Black Tigress

By Ray Johnson

Many believe that there is no more deadly killer in the Indian forest than the Bengal tigress. But of all the predators of the subcontinent, none is more ferocious than the Black Tigress. The women of the Tamil Tigers are indeed deadly, but by far the most dangerous women are the Black Tigresses. Kent Jacobs, an American attorney, is destined to come in contact with a beautiful, but lethal, Black Tigress. Chandi is not only the most dangerous of the Black Tigers; she is also stunningly captivating , making her even more menacing. Her beauty is disarming, her determination unnerving. Her assignment: kill the Indian ambassador. Kents assignment: protect the Indian ambassador. An unstoppable force is about to meet an unmovable object.

Ray Johnson takes us into the dangerous world of the Tamil rebellion in Sri Lanka. A Black Tigress has been given an assignment in the United States. Her mission: kill the Indian Ambassador. The Sinhalese Buddhists of the south of Sri Lanka are fighting for dominance. The Hindu Tamils in the north are fighting for survival. Why kill the Indian Ambassador? And why risk killing him in the United States? As in all Ray Johnsons novels, things are not always as they appear. Readers will be embedded with the dangerous characters until the final paragraph. Then the truth will be out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2007
• ISBN: 9781477172872

Book preview

Chapter One

July 6th, Southern India

Tamil Country

The blazing noonday sun beat down mercilessly on the palatial home. The twenty-room mansion was located fifteen miles from Tiruchchirappalli in the southern state of Tamil Nadu. The scene in the master bedroom bordered on surreal. A wealthy Brahman widow was on her knees, begging for her life. She was pleading with two dark-skinned young men whose eyes were as hard as Meenakshi granite.

Why… why are you doing this to me? She was forty-five years old, yet still very attractive. Judging from her flashing jewelry and the size of the home, she was also very wealthy.

Her husband died in an automobile accident two years previously. While driving under the influence of alcohol, he crashed his S class Mercedes into a house in a nearby village, killing himself and two villagers: maiming three others. The widow now owned the three thousand-acre estate, with the imposing home sitting near the center of her land. She was speaking English, not only for convenience sake, but to assert her highborn station.

Neither young man bothered to answer the widow’s poignant query as to their intentions. One of the young men held the lid securely on a tall wicker basket, a basket that was as high as his knees. The frightened woman glanced at the basket, her shifting eyes fearful of the contents. She tried to convince herself that the basket was there to carry away whatever plunder these intruders planned on stealing from her. She prayed that she was not whistling in the dark, that her evaluation of the wicker basket was not self-serving.

The fourth person in the bedroom was a beautiful young woman with dark skin and piercing mahogany eyes. She was twenty-four years old. Her long hair was plaited into a single braid that cascaded almost to her waist. The terrified landowner turned her questions to the young woman, whose accusatory eyes appeared more deadly than her facial expressions.

Why? I’m begging you. Why are you doing this to me? I’ve done nothing to you. I don’t even know you. The widow wore a stunning forehead ruby, attached to a strand of petite pearls that disappeared into her well-coifed hair. The pigeon-blood ruby cost more than any of her workers would make in a lifetime.

The young woman thought about the question for a moment before she answered. "You may not know us, but you know about us." Her voice was hauntingly beautiful, as were the rest of her features. She was five feet six inches tall and weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Her flashing eyes had a slight Oriental cast and her skin was the color of dark honey. Like the tigress, she appeared both regal and lethal. Even her movement appeared tigress-like, wary, yet fearless.

What does that mean? Why are you talking in riddles? I’ve done nothing to harm you. The widow was also a paradox, part predator and part parasite. She was pleading, yet her tone remained arrogant, as if these people were beneath her dignity, certainly beneath her status. In the marketplace she would breeze past them without even a sidelong glance. In her world they were like scenery for a play, to augment the background, nothing more.

Have you harmed us? The beautiful young woman put her finger to her lips and feigned pondering. Perhaps not directly.

You’re talking in riddles. How did you get into my house? She planned on having her servants severely beaten for allowing these would-be robbers to violate the sanctity of her home. One thing puzzled her, causing her to stare. The young woman was too articulate, too cultured for a common field worker. Why is she with these ruffians? she mused. The two men were obviously low-caste workers, uneducated, uncultured, but not the young woman.

The widow’s expensive sari contrasted with the young woman’s khaki outfit. The young woman wore tight khaki pants and a tailored khaki shirt. The widow stared at the young woman’s breasts, envious and contemptuous at the same time.

