The Sultan's Tigers

by Josh Lacey

  “Oh, yeah. I wanted to ask you about that. What is Sotheby’s?”

  “Sotheby’s is a very famous and respectable auction house. If you wanted to sell an antique tiger covered in jewels, you might well take it there.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Have a look. It’s from a sale of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Indian art and antiques.”

  He turned the screen to me.

  The tiger was bought for $1,900,000 by a representative of the well-known Indian businessman and art collector Jalata Jaragami, who already owns six of the eight tigers from the famous throne. His unparalleled collection of historical material connected to Tipu Sultan will soon be on show to the public in a new museum to be built on the outskirts of Bangalore.

  I reached for his phone, wanting to scroll down and read more, but he snatched it back and started tapping the screen.

  “What are you doing now?” I said.

  “Searching.”

  “For what?”

  “I told you: information.”

  “I didn’t have to tell you about this,” I said. “I could have done it on my own. We’re partners now, Uncle Harvey. You’ve got to tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Relax,” he replied.

  “No. Tell me. What are you searching for?”

  “I’ve just typed in ‘Jalata Jaragami tiger’ and this is what I’ve found. Here you go—have a look.”

  It was an article from the Hindustan Times.

  Renowned entrepreneur and billionaire businessman Jalata Jaragami today announced the creation of a magnificent museum to house his collection of art, antiques, and relics connected to legendary ruler Tipu Sultan.

  “I was born in Bengaluru and have lived in Karnataka for my entire life,” said the owner of the Jaragami Corporation. “This is my small way of saying thank you and contributing something to the cultural heritage of my beloved local area.”

  The museum has been under construction for some time already, said Mr. Jaragami, and is due to open next year. Among the exhibits will be displayed one of Tipu Sultan’s swords, a diamond brooch, and seven of the eight bejewelled tigers from Tipu’s throne.

  According to legend, Tipu Sultan ordered his craftsmen to build a magnificent throne, but swore a vow that he would not sit on it until the British had been banished from the sub-continent.

  When Tipu Sultan’s palace was overrun by the colonial East India army in May 1799, many of the treasures were looted and disappeared. Most were stolen by British soldiers and taken to their own country, some never to be seen again. Jalata Jaragami is determined to bring these valuables back to their home and gather Tipu Sultan’s treasures in one place.

  Uncle Harvey grabbed a sheet of paper from the bed. We looked at the words scrawled in my grandfather’s shaky handwriting.

  I would rather live two days as a tiger than two hundred years as a sheep.

  Tipu Sultan.

  Jaragami.

  Sotheby’s Sale of 18th-century Indian and Islamic Art—3 March 2011—1.9m.

  “This guy really did pay two million dollars for it,” muttered Uncle Harvey.

  “Do you think he’ll pay that much for the last tiger too?”

  “I should be very surprised if he wouldn’t pay even more.”

  “So, should we go and find it?”

  “You don’t even know it’s still there.”

  “I bet it is.”

  “Why? What if Horatio’s wife did as he suggested and found it for herself?”

  “Wouldn’t we know about that?”

  “Maybe we would. Maybe we wouldn’t. Even if she didn’t, someone else might have done. Two hundred years is a long time for something to stay hidden.”

  “If it had been found, why would Marko be here?”

  “Someone might have found it and kept it.”

  “Oh, come on, Uncle Harvey. You know it’s still there, don’t you? It’s got to be! And we’ve got to go and find it. Let’s go to India and get this tiger!”

  “If only it was that easy.”

  “It is! Let’s go there now!”

  “You can’t just go to India. I suppose we could try to buy tickets, but we’d also need visas or they wouldn’t let us into the country.”

  “Couldn’t we get one at the airport?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that wouldn’t be complicated enough. Everything in India is smothered in layers of bureaucracy. If you paid enough, you could probably get a visa in a day or two, but you’d still have to send your passport and a photo to the embassy.”

  “If we showed up in India without a visa, they couldn’t send us home.”

  “They could and they would,” said Uncle Harvey. “I tell you what, Tom. Leave this with me. I’ll take the letters back to London and do some research. You remember my friend Theo? He’s a professor at Edinburgh University, and he could—”

  “The one who checked out John Drake’s diaries?”

  “That’s him. He could find out if these letters are genuine. I’ve got an ex-girlfriend who works at Sotheby’s. If she’ll talk to me, she could put me in touch with the right people.”

  “Why wouldn’t she talk to you?”

  “We had a bad breakup. I ran off with her sister. But that’s ancient history. I’m sure she’s forgiven me. Anyway, with or without her, we’ll do some research. If this whole thing is kosher, we could fly out to India and find the tiger.”

  “What about Marko?” I said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s searching for the tiger. He must be working for that businessman. Or he’s planning to sell it to him. And if he’s searching for the tiger, other people must be too. If we wait, it won’t be there anymore. We have to go there now.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I could see he was wavering. I just had to put a bit of pressure on him. I sat back and folded my arms. “You’re right. Let’s not get stressed about it. Anyway, it’s only money, isn’t it? What’s a million dollars between friends?”

