images and make people think they were seeing something when, in fact, they were not.
Interesting.
She went back to the police reports. According to the cops, the first case had come in sometime around ten o’clock only a few weeks prior to Annja’s trip. Sanjeet Gupta had been taking a walk around the residential complex and had not come home. A phone call from a distraught wife brought the police running even though only a few hours had passed since the husband was last seen. They conducted a search and came across Gupta’s body lying facedown near a culvert. His arm and part of his upper torso had been torn away, resulting in massive blood loss. Part of his face had been gnawed off, according to the medical examiner.
She glanced back at her quick facts on the residential complex. It catered to the extremely wealthy. The top niche of Hyderabad’s social elite seemed to live in the complex. No wonder the police responded so quickly, she thought. The rich always get preferential treatment.
There was a click overhead and the public address system came on. The flight attendant started talking in what Annja thought was Hindi, but then went on to repeat her announcement in several other dialects. Annja was reminded of the fact that while Urdu and Hindi might be the popular languages of India, regional dialects ranged extensively.
At last, the attendant switched to British-accented English. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has advised that we are starting our descent into Hyderabad. At this time, we would like to ask you to shut off all electronic devices, put your trays into their upright position and make sure to remain in your seats with the seat belts on at all times.”
She clicked the PA system off; almost on cue, the plane started to bank. Annja gripped the armrests at the suddenness of the movement.
And then they dipped lower. Annja heard the flaps coming down.
Where was Frank?
She found out a moment later when the door to the bathroom opened and he stumbled out, a wet stain across the front of his pants. Lovely.
He clambered down the aisle and slumped back into his seat. “So,” Annja said, not really wanting to know, “was it everything you hoped it would be?”
Frank frowned. “They don’t make airplane bathrooms all that large, do they?”
“No, they do not.”
He sighed. “Stupid cable channels always make it look better than it is in real life.”
“They’re in the business of selling fantasy.”
“She never showed, anyway.”
“But your clothes—”
Frank held up his hand. “The damn plane banked and I nearly felt into the vacuum toilet. I got blue stuff all over me. So I had to wash it out of my pants.” He sighed. “I’m not exactly a professional when it comes to dry cleaning.”
“Looks more like you did wet cleaning.”
“Funny.” Frank grabbed a copy of the in-flight magazine and started fanning himself. “So, you really think this thing isn’t a tiger?”
“I don’t know. That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“Where to first?”
“The hotel,” she said. “I want a shower after flying for so many hours. After a change of clothes and a quick meal, we’ll head downtown and talk to the police.”
Below them sprawled the city of Hyderabad—gleaming office buildings and brilliantly painted temples. Annja leaned back away from the window and nodded thoughtfully.
“If the police haven’t gotten anywhere with the case, then we’ll try to find this creature ourselves. And that means going into harm’s way.”
Chapter 2
“Customs line is over this way,” Annja said as they made their way down the concourse.
She presented her passport and visa to the customs official, a stern-looking older man with a bushy beard. His eyes seemed as sharp as a hawk’s and he scanned Annja quickly before eyeballing Frank.
Annja saw the contempt in his face. He quickly cleared Annja and then frowned as he looked at Frank. “Your papers, please.”
Frank handed them over and the customs official scanned them. But unlike with Annja, he didn’t hand them back. “What brings you to India?”
“Huh?” Frank was still fanning his crotch. Annja groaned inwardly. The customs official glanced over his counter and saw the stain on Frank’s pants. When his eyes came back up, Annja saw irritation in them.
Uh-oh.
“We hit some turbulence on the plane and I…unfortunately…got a bit wet,” Frank stammered.
“So it would appear.” But there was nothing friendly in the way he said it. Annja dearly wished for a hole to curl up in until this was over.
“He’s with me, actually,” she said. She smiled to show how harmless she was. But the official’s frown told her he wasn’t in the mood to be nice.
“And why are you coming to India?”
“We’re members of an American television show. We’re here to do some research on a spate of recent crimes in Hyderabad.”
His eyes narrowed. “Which crimes are you referring to?”
“The attacks on residents in the new development on the outskirts of the city.”
“Is that so?” He stared at Frank for what seemed like a very long time. Frank shifted back and forth uncomfortably. Annja willed him to stand still.
The customs official looked back at her. “And what does this…man do for your television show? Urinate in his pants?”
“I didn’t urinate on myself,” Frank snapped. Annja winced.
“I think,” the customs official said, “that perhaps we should talk in another area of the airport.”
Annja groaned. An interrogation. Great. In the country for all of twenty minutes and we’re already suspected criminals.
Swell. God knew how long they were going to be treated like would-be terrorists, but Annja guessed it would be some time before they were able to get to their hotel and unwind.
“That will not be necessary,” said a man with a voice that was deep and rich, like dark chocolate poured over velvet.
Annja turned and found herself staring into the dark brown eyes of man in a well-tailored three-piece suit. He smiled at her and then his eyes flashed back to the customs officer.
The effect was immediate. “Of course, sir. I just need to see your paperwork.”
Without giving the customs officer much in the way of eye contact, the newly arrived man held a sheaf of
