“Stop!” Haid-M’Diq yelled at his men who already had lifted their machine guns. “You could hit the rocket!” With a side step he reached a small laptop. “Well now Apu, you and the girl will take a nice little trip to Delhi! Thirty seconds from ... NOW!” He hit ‘Enter’ and a countdown flashed onto the screen.
“I think you’re mistaken” Bindi smiled, unfazed.
Haid-M’Diq smiled back at him in the same fashion. “If you’re counting on a last-second termination of the countdown, my dear fellow, it’s you who are much mistaken. Once initiated, nothing can stop the lift off in.” he looked at the computer monitor, ... “twenty seconds!”
Then things happened very fast. Bindi had in his pocket two primed smoke and stun grenades, which he hurled to the ground. They exploded with a dull thud and a glaring flash, blinding the terrorists. Bindi, taking momentary advantage of the bedlam, fired at the coughing criminals. With Indian clockwork precision, the agent began to take them out, one after the other.
Thirteen seconds to go! Bindi took a deep breath and somersaulted from the rocket down into the thick smoke on the ground where, thanks to his honed karate skills, he finished off the last terrorists still on their feet and rolled towards the beeping laptop. Alas, whatever he attempted, the relentless backward-ticking computer countdown was not to be stopped. In a fraction of a second he made a new decision. With lightning speed his fingers chased across the keyboard. But a faint sound, a mere whiff of air reached his trained ears. He whirled around, simultaneously kicking, his foot making contact with Haid-M’Diq’s face, who had sneaked upon him from behind with a drawn knife.
Five more seconds! Bindi yanked the stunned Haid-M’Diq by his neck across the hall, pried the knife from his clenched fingers, used it to free the industrialist’s daughter and then chained Haid-M’Diq’s foot to the awakening nuclear rocket. He pulled the daughter close and they both took shelter behind the sarcophagus.
Haid-M’Diq’s bloodcurdling scream was drowned by the ear-splitting noise of the ignited propulsion unit as the rocket started thunderously. The whole of the death-bringing metal body shuddered as the rocket freed itself from the ramp, slowly at first then with ever-increasing velocity. Haid-M’Diq was mercilessly jerked into the air and with a wail disappeared into the night sky.
An eerie silence fell over the scene.
“But what about Delhi?” asked the beautiful daughter of the sausage king who was still gripped in the strong arms of Apu Bindi.
He graced her with his irresistible smile. “I have slightly altered its course. Delhi will be fine.
Only Haid-M’Diq is about to have a searing hot experience...”
The girl’s brown eyes flashed. “Would you like to have a searing hot experience of your own, Mr Bindi?”
Slowly Apu unbuttoned her nightgown. “One must never shy away from a new experience...”
In a tight embrace they both sank to the floor.
A small atomic explosion was registered shortly after in a remote, uninhabited area of the Thar Desert, the border region between Pakistan and India. Both countries instantly proclaimed that it had been their scheduled nuclear test, reconfirming again that the only reason they had nuclear weapons was to defend themselves against one another.
At eight o’clock sharp the area opened its gates to tourists from all over the world. A Japanese charter group was the first to come through the big gateway that led to the large park surrounding the famous monument. The shimmering white tomb lay majestically before their eyes, flanked by its four minarets.
Near the fountain in the front stood a happy industrialist’s daughter on the arm of India’s most famous secret agent. An inconspicuously dressed gentleman with sunglasses named OM, Apu’s boss, was talking quietly to them.
“Congratulations, Bindi, looks like you’ve done it again” said OM.
“Seems like it, doesn’t it, Sir?” Bindi nodded nonchalantly.
“Here you see the famous Taj Mahal,” the tourist guide droned to his Japanese tour group.
“Kindly notice the slimness of the minarets at the four corners of the platform which the tomb is standing on.”
“The nuclear device rendered harmless?” whispered OM.
Apu nodded “Nuclear device rendered harmless.”