  “A million dollars.” My uncle wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That would certainly solve a few problems.”

  “You need some money?”

  “As it happens, I do.”

  “Then let’s go and earn it. What are we waiting for? Let’s get in your car and drive to the airport.”

  “That’s a lovely idea, Tom, but it’s just not practical.”

  “Why not?”

  “What would your parents say?”

  “I don’t care about my parents.”

  “Fair enough. But what about tickets?”

  “You could buy them over the Internet on your phone.”

  “You still haven’t solved the problem of visas.”

  “I bet we can get them at the airport.”

  “I bet we can’t.”

  “I bet we can,” I repeated.

  This time, he didn’t argue. He just furrowed his brow, trying to think through the logistics.

  “I could leave my rental car at the airport,” he said. “What else? Let me think. Would I miss anything at home? I’ve got a couple of appointments next week, but I can change them.” He turned to me. “What about you? When do you go back to the States?”

  “We don’t fly back till Thursday.”

  “This is crazy,” said Uncle Harvey. But he started fiddling with his phone. “Let’s see if there are any flights.”

  Ten minutes later, he had bought two tickets from Shannon to Bengaluru via Heathrow.

  “Bengaluru?” I said. “I thought we were going to Bangalore.”

  “Bengaluru is Bangalore,” explained my uncle. “The name has been changed.”

  “Why?”

  “Over the past few years, names have been changed throughout India. Bombay has become Mumbai. Madras is now Chennai. They’ve thrown out the English names and replaced them with names which sound more Indian. Supposedly they’re throwing off the shackles of colo
nialism, but most people seem to carry on using the old names anyway, the ones they know.”

  “So what should I call it, Bangalore or Bengaluru?”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  There was lots of space on the first leg of the journey, Ireland to England, so the tickets weren’t too pricey, but the flight from England to India had only two free seats, and each of them cost $2700. Our return flights would take us directly home to the States. If we were lucky, that would give us enough time to find the tiger. If we weren’t lucky . . .

  “We have to be lucky,” said Uncle Harvey. “I need the money. If we don’t find the tiger, I won’t be able to pay my debts.”

  “Debts? I thought you were rich.”

  “Sadly not.”

  “What about the money you got from John Drake’s diary?”

  “I lost it playing poker.”

  When Uncle Harvey and I went to Peru together, we were searching for a vast hoard of gold and silver buried there by Sir Francis Drake in the 1500s. I’m not going to tell you the whole story now, but I will tell you that Uncle Harvey came back home with a nice payoff from the Peruvian government. I said, “You can’t have lost all that money.”

  “I did,” replied Uncle Harvey. “And more.”

  “How can you lose more money than you’ve got?”

  “All too easily. I owe ninety grand to one of the guys who was sitting around the table. He wants it back. In fact, he threatened to break both my legs with a baseball bat if I don’t pay him by the end of next week. So let’s hope the tiger is still there.”

  11

  I wrote a note for Mom and Dad and left it on the kitchen table.

  Hi, Mom and Dad, I’ve gone out with Uncle Harvey. Back soon. Love from Tom.

  I should have told them the truth, but I wanted to give myself a little extra time in case they arrived early in the morning, discovered what I was doing, and tried to get me removed from the flight.

  We walked out of the house and closed the front door quietly behind us. The night was cold and clear. Stars sparkled overhead, but there wasn’t a single light burning in any of the other windows in the village.

  We got in the car and drove away. I took one last look at the house, trying to imagine Mom and Dad arriving in the morning. What would they do? Wander through the rooms, calling out my name? Or go straight to the kitchen and find my note? When they read what I’d written, would they believe me? Or would they think Uncle Harvey and I had gone back to Peru?

  I felt bad, leaving them again. Well, I felt bad about leaving Mom. She’d been really upset last time. Dad had mostly just been mad, which Mom said was his way of showing he cared. Yeah, right. However, I have to admit, I only felt bad for about a second. Then I remembered Marko and the tiger and all the fun I was going to have in India, and I thought, It’s time to go! We’ve got to make that plane before Mom and Dad figure out that I’m gone.

  We’d been driving for ten or fifteen minutes when my uncle said, “I don’t suppose you know what type of car your friend Marko drives?”

  “No idea,” I replied. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  As he said those words, my uncle’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

  I turned around and saw a pair of headlights following us through the country lanes.

  I said, “Do you think it’s Marko?”

  “Probably not.”

  “How long has he been there?”

  “Since we left the village.”

  “He must have been watching the house.”

  “It might just be a coincidence.”

  “I bet you anything it’s Marko.”

  Uncle Harvey didn’t argue. Instead he put his foot down and accelerated around a bend. The tires screeched. A startled fox stood by the side of the road, its eyes glistening in our headlights.