No riddles, no mysteries. You’re an evil landlord and you treat our people like animals. You had two of our people killed, along with three Untouchables, merely because they maintained small garden plots, trying to grow food for their families. Her voice was a subtle mixture of English and the subcontinent, mixed to besetting perfection.

The widow’s eyes narrowed as she wondered, How could these dolts have found out about that? The facts were essentially correct. She definitely had hired thugs to eliminate the five troublemakers who were using her water, land and seed without permission. Obviously she made the deaths appear to be accidental. One had to be more circumspect about such deeds during these new and enlightened times. She became haughty and snapped, "I have no idea what you’re talking about. And what is this our people business? You have nothing to do with my workers."

So far the young woman had done all the talking. The two males watched and listened, but said nothing. The young woman may or may not have been in command, the widow could not tell for certain. The two men acted as if the widow’s fate was sealed and they had no interest in telling her something she should already know. One thing was for certain; the young woman was far more intelligent than the men. The men’s eyes were filled with blind hatred, but the woman’s probing eyes were impossible to read.

"Our people means just that: Tamils," the young woman related casually.

Tamils, the widow’s hands went to her mouth in trepidation. She did not like the way this dark-skinned trinity flaunted their heritage. They should have been humbled by her high status. She was Brahman. They were not. She was Kashmiri Brahman at that, something few could claim. She secretly hoped they were not what she suspected. Robbers were pedestrian and to be expected, like locust during the dry season. Material goods could be replaced, but Tamil Tigers could not be dealt with.

Does the word burn your lips. The young woman asked sincerely, sensing that the widow rarely used the term, except in vain.

Of course not, but why would Tamils become robbers? She prayed silently to Shiva, hoping that her optimistic assessment of their intentions was correct.

We’re not robbers.

Her worst fears now seemed within the realm of possibility. Then why are you here? she asked crossly. Small, glistening beads of perspiration started to form on her brow. Her forehead ruby seemed to weigh fifty pounds, its heft magnified by the two men staring at it hungrily.

We’re here to right an injustice. I told you, you killed two of our people. The young woman remained nonchalant, as if the conversation were mundane.

I killed no one. The people who died accidentally, were… were they your relatives? She sensed that it was of no use to deny the basic facts any longer. In her world, money salved wounded egos far better than contrite apologies.

The young woman nodded slowly and explained, All Tamils are our brothers and sisters.

Eeeeh, the landowner cried out in anguish. Surely you’re not… not… her tongue refused to say the despicable word.

Tigers? A thin smile slipped across the young woman’s lips.

Yes. Are… are you Tigers?

The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. Even worse.

Aaaah, again she moaned. Not Black Tigers?

The young woman nodded slowly, her onyx eyes locked onto the landowner.

The widow put her head clear to the floor in supplication. She began to beg through her tears. Finally she rose to her knees and haltingly confessed, They… they stole my seed. They used my water—and during a drought. I had no choice. I’ll… I’ll pay you a thousand rupees for each of them. That’s more than fair. She had done a masterful job of feigning penitence. Now, on to the bribery. She thought, These villains must be Karaiya caste, like those thieving workers who stole from me.

And the Untouchables? What about them?

The widow straightened up, a puzzled look on her face. They were Untouchables—nothing. No one will miss them. They were faceless, nameless.

Except to their wives and children. The voice hardened, as did her eyes.

All right. All right, fifty rupees for each Untouchable. The thought of actually paying money for the death of an Untouchable nauseated her, but one must do whatever necessary to survive. She complained mentally, I could have just had them killed by Rabir Sena, the caste protectors. But no, I had to do it the right way and these villains are my reward for kindheartedness. She started to rise, assuming her offer of money had placated these Tamil criminals.

Her plan was to actually pay them nothing. As soon as they left, she would notify the police, have them arrested and recover her money. Then she would gleefully have them executed. Fortunately, the local police official was a personal friend of her dead husband and would make short work of these thieves.

You don’t have enough money to pay for the lives you’ve taken. Even though the room was hot and humid, the words were cold and frigid, carried on an icy mistral.

What are you talking about? Of course I have the money. Her eyes darted from the open windows to the door and back. They were on the second floor and a jump from that height would be disastrous. But at least she would live to see them hang. She might even be able to grab onto a branch of the towering jacaranda tree that was in full bloom outside her window. She again glanced quickly at the door, wondering if it were possible to bolt past them.

The young woman read her thoughts and ordered, Don’t even think about it.