“The girl obviously salvaged!” OM passed a friendly nod towards the daughter.
“Daughter salvaged.”
“If you look closely,” continued the tour guide at the entrance, “you will notice that they are standing slightly askew, curving towards the outside. This is no mistake in the construction, but ingenious planning.”
“The charges have been defused?”
“Thus, in case of an earthquake, the minarets are prevented from falling inwards and on top of the mausoleum.”
“Um... the charges?”
At that moment, four simultaneous, ear-splitting detonations disturbed the tranquil atmosphere. Gradually, as if in slow motion, the four minarets standing at each corner of the compass toppled over and crumpled into a cloud of dust.
After an awestruck moment, the Japanese tourists applauded enthusiastically.
2. Rajasthan / 30 miles to Jodhpur
It had been two days since the foursome had left Bombay and had taken the road in a northerly direction. The next stage of their journey would be Delhi, which at this speed they should be arriving at the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile the landscape had changed slowly en route; the fetid green had been replaced by vast barren steppes, the desert not being far off.
The area they were traversing was called Rajasthan.
Gerd had been driving at the rear of the group. He delighted in almost flying over the road feeling the wind in his face, taking in all the exotic sensations by the wayside, just to be cruising along, thinking of nothing in particular and it appeared to him as if he was driving away from the old treadmill consisting of career, office and marital frustration—into a brand new world, a brand new life even. Having cut off his ruined pants, he now wore frayed shorts, a cheap t-shirt saying, ‘Masters of Destruction’, bought for him by a benevolent Bear, likewise cheap Indian chappals and he felt as laid back as he looked. He sometimes even forgot how much his backside was hurting, how much he wanted to strangle Sherie and how desperately his stomach was screaming for food.
Arthur drove in the middle. He envied Bear his leather hat. The oncoming wind permanently blew his long hair into his face and since he had before his departure never envisioned having to cross India by motorbike, he had packed neither hairband nor hat. The pesky wisps of hair in his mouth were driving him nuts, so he eventually stopped at a small shop and bought himself a pink hair circlet, originally meant for girls featuring ‘Mini Mouse’ on it in big letters. Although the hair circlet made driving more agreeable it did look rather daft. When he was not fussing with his hair he was dreaming of the untold riches he would enjoy after having sold this super grass in Germany. Of course he was putting into the equation that he somehow had to include the Golden Biker in this deal, but he nourished the hope that he might be some sort of Guru or Yogi or whatever not putting any value in materialistic possessions. In his dreams he saw a hut filled to the rafters with golden grass. And when he was not dreaming he was like Gerd—he was hungry.
In the lead was Bear with Sherie riding pillion. Sherie had decided to sit tight and make the best of it. For once she was no longer in Bombay and that counted for a lot. Also supposing these three guys really managed to find the Golden Biker and turn the grass into a pile of dough it would not be such a bad idea after all to stick around. Gerd still did not trust her one bit, which was understandable given the conditions under which they had met. But in the end he too was only a man and how to wrap this species around her fingers, that Sherie knew.
In the case this plan should fail, she still had the contents of Báaba’s suitcase, s
urely it could help her set up shop someplace far away from Bombay. Her stomach was also rumbling, but she was used to it...
And what about Bear? Bear had set the indicator and pulled over to the left. The others did the same and they stopped in front of a plain two-storey house plastered wherever possible with half torn movie posters. A hefty cooking smell came wafting out immediately registered by their stomachs hailing this with a concerted grumble.
“I don’t know about you guys”, Bear said killing the engine, “but I could eat a horse!”
Gerd, parking his bike next to Bear’s, got off and was rubbing his behind. “Man, my ass is totally numb, it feels like I can never sit down proper again!”
Bear grinned at him. “That’s not what the fine gentleman is used to, is it? Quite different from a calf leather executive chair in the office, eh?” He turned around and stepped into the building.
