Lord Cornwallis’s statue stood high atop a plinth in front of the Imperial Mint. The square around it was paved—I’d find no shelter from a rain of bullets there, but the dense bushes encircling the base would hold me until sunrise.
I got there in the wee hours, stooping in a sweeper’s doubled-over pose as I swept my way closer. When the sentry turned the corner, I crawled into the foliage. Sitting cross-legged in the hydrangeas with leaves brushing my face, I prepared to commit grand larceny.
All’s hushed as midnight yet, I thought, Shakespeare’s Tempest running through my mind. If this adventure mimicked that tale, who was I? Angry, twisted Caliban, servant of Prospero? Was Burjor the magician? What he lacked in Prospero’s magic he made up with his vast influence. Diana would be Ariel, a creature of air and sunbeams. Shirin’s abduction was a tempest in our lives that might blow our newfound togetherness to shreds. Losing her would cut her parents to the heart and leave Diana and Adi ravaged by guilt. And me? For good or ill, my very soul hung in the balance.
Hours yet to dawn. I recalled lines of the play: The dropsy drown this fool! Let it alone, and do the murder first. I was but a tool now, so my mind had called up Shakespeare’s varlets. I’d begged McIntyre to keep our plan close, lest someone leak the details to that strange intellect pulling the strings. Who was the spider at the center of the web, working his plans through others, like Professor Moriarty himself?
A bird fluttered and shook the foliage, calling out a high-pitched song. Fingers of dawn touched the horizon. I’d need to play the thug with sufficient force to be believable. The face of old Father Thomas came to mind, his sad, watery eyes peering deep into me. Perhaps most criminals believe they have reason to break the law. Convinced I had the right of it, was I crossing into that murky realm? I prayed the day would not end in murder.
Wheels rattled in the courtyard, waking my pulse to their rhythm. I felt that strange ether rise, as though the bile in my belly now ran through my veins. With the snort of horses, McIntyre and his cohort of havildars arrived. Of the three wagons, the first was my target. I had not told Mac everything, nor Diana, because this risky business would ruin her sleep.
From the shrubbery I watched four havildars carry out a wooden crate, grunting under its weight.
Burjor had telephoned Padamji, forge master of the Imperial Mint, to admit our decoys through the back door. Sealed with imperial wax, these were loaded. Having stashed the last crate, two policemen descended from the lead wagon and began on the next. My limbs tensed as I hauled in deep breaths, preparing to move quickly. My hand fisted around my weapon, the only one that would not give alarm, a broom of dried palms.
Stealing the Queen’s taxes involved a tricky sequence, all of which I needed to time precisely. A slip at any step would cascade into disaster. First, I had to evade the guards at the perimeter. Then I needed to startle the horses into moving and take charge of the wagon. Its route was down the Eastern Boulevard with its row of coconut palms, past the Town Hall to Government Docks. Instead, at Elphinstone Circle I would swerve away. Trouble was, I had no idea where I was supposed to drive the stolen goods.
“Rank foolishness!” McIntyre had cried. “They’re trained for this, Jim! You’ll be shot!”
But the memory of little Shirin stung me—if this was the only way to get her back, then the law be damned. Was that how Satya began his career of crime?
In for a penny, I thought, as the guards ceremoniously turned to salute a group of British officers, their white gloves stark in the pale gleam of dawn. I scurried, crouching low, so that I’d passed two sentries before the third caught sight of me.
Time slowed. His mouth opened in an O of surprise as I swiped the broomstick at his face. When he threw up an arm to block it, I darted to the nearest horse.
I struck its rump with the broom, giving the poor creature a nasty fright. While it reared, I struck the second mare, crying, “Hiy! Hiy!” to get them moving.
The carthorses charged forward while I was still between them, so it was by the barest chance I caught the harness and swung my legs up to the wagon seat.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t empty.
Something slammed my ear. Another blow glanced off my eyebrow. I caught a fist and gripped for dear life. While my feet scrabbled for purchase, I hauled on the arm and levered myself up onto the seat. The wagon jolted about as the horses dashed ahead.
More blows came in rapid succession, so I lashed out and socked the fellow, then trapped his arm. We struggled, the wagon jostling us to slide on the precarious seat. Throwing my elbow around his neck I yanked him backward into an embrace. Only then did I recognize my opponent, one with whom I’d boxed time and again in the ring.
Damn. It was Smith wriggling out of my grasp.
“Stephen! Stop!” I cried into his ear, throwing him around to left and right. His body clenched tight in horror.
The thunder of hooves in my ears, I glanced back. A police carriage was close behind, with two fellows on horseback rapidly gaining. Ahead, near Town Hall, swelled a sea of white coats protesting the killing of stray animals.
“Ask Mac! He knows. Ask Mac!” Desperate to time it well, I caught sight of Burjor, and shoved Smith off the seat.
“Aargh!” He clung to me, feet dangling. As our carriage passed, Burjor hooked an arm around Smith and the pair was swallowed by the crowd filling the street.
Unencumbered, I slid to the footrest and scooped up the reins, then flicked them at the horses. Behind me the mob chanted, “Down with dogcatchers! Down with cruelty!”
Burjor and Soli Wadia had labored for hours to set this into motion. They’d found a willing audience, since most Parsis deplored the slaughter of strays.
Urging the horses, I rode on to Elphinstone Circle. What should I do? Rai Chand had recited, You will see a man with a red flag. You will take him up and hand over the reins.
And lo! A figure stood at the circle waving a red cloth.
Pulling on the reins, I peered at the scrawny youth knotting the fabric at his waist. As the wagon neared, he caught the footrest and vaulted up beside me.
It was Pandu, Satya’s cousin and rival. Without a word, he reached to grab the reins from me. I yanked away, which upset the horses and set them into an uneven canter.
“Why are you here?” I demanded.
He reared back, his mouth open. “Cap-tin sahib! Hei ram!” Then he hissed, “Don’t speak! Don’t talk to me! I must do as I am told.”
“And what is that?”
The whites of his eyes showed large as he glanced about helplessly. “Take the reins. Drive fast to…”
“Where?” I held the reins away from him. We were now careening north toward the Bombay Gazette newspaper office.
Desperately he reached around me. “You will kill us both! Give it to me!”
“Where?” I held him off with an elbow.
He groaned, then cried, “Tulsidas Mandir.”
I released the reins to him, then pulled notebook and pencil stub from my vest.
Jostled, bumping along, I wrote. He cried, “He will kill us all! Oh God. We are not to speak of him. Take the reins, ride fast to Tulsidas Mandir. Do not speak.”
Driving the horses with lashes and shouts, he whispered the words in a litany.
Do not speak? Something dark coiled inside me. I timed my throw to toss my notebook at the foot of the largest tree we passed. Now I could only hope that Burjor would follow and find my missive. Either way, today I would retrieve Shirin, even if I must bloody my hands again.