I… I could scream for help. My servants would come to help me. The threat was hollow because the household servants hated her.

The young woman stared at her, but said nothing.

The widow bristled and snapped, Those traitorous wretches let you in, didn’t they? She silently vowed to hire a bodyguard once she was shed of these treacherous Tamils.

The young woman nodded slowly.

Without her servants to save her, she would have to extricate herself from this Tamil quagmire by her wits. All right, I was too hasty with my first offer. I’ll pay you two thousand rupees for each Karaiya and one hundred rupees for each Untouchable. She felt this latest offer should satisfy them. And speaking of satisfaction, I’ll get mine when I get to witness their execution, she muttered under her breath. She was also close to the local judge, a longtime friend of her father.

You weren’t listening earlier.

What are you saying? Of course I was listening.

You don’t have enough money to repay the families for the damage you’ve done.

She grimaced and lamented, "Surely you don’t expect me to give you all my money? Great God Shiva, even Tamils aren’t that greedy."

No, the young woman shook her head, we don’t want all your money.

"Then what do you want? Maybe they wanted the gold and silver bullion she kept in the safe. How could they know about the bullion?" she asked herself. Then she remembered her treasonous servants and how they constantly tried to watch her when she opened the safe.

We merely want your hand.

The widow blurted, My hand? You’re not Moslems. You can’t cut off my hand. I haven’t stolen money or jewels.

You’ve stolen something far greater than money. You stole fathers from their families, sons from their mothers, husbands from their wives.

"You are mad. They were destitute poor. They were common field workers, worth nothing. Three of them didn’t even exist. They were Untouchables." She found herself snarling. Having to defend herself against charges by these criminals was driving her to distraction.

"To you they were nothing. To their families, and to us, they meant everything. Your hand, please."

One of the young men kicked the wicker basket with his foot. A soft hissing noise coursed through the wicker. The widow’s eyes opened wide in dread. The mystery of the wicker basket had been solved. The young man hit the side of the basket with his hand, causing more muted hissing.

The widow jumped to her feet and bolted for the window, fully expecting them to run after her. Instead they merely watched. The widow made it to the window, only to discover that her previous hopes had been exaggerated. None of the limbs of the jacaranda tree were near enough for her to cling to, or even close enough to jump for. Her idiot landscaper had trimmed back the branches, just like she told him to.

She turned, desperately seeking an accommodation with the young woman. The look on the young woman’s face said that no compromise was forthcoming. Keep away from me or… or I’ll jump.

I’m certain you will. Because if you don’t, we’re going to stuff your hand down this basket.

The widow was positive there was at least one cobra inside. They would let the snake bite her and make her death appear to be an accident. She looked first to the basket and then to the ground below. She was over the well-trimmed lawn; still the fall from twenty feet would be brutal. On the other hand, she would be alive. She tried a universal ploy. What’s your name? She asked this of the woman. If the woman gave her a name, then their threats must be taken seriously. If she refused, then they were nothing more than common criminals masquerading as Tigers.

The young woman thought for a moment before she answered the veiled question. The two men watched her, wanting to see how she would handle the delicate situation.

Well? the widow pressed the issue.

Chandi. My name is Chandi.

Do you know why I asked?

Chandi nodded and replied, It was a test, to see if I’m afraid to divulge my identity. As you can see, I don’t fear you or your kind.

The widow decided to call their bluff. I don’t think you have the courage of your high-minded convictions. You’re only doing this to frighten me into giving you more money. I… I won’t jump.

Chandi shrugged and said, The choice is yours.

The young man with the basket picked it up carefully and headed toward the widow. The fanatic look in his eyes shouted at the widow that she had misjudged this dedicated trio. They were going to stick her hand inside a basket with an agitated cobra. She was wrong only as to the number. There were actually two ill-tempered cobras.

The man carried the basket as if it were a bomb, ready to explode. The widow stared at the basket, her eyes radiating fear. She looked quickly to the ground. Off to her right was a flowering hydrangea plant that might help break the fall. She had too many questions and not enough answers. What if the basket contained no snake and she jumped, like a fool, for no reason? Then again, if there was a snake inside and she did not jump, they would force her hand inside and she would be dead.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked for telltale signs of weapons. She saw only slight bulges under the sweat-stained shirts of the men. She suspected they carried daggers, but not guns. The young woman appeared unarmed. If she ran, they would stab her. If she did nothing, the snake would surely bite her. If she jumped, she would be injured, but alive.