“Wanker...” murmured Gerd quickly following him inside.
It was a basic roadside restaurant. They found a table, moved the chairs, sat down moaning, ignoring the usual looks of the curious that already had gathered around and opened the menu.
Sherie instantly shut it again, casually waved for the waiter and ordered in Hindi.
Baer followed suit. “For a starter I’ll take a Pakora, then Murgh Biryani with a little Paneer—have you got Makhani Paneer?—Fine, I’ll have that—and two Parathas with that. For drinks I’d like a Kingfisher. Thanks! Where’s the toilet?”
Bear followed the outstretched finger of the Indian and disappeared. Expectantly the waiter looked at Gerd and Arthur.
Gerd not wanting to let it be known that he had no clue whatsoever what the words in the menu meant, nodded casually at the waiter and said: “For me, the same!” pretending to scrutinise the contents of the menu again.
The waiter made a note and expectantly turned to Arthur.
“Me, ehm, well, I really don’t know…excuse me, what is Murgh?
“That’s chicken!” the waiter explained.
“Aha, and what is chicken then?”
“It’s also chicken!”
“Aha, let’s see, I think I’ll take something from the Tandoori!”
“Chicken?”
“Yes... all right then... chicken it is!” Arthur sighed and folded the menu.
The waiter took a note and disappeared.
There was a water jug on the table. Arthur poured himself a glass and thirstily dumped it down. “Man, that’s good! You like some?” he said to the others. Gerd and Sherie shook their heads. As was Bear, shaking his head that is, coming back from of the toilet. “This bog is a dubious experience not wished to be shared by anybody!” He slumped heavily back into the chair.
“Well now, boys!” Sherie interrupted the short silence. “How do we go on from here?”
“For starters, how about you give me back my wallet, hey?” Gerd snapped at her. He was still very pissed off.
“I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t have it!” she bellowed back.
“All right, that’s enough!” Bear intervened, “if she says she doesn’t have it, then that’s that, okay? We really got us some other problems here. And Arthur... please can you stop doing that...?”
Arthur, who was busy wiping the table with one of his moist tissue camomile wipes looked up, crumpled the tissue and turned his full attention back to the round.
“Okay now, me and Arthur we’ve got Shaki and his goons on our heels, Gerd the two free lancers and our beauty here...” Gerd interjected a derisive huff, “our beauty here probably is not on the best of terms with Báaba!”
“Because she pinched stuff off him,” Gerd sneered, “like so many others!”
“You’re such a pain in the ass, really! But never mind...!” Sherie reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out three small shimmering packages, which she threw on to the table. “There you go, finest Golden Biker. I’ll give it to you! Or rather us. Let’s take it as a basis of our fortunes!”
Gerd was not the only one to be flummoxed. This had come as a total surprise to everybody.
This very moment the waiter arrived with the Kingfishers—wrapped in newspaper due to the fact that the shop had no official liquor licence—one for Gerd and Bear each, a Mango Lassi for Sherie and nothing for Arthur who poured himself another glass from the jug raising it to Sherie.
“A toast to the noble donor may there be more where that came from!”
“Ehm, Arthur” Bear warned, “maybe you’d be better off ordering a beer or something!”
“Can’t do!” Arthur dismissed him, “No beer before 7:00 p.m. Iron rule of life! Why, actually? Water is fine, isn’t it?”
“Whatever happened to your German precaution?” Bear wondered, “Because you’ll be getting the runs from drinking the water here, that’s why! Only ignorant tourist morons drink water from a jug.”
Bear did not quite understand why Sherie and Gerd had a broad grin on their face.
“I’ll take a beer after all, if that’s all right!” Arthur, having turned a little pale all of a sudden called out to the waiter.
While they were saying cheers to each other drinking to their future, Gerd watched Sherie out of a corner of his eye. Should he have misjudged her?
“I am in favour that Bear, being the leader of the group, should keep the grass for safekeeping!” he said after he had put down his beer glass.
