The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey Page B

little glasses, and sold the tea already mixed with milk and sugar. There was nothing better in this hot weather, said Uncle Harvey, than a cup of hot, sweet tea. It cooled you down more effectively than any number of cold drinks. “It’s called chai,” he explained. “That’s the Indian word for tea. Do you want to try it?”
    I said I didn’t like tea, but Uncle Harvey insisted on buying me a cup, and another for himself.
    I took a sip. To my surprise, it wasn’t bad. Even more surprisingly, it did seem to cool me down.
    The kid with the bucket carried on down the line, then returned to collect our empty cups.
    When we reached a ticket booth, my uncle said, “When is the next train to Mysore?”
    â€œThe Udyan Express leaves in twenty-three minutes.”
    â€œTwo tickets, please. Second class.”
    â€œAt this late notice, it is not possible to have a reservation.”
    â€œThat’s fine, thank you. We’ll find a seat ourselves.”
    The clerk gave a little sigh, as if he was disappointed about the reservations even if we weren’t, then printed out our tickets.
    Uncle Harvey handed over a sheaf of dirty banknotes, then took the tickets and his change. “Where do we go to get the train?”
    â€œYou must proceed immediately to platform eighteen. The express is boarding already. You must hurry, sir.”
    â€œThanks!”
    Uncle Harvey grabbed our tickets and the change.
    We sped through the station. My uncle was taller than me, and bigger, too, so the crowd parted to let him through. What if I got left behind? What if we were separated? I was struggling to keep up with him when someone grabbed my arm.
    I tried to shake them off.
    They wouldn’t let go.
    One of those beggars asking for money.
    Sorry, pal. Don’t have any. Try someone else. Get off my arm.
    He wouldn’t let go.
    I shook harder.
    He still didn’t let go.
    I turned around, ready to tell him I didn’t have any rupees, and found myself face-to-face with Marko.
    He was holding me with his left hand. His right hand was under his jacket, gripping something dark and angular and metallic. I could see just enough to know it was a gun.

17
    â€œCall your uncle,” Marko said. “Tell him to come back here.”
    â€œWhat do you—?”
    â€œDo it!”
    â€œNo.” I don’t know what made me so brave. Maybe it was jetlag, or maybe just stupidity, but for whatever reason, I tried to pull myself free. “Get off me.”
    â€œI’ve got a gun,” said Marko.
    â€œYou can’t shoot me here.”
    â€œI can. And I will.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t dare.”
    â€œThat’s what your grandfather said just before I killed him. I’ll do the same to you if you don’t call your uncle.”
    I felt myself shivering. I don’t know if I was scared or furious. Had he really killed Grandpa? Could he be telling the truth? I didn’t know much about the way my grandfather had actually died. Only what Mom had told me. How much did she actually know, though? Had the police investigated? Probably not. If an old man has a heart attack in front of the TV, you probably don’t bother searching for clues. You wouldn’t think he’d been murdered by a thug on the trail of some old letters.
    Marko must have seen that I was about to throw myself at him, because he jabbed the gun into my chest and said in a low voice, “Call your uncle. Now.”
    â€œDid you really kill him?”
    â€œCall him now or I’ll kill you, too.”
    There was something in his eyes that told me he was serious. I turned my head and yelled, “Uncle Harvey!”
    He’d managed to get halfway across the station and didn’t hear me.
    I shouted louder: “Uncle Harvey!”
    He was moving quickly through the crowd, leaving me behind. Another moment or two and he’d be gone forever. I’d be stuck in the middle of