Chandi sensed the wavering and advised, The choice is yours, but you must make it now.

The man holding the basket moved toward the widow, his eyes filled with black hatred. The moment of truth had arrived. She climbed on the sill of the open window and paused, looking first at the basket, with its hissing death, and then to the ground. The man shoved the basket toward her and forced the issue. She jumped for the hydrangea plant, just as the basket touched her leg. She screamed loudly as she tumbled, her shrill cries rippling across the manicured grounds.

The encounter with Mother Earth was hellish. The blooming hydrangea provided far less cushioning effect than she hoped for. One of the branches snapped and made a deep gouge in her right leg. Her left leg buckled on impact and was broken in two places. Her collarbone broke, protruding awkwardly through the skin. She was battered and bleeding, but she had survived. Now her servants would come running and save her.

But as she lay moaning and crying out for help, no aid was forthcoming. What she could not know was that the Tamils Tigers had threatened to kill the household servants if they came to her rescue. She had been alone in the house, her servants having scurried to save their own skins. She closed her eyes in agony.

She was too battered to even crawl. She sensed someone nearby and opened her eyes, hoping for the friendly face of a servant, a servant who would take her to the hospital. Instead of a loyal servant, standing over her were the three people that had caused all this pain and misery. They had taken the easy way down, by the broad staircase.

You’ll… you’ll die for this. The pain was intense, causing her to gasp for breath. You’re worse than Untouchables. You’re the scum of the earth. You’ll come back in your next life as dung beetles.

But you must admit that we’re clever scum, Chandi countered with conviction.

What… what makes you think so, you Tamil whore?

Because we were quick-witted enough to recognize that a rich landowner had been attacked by a cobra.

No, I beg you. Think of my… my children.

You have no children. You don’t want to die with a lie on your lips. Money and power have always been your only offspring. As I was saying, we were clever enough to come upon a wealthy landowner who discovered a cobra in her bedroom.

No, please. Tears streamed down her face, streaking her makeup.

Fearing the bite of the cobra, the landowner jumped from her bedroom window.

No, don’t do this to me. She tried to crawl, but the man without the basket stopped her, his foot pushed hard against her shoulder. She had the unnerving feeling that her servants were watching her misery, watching from deep shadows and from behind tall trees, delighting in her suffering.

Unfortunately, the snake struck just as she jumped. The cuts, the bruises, the broken bones, they were all in vain.

You… you evil bitch, the widow snarled. I’ll have you killed for this.

Like you had the Karaiyas and the Untouchables killed? Chandi asked pointedly.

No! Theirs was quick and painless. Yours will be slow and agonizing. Hatred overcame duplicity and she foolishly admitted her guilt.

Even though you’re a murderess, we’ll be merciful. Chandi nodded toward the man without the basket.

The man grabbed the widow’s hand and drove it into the top of the wicker basket. The force was such that her hand broke through the wicker and into the basket itself. Both hooded king cobras ripped into her with dripping fangs. She screeched in horror as the needle-sharp fangs dug into her wrist and fingers.

Once the men were certain she had been bitten, they pulled back the basket and removed the lid, allowing the snakes to drop onto her legs. She shrieked again as the ill-tempered snakes slithered over her limbs, headed for the nearest tall grass and freedom. The numbing cobra venom did not offset the pain from her broken bones. Even in death she could see that the plan of this Tamil troika had been masterful.

The authorities would assume she had discovered a snake in her bedroom and had leapt from the window. But the snake had bitten her just as she jumped and she died on her lawn, later to be discovered by servants. The groundskeepers would eventually find the snake and kill it, keeping it to show the authorities that they had dispatched the hooded killer. The widow died, cursing Tamils in general, and Tamil Tigers in particular.

Once they were certain the widow was dead, the trio of Black Tigers warned the cowed servants as to what would happen if they told anyone about the widow’s true fate. They did not leave until they were positive the servants fully understood the ramifications of their threat. To enhance their noble image and reward the servants for silence, Chandi gave the widow’s ruby to the head servant, with instructions to sell the stone and divide the proceeds equally among the workers.

Chapter Two

JULY 11th, Los Angeles, California

Kent Jacobs received a call from the Indian Legation in Los Angeles requesting that he meet with the consul general on personal business. The secretary who contacted him assured him that the nature of the meeting was personal and not governmental. Under normal circumstances he would have requested that they meet in his law office, but an important consul carried clout. So he deferred and agreed to the meeting, still having no idea what was in store. The legation secretary had been very noncommittal, offering no details whatsoever.