All agreed to that, Sherie as well. It looked as if she was serious about this. Maybe she should be given a second chance.
The subsequent meal dragged on for a while because to Gerd’s and Arthur’s chagrin there was no cutlery again and one had, unfortunately quite common in India, to eat with one’s hands. Whereas Bear and Sherie were quite adapt in rolling little pieces of food into slices of bread, which they then neatly directed into their mouths, the table on Gerd’s and Arthur’s side looked as if a hand grenade had exploded in their main dish. Their rather unsatisfactory attempts to bring some food from the plate to the mouth without spillage involuntarily reminded Bear of his childhood birthday parties.
During the meal they reviewed their situation. Ultimately they came to the consensus although one should be on guard one had not to be unduly cautious. If their persecutors would ever find out what their destination was, they would by then already be with the Golden Biker or back in Europe, filthy rich at that. Contemplating this, Arthur’s face radiated a blissful smile all the while rubbing his hands clean with moist tissue camomile wipes.
3. Bombay / the suburbs
“They were g-g-going to Delhi!” the frightened mechanic stuttered.
He had every reason to be frightened. Just when he was polishing the brand new Yamaha which the day before yesterday some stupid foreigners had exchanged for two ancient Enfield Bullets (a motorbike, he always referred to as ‘Enfield Bullshit’) when suddenly these sinister figures had appeared: one old Sikh with an impressive moustache, two guys with sunglasses, dressed in identical black suits, one fellow with a Gaffer-bandaged wrist and another three rather suspicious looking individuals. They had grabbed him and hung him on a pulley by his overalls, hoisted him to the ceiling where he was now dangling in the air ten feet above the ground. They were pressing him on what he knew about the foreigners.
“Was there a woman with them?” the old Sikh wanted to know.
“Also, yes,” the mechanic confirmed, “quite a stunner!
“Can I get down now?”
“You only speak, when you’re asked to!” the old man railed at him.
“At least the guy has polished my motorbike!” Number two said, lovingly caressing the tank of his bike with his one good hand. “My poor baby, what have they done to you?”
“Too bad you can’t ride it for a while with this hand.” Number One said grinning!”
“Just shu
t up, will you?” Number Two angrily turned to Babu, “You’re going to pay for that hand, I’ll make sure of that!”
Babu shrugged his shoulders lackadaisically. “Comes with the job! By the way, you can count yourself lucky that I missed. I was aiming for your head, actually!”
It took Number Two an instant to digest this information. Then, suddenly with a wild roar he jumped on Babu who easily shook him off. Instantly Willy aimed his crossbow, which in turn provoked Number One to pull his gun.
“Drop that silly arrow-slingshot of yours, you faggot!”
“I told you before, I only stayed in the room because I got lost!” Willie said with a pout.
Number One grinned maliciously. “Lost in the breast hair of that leather pansy, or what?
Only queers have such a poor sense of orientation!”
“I am not gay!!” Willie screamed furiously and cocked his crossbow.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Shaki intervened, “that’s enough. Put your gun away, One! We’re all friends here, okay? Shake hands, now!”
Reluctantly the weapons were tucked away and with a grumble they all shook hands.
Shaki was right. They were bound together by a common interest after all, their mutual aim, looking for the three foreigners, finding them and kill them. To achieve that, they had to work together.
“I’d say we...!” Shaki, Babu and Bábaa started all at the same time but went quiet immediately.
“What I meant to say...” they tried for a second time in unison.
“This is never going to work!” Rajnesh interfered “If we are going to work together from now on, we need rules. Wait a second!” He went over to the small Ganesh statue which like everywhere else of course had its designated corner spot, took a small hibiscus flower from the puja basket, came back to the group and put the flower into the hands of his uncle Shaki.
“What’s this?” Shaki asked
“The one who holds the flower, may speak his piece, when he has finished, he passes the flower onto the next person, and it’ll be his turn!”
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