are only for the poachers and the bandits, sir.” Singh’s tone was solemn now. “We shoot a tiger only as the very last resort, sir, in a most extreme emergency. And even then, I fear my job is forfeit.”
“Still,” Langley insisted, “in a real emergency—”
“Have no fear, sir.” The guide had found his smile. “I have not lost a Western diplomat so far.”
“So far?”
“Joking! We have the laugh together, yes?”
Hilarious, Langley thought, as he forced a smile. Joyce poked him in the ribs, a subtle elbow shot, and he managed to say, “That’s quite a wit you’ve got there, Mr. Singh.”
The guide beamed at him. “Everyone is telling me the same, sir. If I was not in the government employ, I should be a comedian.”
“Something to think about,” Langley replied. In case a tiger eats my ass.
The boat nosed in against the dock, where some native youths stood waiting to secure the lines. More soldiers also stood by, rifles slung or tucked beneath their arms, guarding a pair of Land Rovers.
“There are no highways in the Sundarbans,” Singh told them, when they stood once more on semisolid ground, “and few passable roads. To really see the game preserve, a person must walk or travel on the waterways, but I believe you would prefer to ride.”
You got that right, Langley thought. If I have to be among man-eating tigers, lock me in a sturdy SUV.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Joyce said.
“Sadly, the Rovers have no air-conditioning,” Singh said, “but we shall roll the windows down. Only a few tigers jump through the windows of a moving vehicle.” He let them soak that in, then said, “I joke again!”
“Better and better,” Langley said. “About those gangs you mentioned—”
“Mostly poachers,” Singh replied. “Mostly a group led by the pig Naraka. My apologies, memsahib.”
“Naraka?” Langley asked.
“A bad man. Very bad. But have no fear, sir. I believe we shall not meet with him today.”
1
Calcutta
Calcutta was a shock to any first-time Western visitor.
It was the second-most populous city in an overcrowded nation where more than thirteen million people shared barely eight hundred square miles.
Over the past two centuries, the city had been purged by floods, famine, riots and war. The British influence remained—English predominated on street signs and in public conversation—but the constitution also recognized fifteen other tongues. Great religions rubbed shoulders in the crowded streets, but the ancient image of death goddess Kali was never far removed, her six arms reaching out for skulls and human sacrifice.
Above all, there was poverty. Calcutta’s slums dwarfed those of Bangkok, Jakarta, Rangoon or Kuala Lumpur. Millions roamed and slept on filthy streets, dressed in rags and infected with loathsome diseases, living hand-to-mouth as thieves or beggars. Others sold themselves, either for sex or literally, piece by piece, to blood and organ vendors representing wealthy clients. What did a cornea or kidney matter, when the final stakes were life or death?
Mack Bolan had passed through Asian slums before, in half a dozen troubled nations, but Calcutta’s were the worst he had seen. The odors permeated flesh and fabric, defying the purgative powers of soap and shampoo. There was a kind of soul-rot in this place that crept inside the human heart and burrowed deep.
Bolan had flown in early from the States to learn the ground before he met his contact and began the mission proper. Lack of preparation was a fatal flaw in the Executioner’s trade, where each decision had a direct impact on his longevity. He’d managed to survive this far, against long odds, by paying close attention to details.
And he didn’t intend to change that pattern now.
Calcutta had its stylish neighborhoods, department stores and monuments, but none of that concerned him. Bolan’s path lay on the wild side, in the darkness where “respectable” Calcuttans seldom strayed, a part of their immediate surroundings they struggled daily to ignore.
Bolan’s hotel was an outpost on the DMZ between tourist-brochure Calcutta and a blighted district where the “other half” sometimes didn’t survive the night. His first foray across the line, made on the afternoon of his arrival, was a visit to a certain shop on the wrong end of Benjamin Disraeli Street. Ostensibly, the owner was a pawnbroker who earned his living from the misfortune of others, but his secret back room was an arsenal of modern military hardware, open to selected customers by invitation only.
Bolan’s invitation was a roundabout arrangement, courtesy of Hal Brognola at Justice and a colleague with the CIA in Langley, Virginia. A word to the wise, and Bolan was in, sharing the wealth he’d lifted from a Baltimore crack dealer two weeks earlier to purchase certain basics of the soldier’s trade.
His purchases included a Steyr AUG assault rifle, chambered for the same 5.56 mm rounds used in the native INSAS models, but more compact and reliable in adverse conditions. For his side arm, he’d chosen a Glock 17, again taking a weapon chambered for the common 9 mm round used by Indian police and military personnel, but with a reputation for superior performance under rough handling. Spare magazines for both weapons, a shoulder harness for the Glock, plus ammunition and a brand-new K-Bar fighting knife had rounded off his purchase.
He had stashed the AUG and various accessories at his hotel, but wore the Glock when he went out to learn the city’s secrets. Bolan knew, before he set foot on the sidewalk, that a lifetime could be spent trying to understand Calcutta, yet the deepest, darkest secrets would evade him. That was fine, as long as he picked up enough to help him stay alive to complete his mission.
Police patrols, for instance. Bolan marked them, noted where the prowl cars went and where they didn’t, which blocks were ignored and left to fester with no uniforms in sight. He was convinced that several of the sleeping men he passed along his way were dead, in fact, but Bolan didn’t stop to prove the point.
None of his business. He had other work to do.
His contact had arranged a meeting at a curry restaurant, a quarter mile from Bolan’s small hotel. He had studied three approaches to the place, which occupied a busy corner in a kind of low-rent no-man’s land. He could approach his target from the north or south, along Clarke Street, or from the east, by passing through a squalid alleyway perversely labeled London Mews. He recognized the alley as a prime spot for an ambush, but the crowded north-south street was just as bad, if someone cared enough to infiltrate the crowd of passersby or fire from the apartments stacked above street-level shops.
The one thing Bolan absolutely didn’t plan to do that night was to dine on curry in an unfamiliar restaurant. He had a cast-iron stomach, long inured to gagalicious Green Beret cuisine, but still he didn’t want to take the chance. Instead, he ate a midday meal at his hotel and made it last, bolstered by shrink-wrapped snacks and bottled water in the early evening, as daylight waned.
Bolan put on his stern game face and hit the streets with an hour to spare, ample time to reach his