The weather was hot and muggy, the kind of day where clothing clings in embarrassing places. Two things impressed Kent when he entered the grounds of the legation. Once inside, he left the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles outside the thick walls. As he passed through the wrought iron gate he stepped into India. The courtyard was as fragrant as the Gardens of Shalimar. The pungent smells of incense and curry mingled with the sweet aromas of jasmine and lilac. The notorious Los Angeles smog was held at bay beyond the tall walls. A natural-stone lily pond added to the serene tranquillity of the inner courtyard. Graceful koi glided slowly among the lilies and lotus. A true believer might suspect that Jahangir himself had constructed the garden and filled the pond with sacred waters from Dal Lake.

The second thing that impressed Kent was that he was taller than everyone else. At six feet three inches, he was the tallest male in the compound. The interior of the legation, like the courtyard, was a slice of India. Haunting sitar music drifted from hidden speakers. The secretary who had originally contacted Kent greeted him in the tiled entrance hall. The woman matched the voice, a rare occurrence.

The secretary watched Kent as closely as he watched her. She liked his broad shoulders and powder-blue eyes. She wondered about the scar that ran down his left cheek, although she would not want him to give it up. It made him look rugged, like a dueling scar of old. She also liked his light-brown hair, musing about how it contrasted well with her own raven locks.

Kent noticed her gazing at the scar. I got that when I was a policeman. He inadvertently touched the old wound with his index finger. I’ve never gotten around to having it removed. Every year he vowed to have the scar removed by plastic surgery, but never seemed to get around to it.

She blushed, embarrassed because he had caught her staring. A shooting? She hated guns.

No. Actually it’s a knife scar. I got it during a riot.

While working 77th Division?

He frowned and asked, And how would you know that?

She opened a file folder she had been carrying. Kent Jacobs. 34 years old. 6-3, 210 pounds, blue eyes, light-brown hair, scar on left cheek.

The frown slackened, but remained. I didn’t realize I was so notorious.

She smiled and continued. Los Angeles Police Department, five years. Degree in Criminal Law from USC. Two years with the FBI. Now in private practice with an office in the Brentwood District.

Am I under arrest? he asked facetiously.

His question caused her to giggle. I was the one who did the background investigation, so I know a great deal about you. She looked closely and decided that the file photo did not do him justice. She thought he was more handsome in person than in the picture.

And you are… he paused, awaiting a name that would be East Indian.

She offered her hand. My name is Savitri. Savitri Choudhury.

A beautiful name, for a beautiful young woman. Is there any chance I might find out what the consul has in mind? He did not like being in the dark.

Unfortunately, not from me. I’m only a humble secretary.

Certainly the most attractive humble secretary in all Los Angeles.

You flatter me, Mr. Jacobs. She dropped her eyes, as if embarrassed.

"Kent. Just Kent. No mister."

She nodded, preferring this arrangement. All right. In any case, you still flatter me, Kent.

Just the opposite. I was merely telling the truth. Does a humble secretary ever take time out from her busy schedule to go to lunch or dinner?

I’ve only known you for two minutes and you’re already asking me to dinner. What kind of woman do you think I am?

A beautiful one, but… he glanced at the file she was holding, from the looks of things you’ve known me for a lot longer than two minutes. I’m only asking to catch up.

Once again he caused her to giggle. Perhaps I’ll let you. She reopened the manila folder. Divorced for two years. She looked deep into his eyes to confirm her information.

He nodded and told her, She ran away with an East Indian snake charmer.

You’re teasing me? She found nothing to indicate that in his file.

Yes, I am. She actually ran off with an Earth First tree hugger.

What in Lord Krishna’s name is a tree hugger.

This one was an environmental activist who hates timber companies. His friends like to spike trees and put chains across roads in logging areas, hoping to disrupt the lumber industry.

And she married him?

I rather doubt it. He seemed to be married to a cause, one that she somehow got herself swept up in. The last time I heard they’d taken up residence in a giant redwood tree that they named Hubert. They were living in a makeshift tree house, to protect Hubert from loggers.

Good riddance? Again she watched his eyes, looking for remorse or longing.

He shrugged and confessed, Who knows in these matters. More important, what about Ms. Choud… he had difficulty with her last name.

"Miss Choudhury. Like yourself, unmarried."

Good. Now you can seriously consider my offer.

Before she could respond, a man walked briskly toward them. She changed quickly, becoming businesslike and introduced the man as V. J., the consul general’s personal secretary.

