzzer but Didier stopped me. He smiled, paused, and then pressed the buzzer himself.

A man approached the door. There were pieces of stained glass and frosted scroll panels on the door. I saw through the glass that he was a big man: a big man, walking slowly, with a cane. Hanuman.

He opened the door, saw me, and sneered.

‘You again,’ he said.

‘Tell me about Pakistan,’ I said.

He grabbed my shoulder as if it was a grapefruit, and shoved me along the corridor. Fit, crazy-eyed henchmen appeared from rooms at the end of the hall. Goons appeared on the stairs. Hanuman shoved me toward a door near the end of the hall.

‘Madachudh! Bahinchudh! Gandu! Saala!’ they shouted back at me, itching to rush me.

Every gun in the world is a death wish, and they were all armed, and wishing us harm. I was scared, because I hadn’t expected guns, and because outlaws, by definition, don’t go by the rules.

There was a heavy, hairy guy in a white undershirt standing closest to me in the hallway. He slowly raised a crowd pleaser, a sawn-off twelve-gauge shotgun, and pointed it at me. Hanuman frisked me. Satisfied that I wasn’t carrying a gun, he lifted my shirt to show the two knives at my back, and let the shirt fall again, stifling a yawn. The gangsters laughed, pretty hard. He turned to Didier, who stopped him with a raised palm. He took his automatic pistol from his pocket and handed it to Hanuman.

A door opened, a little way along the hallway in front of me. Vishnu walked out into the hall, standing with his men.

‘You don’t just wear out the welcome mat,’ he said calmly. ‘You cremate it. Come in, before you cause a riot.’

He walked back into the room, Hanuman shoved me forward, and we joined Vishnu in his study.

There was a mahogany desk, two plush visitor chairs and a row of wooden chairs behind them. Political and religious posters competed for space on the walls, but there were no books. A screen on the desk gave different views around the mansion, one image of security after another.

Vishnu paused at the entrance to speak with Hanuman. The tall man stooped to listen, wagging his head.

When Vishnu rejoined us he was alone. It was very confident, or very foolish. He poured three bourbons on the rocks and passed them to us, taking his place behind the desk in a high-backed office chair.

‘Mr Levy, isn’t it?’ Vishnu asked as we took our seats in front of his desk. ‘We haven’t met, but I’ve heard reports of you.’

‘Enchanté, monsieur,’ Didier replied.