Free The Sultan's Tigers by Josh Lacey Page B

call. He shook his head. “Your father needs to learn how to relax.”
    â€œWas he any different when you were kids?”
    â€œExactly the same.”
    I slumped in my plastic chair, praying to myself that we would find the tiger so I could return home with enough money to placate Mom and Dad.
    I’d buy them a new house.
    A couple of cars.
    The best vacation of their lives.
    They’d have to forgive me.
    They’d have to.
    And if they didn’t?
    I’d never come home. I’d have enough to live alone. I’d hire a cook and a chauffeur. Forget school. I’d be like Uncle Harvey. I’d travel around the world, searching for treasure and having adventures.
    I was lost in imaginings of my future life, alone and free and rich and happy, when Uncle Harvey’s phone rang again. This time it was Mom. She insisted on speaking to me. Not bothering with any small talk, she said, “Is it true?”
    â€œIs what true?”
    â€œAre you in India?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat are you doing there?”
    I told her everything. Well, not all the details about the treasure. We were in a crowded room and anyone might have been listening. But I told her enough that she’d understand why we had no choice about jumping on a plane and coming to India.
    â€œOh, Tom,” said Mom.
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about me,” I said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
    â€œWhen are you coming home?”
    â€œI don’t know. Soon.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just come home now?”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œBut, Tom . . .” she sighed. Then she told me to be careful, and said she loved me, and that was that. She just ended the call. No threats to get the police involved. No shouting or screaming. Just me alone in India with Uncle Harvey, and Mom and Dad and Grace and Jack halfway around the world, soon to be on their way home. I was so glad I wasn’t with them.

15
    We sat in that room for a long time.
    It was hot and boring.
    Nothing happened.
    Most people were dozing. Others just stared into space. One family had made a little shelter for themselves, hanging clothes and blankets over the chairs, as if they expected to be here for several days, or already had been.
    At some point, I must have fallen asleep.
    I was woken by Uncle Harvey poking me in the ribs.
    The passport officer was standing over us, holding both our passports. He thrust them into my uncle’s hands and smiled.
    â€œWelcome to India, Mr. and Mr. Trelawney.”

16
    At a booth in the main part of the airport, Uncle Harvey changed some British pounds into Indian rupees. Then we went to find a taxi. It was still early in the morning, but we were going to head straight to the station and get a train to Mysore. From there, we’d take another taxi to Srirangapatna—as Seringapatam is now called. Then we’d head north, following Horatio’s instructions, searching for the hill where he’d buried Tipu’s tiger.
    Indians have two types of taxi, Uncle Harvey told me: cars and rickshaws. Both sorts were packed outside the airport, waiting for passengers. The cars looked like normal cars, just older. The rickshaws were little three-wheelers, half-motorbike, half-van, with a driver sitting alone at the front and a seat in the back with room for a couple of passengers. I would have liked to ride in one, but Uncle Harvey said they were only good for short journeys. They had no doors or windows, and nowhere to put luggage, so you had to keep your bag at your feet or on your knees.
    He must have seen my disappointment, because he told me not to worry. “We’re going to be here for a few days,” he said. “You’ll definitely get the chance to ride in a rickshaw.”
    Once we were sitting in the back seat of a yellow taxi, Uncle Harvey called forward. “Hello? Excuse me? Could you turn on the meter,