Good afternoon, Mr. Jacobs. The consul general is waiting for you. The personal secretary was almost six feet tall and slender. Unlike Savitri, his skin was shallow, as if he spent too much time indoors. His eyes shifted quickly, like a hungry bird of prey.

Kent nodded, but before he left he turned to Savitri. I’ll stop on the way out for your answer.

The bold statement caused her to blush. The secretary frowned, not knowing what had transpired between these two prior to his arrival. He detested mysteries, particularly those he was not privy to.

Kent eased the secretary’s concern. I asked Savitri for her mother’s favorite curry recipe and she was considering giving it to me. He turned to Savitri. If you decide in my favor, jot it down on a slip of paper.

She smiled and nodded slightly. Give me a little time to consider this, Mr. Jacobs. Her recipes are precious, passed down through generations.

I’m certain they’re worth the wait.

Come, Mr. Jacobs, Consul Bansilal is a busy man. The personal secretary impatiently motioned for Kent to follow him.

Kent followed, but not until winking at Savitri. The personal secretary led him down a broad, tiled hallway and into an impressive office. An Indian soldier was stationed outside the office door and saluted smartly as they passed. The interior of the large office was ornate. A magnificent carved ivory—tusk table dominated one wall. Giant brass elephants stood silent sentinel throughout the room.

The consul general rose from behind a large oak desk and cordially offered his hand, accompanied by a practiced smile. An Indian flag and the flag of his home state, Tamil Nadu, flanked his desk.

The personal secretary closed the door, leaving the soldier on the outside. Kent glanced sequentially at the four people in the room. The personal secretary looked the part, efficient and loyal. The consul general gave the impression of the quintessential political animal, willing to do whatever was necessary to accomplish his goals. There were two others, a dangerous-looking Indian man and a stunning redheaded woman, presumably American.

Good afternoon, Mr. Jacobs. The consul general was five feet ten inches tall. He appeared trim and in good shape, as if he worked out regularly. He was a handsome man, graying slightly at the temples. He gave the impression of someone who was comfortable around people of wealth and power. His complexion was the lightest of the three Indian men in the room.

Kent shook his hand firmly. Good afternoon, sir.

The consul general was a wealthy Brahman, educated and erudite. His full name was Sooraj Bansilal and he owned a forty thousand-acre estate in Tamil Nadu. He was one of the best-connected men in southern India. As yet, Kent knew none of this. But the gold Rolex and expensive diamond rings indicated that he was dealing with someone of means.

Sit. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Bansilal motioned to an upholstered chair that sat across from his desk, a desk that appeared to have very little true work cross over the polished oak.

Thank you. Kent took a seat, uneasy that the other two men, whom he knew nothing about, were behind his back. The secretary sensed this uneasiness and motioned for the other man to move off to Kent’s side.

Before we begin, the consul remained standing, let me introduce everyone. You’ve met my secretary, V.J. He motioned with his head toward the smiling secretary; a false smile that appeared painted on. This is my personal bodyguard, Suman. He motioned toward the glowering bodyguard. And last, but certainly not least, is Deborah, my… my American advisor. The consul’s voice was that unmistakable mixture of England and New Delhi.

Kent nodded greetings to each of the three. The beautiful redhead smiled warmly. The secretary continued the feigned smiling. The powerfully built bodyguard stared, but did not acknowledge the greeting.

I assume you’re curious as to why I requested that you meet with us here, rather than in your office. Bansilal took his seat.

Kent nodded with his reply. I’m certain you have a valid reason.

By now you’ve probably discovered that we did a rather extensive background check.

Again Kent nodded. So thorough that I was afraid I was being nominated for the Supreme Court.

Bansilal chuckled and remarked, Nothing that mundane. Besides, you’re a man of action, ill suited to long and tedious deliberations.

"Speaking of deliberations, why am I here?"

As I said, you’re a man of action. Before we begin, I’d prefer that we be brutally frank in all matters.

The truth will out. Kent nodded acceptance of the ground rules.

Also, I want to stipulate that I’m paying your normal hourly fee for this meeting.

Fair enough.

Why do you think I might make that request, Mr. Jacobs? Bansilal watched Kent’s eyes for his reaction.

Because you’re a very clever man. By paying my fee, I’m in your service and anything we discuss is privileged information and can go no further.

Ahh, he smiled broadly, a clever attorney. You just passed the first test, Mr. Jacobs.

Now to the crux of the matter.