  We drove fast for five minutes. The other car stayed with us.

  My uncle slowed down, giving them a chance to overtake, but they didn’t take it. He sped up again and so did they. Whatever we did, the distance between us remained the same.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “What can we do?”

  “We could pull over and wait for him to stop, then jump out and slash his tires.”

  “Nice plan,” said Uncle Harvey. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

  “No.”

  “I have. It’s a lot more difficult than it sounds. And we know he has a knife. What if he has a gun, too? No, we’ll just drive. Let’s see if he follows us all the way to Shannon.”

  “What if he follows us all the way to India?”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  I was disappointed. I would have preferred to stop and confront Marko. But maybe Uncle Harvey was right. What if he did have a gun? What if he shot us and stole the letters? We’d feel pretty stupid. That is, if we were alive long enough to feel anything.

  I said, “When did you slash someone’s tires?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Uncle Harvey laughed. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

  It was a long story, but a good one—it involved an Italian countess, a French politician, and a suitcase full of fake dollars. I can’t tell you any more than that, because Uncle Harvey swore me to secrecy. Apparently the politician is now one of the most powerful men in Europe and if he discovered I was telling stories about his past, he’d track me down and wipe me out.

  Just before the airport, we pulled into a gas station. You have to return rental cars with a full tank of gas, Uncle Harvey told me. Otherwise the rental company charges you a fortune for filling it up.

  The station was deserted. A cashier stared at us through the big glass window, then went back to watching TV, waiting for us to come and pay for our gas. Uncle Harvey unclipped the hose and filled the tank.

  A second car purred into the gas station. Once again, the clerk lifted his head, took a quick look, then went back to the TV.

  It was a Ford Focus, no different from the one we’d gotten from Shannon airport, and for a horrible moment I thought Dad might be driving. Had he been waiting outside the house, expecting us to sneak away? Was he now going to confront us? No. He must be safely tucked up in his hotel bedroom. It was Marko sitting behind the wheel.

  I could see his eyes fixed on me.

  I turned away. Turned back.

  He was still watching me.

  I was scared of him. I don’t mind admitting that. Otherwise I would have waved the letters out the window and said, They’re ours now! Thanks for your offer of two thousand, but no thanks! I’ll take the two million.

  But I didn’t say anything. Nor did I move from my seat.

  Uncle Harvey paid for the gas and walked back to the car. I could see him looking at Marko.

  He opened the door and peered down at me. “That’s the guy?”

  “That’s him.”

  Uncle Harvey straightened up and took a long look.

  The clerk was watching us from his booth. He must have been wondering why we weren’t continuing with our journey and why Marko was just sitting in his car, not buying any gas.

  “Let’s go and see what he wants,” said Uncle Harvey. He slammed the door and headed for Marko’s car.

  I jumped out of the car and ran after him. “Wait!”

  He turned around to look at me. “What?”

  “You said we shouldn’t confront him.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “What if he has a gun?”

  “We’ll be fine.” Uncle Harvey gestured at the booth. “He won’t dare shoot us here. Everything’s being recorded on the security camera.”

  By now, Marko was ready for us. He’d stepped out of his car and was standing with his arms folded, waiting to see what we did next.

  Uncle Harvey started walking.

  I shout
ed after him again: “Wait!”

  He didn’t.

  I didn’t like it. Marko was dangerous. Ruthless, too. What if he drew a gun or a knife? What if he didn’t care about being recorded or getting caught?

  I ran after my uncle and caught up with him just as he reached Marko.

  Uncle Harvey didn’t bother with small talk. “Why are you following us?”

  “You know why,” replied Marko.

  “You’re wasting your time,” said my uncle. “We’re keeping the letters.”

  “Didn’t he”—he pointed at me—“tell you what I’m offering for them?”

  “He said you’d offered two thousand euros.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not much if they lead to a tiger worth two million dollars.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll never find it.”

  “We’ll take that risk.”

  “Let me tell you something, mate. J.J. has hundreds of people searching for this tiger. They’ve been all over India, Europe, America, and they haven’t found a trace of it. You won’t either.”

  “But you will?” I blurted out.

  “I might, yes. I know what I’m doing. I’ve also got a bit of money to spend. Which is why I’d like to buy your father’s letters. He was a good bloke, your dad. I liked him.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He got in touch with my boss. Said he had something to sell. We still want to buy it. Are you going to honor the deal we made?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Uncle Harvey.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, mate. Why not?”

  “Because the tiger is worth at least two million dollars and you offered two thousand euros. That’s a big difference.”

  “I offered two thousand for the letters, not the tiger.”

  “Even so.”

  “You want more money?” asked Marko.

  “Of course.”

  “How much?”

  “What are you offering?” said my uncle.

  “If you can give me the letters right now, I’ll pay you twenty thousand euros.”

  “Twenty thousand?” I knew I should shut up, but I couldn’t help myself. He’d offered me two! Would he have gone up to twenty if I’d asked him?