Free The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey

you?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œDo you have a bladder infection?”
    â€œNo. I just need to pee. I’ve been drinking a lot of water.”
    He gave me a quizzical look, then returned his attention to the
Sunday Times.
    Why didn’t I tell the truth? I guess I didn’t want to be told to relax again. I’m relaxed enough already. I just don’t enjoy being followed around by psychopaths with knives. I prefer to know about it if they’re on the same plane as me.
    I snuck into first class. The flight attendant gave me a stern look, but I just smiled and she didn’t stop me or tell me to go back to the cheap seats where I belonged.
    Marko wasn’t there.
    We’d escaped.
    Or had we?
    Would he know where we were going? Could he find out? He could get on the next plane. He might be a few hours behind us, but that wouldn’t matter to him. He could call a friend or an armed heavy and tell him to wait for our flight. He’d watch out for us as we emerged from the airport and follow us wherever we went, and we’d never know he was there, because we wouldn’t know who he was or what he looked like.
    I went back to my seat and settled down for the rest of the journey. Uncle Harvey was halfway through a plastic cup of something fizzy. I said, “What’s that?”
    â€œGin and tonic. You want one?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    He grinned and shook his head. “You’re too young for gin.”
    â€œI’m old enough to try.”
    â€œNo, you’re not. But I’ll give you a tip for when you’re older. Always drink gin on a plane. It sends you straight to sleep. In fact, I think I need another.” He tipped the rest of the glass down his throat and waved at the nearest flight attendant.

14
    The gin did its job and Uncle Harvey soon fell asleep. I wasn’t tired, so I just sat there, playing with the in-flight entertainment system and eating the free spicy peanuts. I just wanted to get there and start hunting for treasure.
    We landed at one o’clock in the morning, local time. As we walked out of the air-conditioned aircraft and into the terminal, I pulled off my sweater and tied it around my waist. Even at this time of the night, the heat was astonishing. My bag was stuffed with sweaters, jeans, and thick socks, perfect for Irish mountains, but dead weight here.
    I switched on my phone. It took five minutes to work out where it was. The poor thing must have been very confused. Home, England, Ireland, India—where was it now? When the display finally bleeped into life, a text arrived from the phone company, telling me the charges to make and receive calls, swiftly followed by seven voice mails from Mom and Dad. They started angry and quickly got panicked. I’d have to call them back. But what would I say? How much of the truth should I tell? I put the phone away and added that to the list of things to think about later.
    When we reached the front of the line, the passport officer turned the pages of my passport, then Uncle Harvey’s. “You are father and son?”
    â€œUncle and nephew,” Harvey replied.
    â€œWhat is the purpose of your visit?”
    â€œWe’re on holiday.”
    â€œWhere is your visa?”
    â€œI’m afraid we don’t have visas,” said Uncle Harvey.
    â€œFor visiting India, you must have a visa.”
    â€œI know. Where can we buy them?”
    â€œThe best place to get a visa is the embassy in your capital city at least one month before you are arriving in India.”
    â€œWe’re here now,” replied Uncle Harvey. “We don’t mind paying. Where do we go to buy our visas?”
    â€œThat is not possible,” said the passport officer. “You must return to your own country and purchase a visa. Then you may enter India.”
    Uncle Harvey reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it up to show the bills inside. He didn’t