Of course. We’re seeking a man to assist us. We narrowed our list to three men and did background investigations on each of you. Two here in Los Angeles and one in San Francisco. Why do you suppose we chose those cities, Mr. Jacobs? Another subtle test.

Kent thought for a moment before he replied. I have to assume that you’re the consul general at the Indian Consulate in San Francisco and that you’re more than likely in charge of the legation here in Los Angeles. So whatever difficulties you’re experiencing must involve both cities.

These tests are far too easy, Mr. Jacobs. I should have devised something more difficult.

You flatter me.

On the contrary. On paper, you were the man we sought. But paper images are often deceiving. One such man, an attorney from San Francisco, also looked promising on a printout. But he was so poorly educated that he didn’t know a Jain from a Sikh.

And these differences are important? Kent sincerely wished the consul would come to the point, whatever it was.

Very, almost critical. The man we seek must understand India, and her attendant problems, as well as being a consummate professional.

Your difficulties are obviously legal. Kent glanced again at the beautiful redhead, wondering how she fit into this enigmatic puzzle.

Only in a secondary sense. Let me ask a few more questions and then we’ll know if we’re right for each other.

Kent nodded slowly, reluctantly accepting the unusual conditions. As long as he was being paid, the consul could take all the time he wanted.

I own a large estate in Tamil Nadu State, roughly forty thousand acres. There are numerous small villages and settlements on my land.

Kent nodded again, but said nothing, allowing Bansilal to proceed at his own pace.

My family, and those who operate the estate, are Brahman. The workers fall into myriad categories. Some are Indian Tamils, of varying castes, others are Sri Lankan Tamils, still others are Harijans, Untouchables. From time to time, as with all large organizations, people die in the course of performing their duties.

And some of your employees have suffered that fate?

Correct. It’s inevitable, particularly in a labor-intensive land such as India. Such is human nature that the people blame the property owner rather than the careless worker.

As in your case? Kent could see the plot unfolding, slowly, but still unfolding.

Unfortunately, he nodded. I stated earlier that I wanted to be completely frank.

And I agreed.

Good. Well, the death of a few Untouchables or Tamils is of little consequence to me. I’m rarely on my property, and when I am I certainly have no contact with that class of people, employees or not.

I understand. Kent mused, What a bastard. He then stated innocently, I was led to believe that the caste system had been abolished in India.

Only in the minds of do-gooder Americans and on the pages of U.S. newspapers. Trust me, the caste system is alive and well in India.

How unusual. Kent suspected as much, no matter what the American media preached.

"But times are changing, even in a timeless land like India. There are people who actually place value on the life of an Untouchable or an uneducated Tamil."

Winds of change?

Exactly. When my father was Consul General, if the shadow of an Untouchable fell across his body he went to the temple and washed six times. Then, of course, he had the fellow severely beaten.

Obviously. Kent wondered how such an unprincipled person ever rose to a position of authority.

But today we’re expected to accept every class to our bosom. We, and I know you’ll find this incredible, we’re required to set aside numerous university student slots for Untouchable young men, young men who can neither read nor write. He shook his head slowly, disgusted by the thought.

Shocking. His tone indicated that he thoroughly agreed.

More than shocking, it’s untenable. Now, to the essence of our problem.

Kent assumed that some of Bansilal’s employees were about to sue him for everything he was worth and he wanted to protect his American holdings. I’m listening. He removed a small notebook from his jacket pocket and prepared to take notes with a gold Mont Blanc pen.

Are you familiar with the Tamil Tigers?

Yes, Kent frowned with his response, from Northern Sri Lanka.

The Northern Territory in Sri Lanka and in southern Tamil Nadu. Do you know about the Black Tigers?

They’re reputed to be the suicide assassins of the Tigers. They’re battling for a separate state in Northern Sri Lanka.

Their vile reputation is well deserved. I’ve received intelligence that I’m the target of a Black Tiger assassination team. The diplomatic smile vanished, replaced by true concern.

Why? Why you? He was expecting something civil, not criminal.

Why did I receive this information? Bansilal looked puzzled by the question.

No, why would they single you out?

He remained anxious, yet outwardly cavalier. For any number of reasons, none of which are valid, I might add. From my association with the (I) Party…

(I) party? Kent interrupted with a perplexed look.

The Congress Party. In India it’s casually referred to as the (I) Party. My family has been Congress members since the party’s inception. They could also be angry about my political connections or my business dealings with a personal friend, the Sri Lankan Consul in San Francisco.

