the city, drawn away from traffic duty for the most part by incessant small emergencies.
Calcutta had a reputation, dating from colonial times—the infamous “Black Hole” incident that claimed British lives in 1756—to modern acts of terrorism by the United Liberation Front of Assam. Religious, caste and tribal conflicts had inflated the local death toll over time, while random murders during rapes and robberies were downplayed by the local press. Rumors of human sacrifice to Kali still persisted from Calcutta and environs, though the case had not been proved in court. Bolan had had his own experience with Kali, and it was something he’d never forget. It was impossible to calculate the missing-person statistics, when no one really knew how many people occupied the city on a given day.
How many would be dead or missing in the morning, thanks to Bolan? He could not predict a tally, hoped that he would not be forced to kill that night, but at a certain point the choice would be taken from his hands. Girish Vyasa would decide whether to balk or to cooperate. If there were watchers at his flat, unnoticed by Takeri, yet another element of risk came into play.
No matter where he went within the city, or in India at large, Bolan would stand out in the crowd. He couldn’t pass for native, and while U.S.-European types were not entirely strangers to the region, those encountered by the natives on a daily basis were predominately businessmen or tourists, with a smattering of diplomats thrown in. Bolan might pass for a tourist at first glance, but closer examination quickly gave the lie to that facade.
This night, the darkness was his friend and Abhaya Takeri was his guide. His target was a man he’d never met, who might not live to see another sunrise. Come what may, Bolan had work to do, and he would not allow himself to be diverted from the job at hand.
An ambulance came up behind them, weaving awkwardly through traffic with its siren warbling. Bolan didn’t know if it was racing to an accident or toward a hospital, already bearing victims of some private tragedy, but he slowed to let it pass. Most of the other drivers, whether on four wheels or two, clung stubbornly to their appointed lanes.
Beside him, in the shotgun seat, Bolan noticed Takeri’s sharp attention to the ambulance. No mind reader, he still had an idea of what was happening inside his contact’s head. Takeri was unsettled, naturally, by the effort to assassinate him, that anxiety exacerbated by their mission to accost Vyasa at his home. Given a choice, Takeri might have bought a ticket on the next train out of town for parts unknown, but he was sticking to the job.
So far.
Trust was a rare commodity in Bolan’s world, bestowed on those who earned it under fire. Takeri hadn’t reached that level yet, though Bolan read him as a decent man whose sense of duty kept him for the most part on the straight and narrow path.
What would he do the next time they were challenged, threatened, placed in danger?
Only time would tell.
Bolan spotted the number of Vyasa’s drab apartment house just as Takeri said, “This is the place.” He drove past and boxed the block at a crawl, scanning sidewalks for any lookouts who might be stationed among the passersby or street corner beggars. None was obvious, and so he started looking for a parking place.
In such a crowded city, space was at a premium. Curbside parking was out of the question, and the underground garage beneath Vyasa’s place required a card for passage through the roll-down gate. Reluctantly, Bolan settled for a public garage a half block farther east, taking a ticket from a stern attendant dressed in olive drab.
Using the park-and-pay garage would slow them, coming and going, but he didn’t feel like handing Takeri the keys and having him circle aimlessly while Bolan went upstairs alone. He didn’t think Takeri would bug out on him, but he was already a hunted man, and with the Steyr in the rental car it was a recipe for potential disaster.
Bolan found a spot on the garage’s third level, nosed into it and killed the engine. Unhappy with the choice, he left the Steyr in its bag, locked in the trunk.
Takeri frowned as they stepped out, and asked him, “What about the other item?”
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