There seems to be a tradition within Eastern religions for holy men to place their shrines and places of pilgrimage in as remote locations as possible. Buddhists and Hindus have a thing for setting monasteries high up in the Himalayas, and Jains, I’ve found, like to place their temples in locations which are generally a day or more’s journey from the nearest road. For the most part, Muslims seem more sensible, but the tomb to Haji Ali and the mosque that bore his name managed the supreme feat of being within a city but still rather inaccessible.
The edifice was built on a small island which jutted out into a bay and was quite unlike any mosque I’d seen before. It seemed to rise straight out of the water, its thick white sea walls giving way to intricate Mogul architecture. At first it appeared to be completely cut off, but as we drew closer, a single causeway came into view, linking it to the mainland and packed with people.
Ordering the driver to park up and wait, I got out and, along with what seemed like many hundreds of the faithful, headed for the mouth of the causeway.
Raised a few feet above the water, the path from the mainland to the mosque ran for almost four hundred yards. Ordinarily it might have been a pleasant stroll, but today, with so many crossing, it was close to perilous. Men walked six abreast along the unfenced channel as the water lapped close to their sandals.
There was no way of skirting them unless you wanted a bath in the sea, and so I joined the procession as it slowly crossed over to the island. The causeway widened as it reached the islet, but even then things didn’t improve much. The flat ground in front of the mosque’s arched entrance was already filling up and at the far end, a stage, draped in Islamic green, had been erected and a number of men were rigging up a tannoy system.
I waded through the crowd and over to the stage, garnering curious glances as I went. Here on holy ground, or at least within ten feet of it, and as the only infidel in the vicinity, I was relieved to find that the crowd parted willingly to allow me to pass. Reaching the stage I collared one of the workers fiddling with the tannoy and asked him where I could find Gulmohamed. I didn’t need to wait for a reply. Just then, the man himself appeared from a curtained-off area beside the stage.
He saw me and froze, his face a rictus of fear, yet he regained his composure commendably quickly. He was among friends here, probably a thousand of them, and I daresay could have had me torn limb from limb should he have chosen to.
Indeed, from his expression there was a chance he was actually considering it. I decided to seize the initiative before he came to a decision.
‘I know about Atchabahian,’ I said, walking over to him.
He made a good fist of feigning ignorance.
‘Who?’
‘Your friend, Irani. He’s really an Armenian. I know you recruited him from Rangoon, brought him over to Bombay, set him up in the Taj with his new identity.’
He looked at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses.
‘What are you talking about? Irani doesn’t work for me, and I certainly don’t know any Armenian chap.’
Close by, a few of his minders sensed the tension and began to move closer. I felt their eyes upon me.
‘Don’t play dumb,’ I said. ‘I know you paid him to kill Mukherjee.’
Gulmohamed broke into a laugh. ‘I pay Irani? I’ve never paid Irani for anything, except maybe a taxi. On the contrary, he was the one who donated a considerable sum to our party. And as for Mukherjee, I told you, I’d never even heard his name till the day after his murder. I didn’t know he was in that house and I didn’t even enter it. Now I suggest you leave before my friends here decide to help you swim back to the mainland.’
I tried one last roll of the dice.
‘I know he’s coming here to meet you here.’
Gulmohamed shook his head. ‘I hardly think so.’ He gestured towards the stage. ‘I have a speech to give. You are more than welcome to stay and listen if you like, but I shall be delivering it in Urdu. I doubt either you or Irani would find it comprehensible.’
Before I could respond, he turned and headed back behind the curtain. I made to follow, but my path was barred by two rather large chaps whom I was sure Gulmohamed hadn’t employed for their conversational skills.
I considered going through them, fists first, but that might not have been the smartest idea, given that I was standing outside a mosque, surrounded by a thousand men who saw me as an infidel. When it came to lynchings by a religious mob, we British had already set a fine precedent in the form of General Gordon in Khartoum. He’d had a couple of companies of soldiers and the divine counsel of the prophet Isaiah on his side and still hadn’t done too well. I, by contrast, had only Suren sitting in a bungalow in Malabar Hill and a borrowed chauffeur in a car five hundred yards away.
The sensible course would have been to back away, but I hadn’t finished with Gulmohamed. Discretion might be the better part of valour, but I’d never understood why. In the end I decided to steer a middle course, made to leave, then turned and rushed between them. It must have been a while since someone had last defied them quite so brazenly and my actions seemed to take them by surprise. I was several feet past them and flying when I felt a thick hand on my collar hauling me back. I was swivelled round and received a punch to the gut which knocked the wind out of me. I doubled over, fighting for breath, and before I knew it, was being frogmarched back out and away from the stage. For a moment I thought they might actually carry out Gulmohamed’s threat and throw me into the sea, and maybe if I’d thrown a punch or two, they might just have done so. Fortunately they decided that marching me back down the causeway was a better course of action, and I had to agree with them. Despite the ever growing number of men heading in the other direction, they’d no trouble getting me to the far end. The sight of a sahib being manhandled by two gorillas caused the crowd to part like they were the Red Sea and I a reluctant Moses.
They deposited me back on the mainland with a rather unceremonious shove, then remained there to make sure I had no thoughts of trying to get across again. I decided, rather belatedly, to give discretion a try and retreated several paces into a lane to regroup and wait for the goondahs to head back to the mosque.
Leaning against a crumbling wall, I lit a cigarette and considered Gulmohamed’s comments. If he was telling the truth, there was no meeting scheduled with the man who called himself Irani at midday. Yet I had a feeling that Irani was coming anyway. I checked my watch. Twenty minutes to noon. I’d find out soon enough.
Finishing my cigarette, I tracked back to the mouth of the causeway. Gulmohamed’s heavies were still there, and a few minutes later, my worst fears were realised. Irani, dressed in a linen suit and carrying a brown leather briefcase, was approaching. He was a foot taller and wider than the other pilgrims and the two bodyguards gave him more than a passing glance but did nothing to stop him. With Gulmohamed’s goons still there, attempting to follow Irani across the causeway would be a fool’s errand. I had my revolver with me, but taking it out and threatening them with it would probably do more harm than good. Instead I stood there impotently, that is until I suddenly saw a familiar face in the crowd.