Jungle Justice

“This is all to do with the Americans, I take it? Those Naraka kidnapped?”

“Those he killed. That’s right.”

“If he had not involved your people—”

“Then I likely wouldn’t be here. But he did, I am and we’re together in this thing for better or worse, if you think you can handle it.”

Takeri knew he should resist the challenge, not rise to the bait, but at the moment it seemed irresistible. “I can. I will.”

“Good man. Now, what say you go on and bring me up to speed about Vyasa. I’d like to drop in for a visit tonight, and before we do that I need chapter and verse.”

Takeri had a sense that everything was happening too rapidly, that he was being swept away, but what choice did he have? His working contract with the CIA demanded full cooperation, and he’d gone so far already in the matter that his life was placed in jeopardy. Those who had tried to kill him would already have his home staked out. At least, with the American, he had a better fighting chance.

But the Sundarbans!

“All right,” Takeri said at last.

5

As they discussed their short-range plans, the Executioner took stock of Abhaya Takeri, comparing his reticence to the forceful response he’d witnessed from Takeri in the street a short time earlier.

The change was only natural, of course. When Bolan met the Indian, Takeri had been fighting for his life, with no time to reflect on the advisability of any certain move. A kill-or-be-killed situation always tested humans to the limit. Those who passed the test survived, while those who failed were meat for the machine.

During the street assault, Takeri’s military training and survival instincts had emerged to save him, with some timely help from Bolan. Whether he would have survived alone was something else, a question left unanswered for all time, but it was clear to Bolan that Takeri had the courage, strength and will to fight if motivated properly.

Sitting in the relative security of Bolan’s hotel room, Takeri had a chance to think about what he was getting into, weigh the odds against him, letting worms of doubt nibble at his resolve. He wasn’t balking yet, but Bolan knew it could happen.

Strong men could defeat themselves before a contest started by exaggerating the prospective difficulties in their minds. Some heroes, Bolan realized, were simply men who had no time to stop and think.

What soldier started his day with plans to fall on top of a grenade? Or charge the muzzle-blast of an emplaced machine gun, armed with nothing but a satchel charge? Who got up in the morning, thinking, Man, I’d love to die today?

Bolan recognized Takeri’s hesitancy and sympathized with it, but he couldn’t afford an ally who balked when the going got tough. A guide was no use if he brought up the rear.

Bolan went briskly through the plan, watching Takeri sketch a floor plan of Girish Vyasa’s large apartment house. The layout of his living space would be a mystery until they crossed the threshold, but Takeri had spotted exits, elevators, where the doorman stood, which entrances were normally unwatched.

“You’ve thought this through,” Bolan observed.

“I guessed it might be necessary to approach him,” Takeri said, “but I had no plans to go inside myself.”

“Plans change. Go with the flow.”

The smile was thin. “I’ll do my best.”

“He doesn’t have security? No bodyguards?”

Takeri shook his head. “Nothing like that. Vyasa is—or claims to be—simply a public servant. Who would wish to harm him?”

“Good,” Bolan replied. “That makes it easier.”

He spread a large map of Calcutta on the bed, smoothing its creases with his hand, and said, “Let’s plot the route and find at least one alternative in case we have to bail.”

Takeri bent over the map, peering closely at it, finally bringing an index finger to rest on the glossy paper. “We are here,” he told Bolan, “and Vyasa lives…here.”

A maze of streets some two miles wide separated Bolan’s hotel from his target. One major street cut through the heart of it, a virtual straight-line approach with minor jogs at either end. Bolan memorized the street names, thankful most of them were printed on the map in English. Then, having accomplished that, he set about selecting paths of possible retreat.

He didn’t plan to fail but knew it was always possible. They might be intercepted prior to reaching Vyasa’s apartment—by police, an unexpected bodyguard, more of the thugs who’d tried to kill Takeri earlier—and so have to abort the mission. Even at the threshold or beyond, security devices might compel a hasty exit from Vyasa’s eighth-floor flat. In that case, they’d be glad to have escape routes plotted, memorized, ready to use.

Calcutta’s teeming streets could be a help, then, if they had to fight or run. A help…or just a maze, where all roads led to death.

Bolan spent time tracing the streets, burning that section of the map into his memory. Takeri indicated certain one-way streets, others where foot traffic made passage slow or even dangerous in darkness. The nearest police substation was fifteen minutes from Vyasa’s apartment under normal nighttime driving conditions.

Bolan listened and absorbed the information, hoping it would serve him well. He needed information from Girish Vyasa, but there was a limit to his need. He wouldn’t jeopardize the innocent, and he wouldn’t fire on police officers doing their duty.

Bolan had bruised his share of lawmen, frightened some, and even helped to put a few in prison—but he wouldn’t kill an honest cop to save his own life, or Takeri’s.

A crooked customs agent, though, was a different story.

When he was finished charting streets, Bolan turned to Takeri once again and said, “Give me the rundown on Vyasa.”

“Rundown?”

“What’s he like? Describe him physically, his habits, anything you have. Fill in the blanks.”

“Of course.” Takeri closed his eyes briefly, as if reviewing data tattooed on the inside of his eyelids, then began. “He has a birthday in October, at which time he will be forty-two years old. He is five feet and seven inches tall, weighing 150 pounds. He has a small tattoo—”

“I’ll recognize him,” Bolan interrupted. “What about the rest?”

“His customs personnel file will not have the information you require,” Takeri said, “but Captain Gupta and my private observations may, as you say, fill the blanks.”

“I’m listening.”

“Vyasa is a lifelong bachelor. Women apparently hold no attraction for him. He prefers…young men.”

“I take it that’s still frowned upon in India?” Bolan asked.

“Most assuredly. It is a fact of life, perhaps, but still repressed. There is no movement here, as in America, to bring homosexuals out of the cupboard.”

“Closet,” Bolan corrected him.

“Sorry?”

“It’s not important. Go ahead.”

“Vyasa’s lifestyle has not been exposed. He would be driven from his public office if that were the case.”

“But Captain Gupta knows?”

“Of course.”