'And I hope to speak to you soon. With news.'
Exiting the impressive but aloof office, recovering his assortment of armament from the efficient and otherwise unresponsive receptionist, striding down the corridor toward the private, guarded lift,
Chal was silently fuming. What did they expect him to do? Put a hundred million people in a giant chickpea sorter and sift out the one named Taneer Buthlahee? The man he was hunting might not be experienced at hiding, but an accomplished research technician and scientist was no fool. He was not going to walk around in plain sight, nor do anything to advertise his location. What part of that did Nayari and his breed not understand?
He entered the lift shaking his head. The guard/operator took one look at him and had sense enough to hold his tongue, since his solitary passenger wore the expression of someone capable of cutting it out at a moment's notice just because a comment or question had irritated him.
Together, the two men rode down in silence; both armed, both working for the same employer, but in matters of competency and experience as far apart as Delhi was from Dublin.
It was really quite interesting to observe the animals, Anil Buthlahee mused as he strolled through the zoo. There were no bars, no cages in the ancient sense. Movement of the exhibits was restricted by less medieval means such as moats, precisely sloped ground, and in the case of particularly agile specimens, varying levels of restrictive electronics such as beamed microwaves. The result was that visitors could get quite close to dangerous creatures like cobras and lions without fear of being killed.
People were much more dangerous, Anil knew. Take the device resting inside his shirt pocket. Anil was no marksman. When he had gone looking for a tool with which to commit the necessary deed, he had deliberately sought out one that need not be especially accurate to carry out its task.
The Dalit bitch, now-he would prefer that she die slowly, for having forever corrupted his son and permanently sullied the family honor. But in lieu of carrying around multiple weapons, he would have to be satisfied with her ordinary death.
Animals had castes of their own, as was only proper. Was that not the true way of things? Did not the gorillas lord it over the chimpanzees, and the chimpanzees over the lesser simians? Were not lions and tigers superior to the leopard, and the leopard to the ocelot and margay? Even among the insects there was a natural hierarchy that all parties respected. Therefore it was nothing unusual to find a similar arrangement among humans, or at least those who were part of a successful civilization that stretched thousands of years into antiquity. Brahmins did not marry Kshatriyas, Shudras did not marry Brahmins. And VyMohans, of which the Buthlahee clan was a noble and respected part, most assuredly did not marry Dalits.
He wiped his hands down the front of his lightweight cotton shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. It was brown, proudly reflecting his caste. A traditionalist to the core of his being, Anil was not shy about revealing the truth about himself to any who might care to look. Why try to pretend he was Brahmin, or something else he was not? He was a merchant, albeit a very successful one. Adhering to his true nature had been at the core of his success. If only his eldest son had been con tent with that.
But no-he had to go and fall in
As if love had anything to do with a successful marriage. Likability, yes. But love? At the age of fifteen, Anil had been betrothed to a girl of twelve from across town. Their families had known one another off and on for years. Now, more than thirty years later, he was still happily married to the same woman. There were no problems of religion, no problems of caste. They had been, and still were, hard working, mutually supportive, and content. Which was one reason why his heartbroken wife did not try to keep her husband from doing what had to be done. That did not mean she was happy about it.
Neither was he happy about it. But he intended to do it, nonetheless. At least the wretchedness and despair of having to kill his eldest son would be mitigated somewhat by the joy he would take in executing the female creature responsible for their collective disgrace.
He was standing and watching the barasingha feed. Only their antlers showed above water as they browsed on plants growing out of the mud, their heads otherwise completely submerged. No wonder they were commonly called swamp deer. As he studied their sleek, elegant forms, unique to one small part of his country, the Rat sidled up alongside him.
It was a name the little man had taken for his own. What his previous name was, or his caste, or religion, Anil did not know. But the Rat had performed certain services for a fellow businessman, and was a friend to many in the city. There was nothing demeaning about the name he had chosen, Anil knew. Rats were to be admired. They were tough, clever, and if you fed them, quite friendly. Also quite tasty, if properly prepared. The Rat spoke often about his visit to the temple of Durga in far distant Deshnok, on the other side of India, where temple priests fed milk to thousands upon thousands of rats. As a visitor, one was expected to remove one's shoes and go barefoot among them, which the Rat had done frequently and in perfect safety. Rats had swarmed all over his naked feet, and he had never been so much as nipped. On one especially fortuitous afternoon, he had even espied a white rat, a sign of special good fortune.
'I have news,' the Rat murmured as he pretended to watch the barasingha.
'Of my son and his whore?' Despite its small size, the weight of the gun was heavy against his chest.
Squinting into the sun, the Rat glanced over and up at him. 'Indi rectly, one might say. It seems that others are also interested in finding your offspring.'
Anil frowned. 'Others?'
'The company he worked for is most interested in learning his present whereabouts. For what reason I do not know and therefore cannot say. But much effort is being expended toward that end. Much effort, and much money.'
'I am but a businessman of modest means and cannot pay you more than I have already promised,' Anil informed him flatly.
His gaunt face looking even more pinched than usual, the Rat was offended. 'Have I asked for more? I tell you this only by way of pro viding information.'
Anil was soothed. 'So his company is looking for him, too. I'm not surprised.' His expression darkened. 'I don't care who's looking for him, they'd better not get in my way. I'll kill anybody who tries to kill my son. That is
Bending, the Rat picked up a loose piece of gravel, checked to make sure no monitors or rangers were watching, and flung it into the artificial pool on the other side of the barrier. Startled by the splash, four antlered heads rose simultaneously to ascertain its source. Hand some animals, the Rat decided.
'Nothing is being said about killing. Only that if your son is found, a great reward awaits the finder.' At Anil's look, the much smaller man hastened to add, 'I am an honest man. You should know that from those who referred me to you. I am not a hare, to jump on a whim from one field to another. If I locate your son, I will inform only you of his whereabouts.'
Anil nodded approvingly. 'See that you do. I have prepared myself to kill two people. I can just as easily kill a third.'
'Slaying your best source of information would be a poor way to obtain the information you seek,' the Rat countered, unafraid.
The businessman had to grin. 'You're as tough as my friend claimed. Tell me: what caste are you?'
The Rat smirked. Those of his teeth that were not broken were blackened, but it was a winning smile nonetheless. 'Ask the priests of Deshnok. There is no caste among rats, which is one reason why they are so successful. They stick together.'
Suddenly Anil found that he was uncomfortable in this man's presence. He was a respectable entrepreneur, and it shamed him to have to engage the services of such a person. But not half so much as Taneer had shamed him. 'Find my son and my son's slut. Find them before his company does.'
The Rat stepped back and inclined his head slightly, still displaying his wreck of a smile. 'Someone surely will. When that happens, I hope it will be myself, or someone that I know.'
He left the honorable merchant to contemplation of the swamp deer, and his private visions of righteous murder.
*8*