A Singhalese?

How perceptive.

No wonder they’re upset.

The Tigers are narrow-minded and agenda-driven, prone to violence rather than negotiation. I prefer to deal in stocks and bonds, rather than guns and bullets.

Is your source of information trustworthy?

Unfortunately, yes, Bansilal nodded solemnly. I received the same warning from two reliable sources. That’s why I need you. I need someone who can ferret out these thugs before they attempt to kill me.

Kent looked perplexed. It seems to me that you should be talking to the FBI or to LAPD.

"Please, Mr. Jacobs, no joking about serious matters. Your vaunted FBI couldn’t find its posterior with both hands. They’re very good at finding terrorist after the crime has been committed, never before. I have absolutely no desire to become a statistic for one of their solved crimes, posthumously."

The defamatory statement caused Kent to chuckle. What about the Los Angeles or San Francisco Police?

I thought I asked you not to joke. The Los Angeles Police would probably follow them on the freeway, with six patrol cars, waiting to see if they shot me before they did anything. And the San Francisco Police, Great Lord Shiva forbid the thought. All a Black Tiger would have to do is tell them he was homeless or disadvantaged and they’d help him plant the bomb.

Kent chuckled again. The consul’s assessments were biting, but close to accurate. As promised, he was frank. Even though one might not agree with him, it was refreshing to talk to someone who was ill concerned about political correctness. What makes you think I could locate these people?

You’re an amalgam. First a policeman, then a law degree, a stint with the FBI, and now in private practice. You can see my problem from many angles.

Better than the authorities?

Obviously. To them it’s a political matter. A revolution in Sri Lanka that India fears might spill over into our southern states. The Tamils are a minority in Sri Lanka and therefore heroes in America. Your government would try to please all sides and I’d end up getting shot.

What about the Indian government?

Please, spare me. They couldn’t even protect Rajiv. What makes you think they could keep me safe?

You knew him?

Of course, again he was somewhat haughty, and Sanjay before him. Trust me, I’m well connected.

And Maneka?

Obviously, and your question reinforces my feeling that you’re our man. You have a working knowledge of both India and her problems. What you don’t know, you’ll quickly learn.

You already have a bodyguard. Kent played the Devil’s Advocate and motioned with his head toward the hulking Suman, who was built like a Punjabi wrestler. The bodyguard’s head was shaved, making him appear even fiercer.

Suman is nonpareil at protecting me at close range. What I need is someone to root out these assassins before they get that close. Suman would give his life to keep me alive, but I don’t want us both going out in a blaze of glory.

Someone who can move freely in the United States, while seeking out your enemies?

Exactly.

I have a law practice.

We know. Your annual net is somewhere near one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, after expenses. Bansilal felt comfortable using the colloquial we, as if he were royalty.

That’s close. Again Kent was impressed by their thoroughness.

Well, I’m prepared to pay you three times that amount for your services, plus any expenses.

And my law practice? Kent was weakening. Bansilal was an unmitigated jerk, but his offer was enticing, not so much monetarily, but in terms of excitement. He missed the thrill of the chase, the quickening of the hunt. Civil cases paid the bills, but were boring.

V.J. will locate a competent lawyer for you, one who can fill in while you’re absent. I’ll throw enough business your way to keep the practice very profitable. He upped the ante in this high stakes game of life and death.

Four hundred and fifty thousand is a lot of money.

Bansilal chuckled and countered, A pittance. My partner and I made that much on an oil transaction last week.

How? Since it was privileged information, he felt free to ask.

Bansilal remained refreshingly candid. We had optioned a Greek tanker, filled with Iranian crude, that was headed for France. We had the dual good fortune of a slight price shift, while the tanker was at sea, and inside information about a temporary shortage in Colombo. We diverted the tanker south and pocketed an extra six hundred thousand dollars.

You and the Sri Lankan Consul?

Yes, we’re business associates.

Hmm, strange bedfellows.

The consul shrugged and countered, Only to the unenlightened. We both attended Stanford University and have remained close through the years.

Too close for the Tigers? Kent asked with jaundiced eye.

It appears that way. Hindus and Buddhist are supposed to hate each other.

Certainly a narrow minded viewpoint. Obviously you’re wealthy. Why the position as a consul general? The pay can’t be that good.

Power, Mr. Jacobs, pure raw power. It gives me access to all kinds of wonderful opportunities. Talking about unrestrained power caused his eyes to take on a far away gaze.

"Couldn’t you do even better as