Читать книгу Jungle Justice - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

Sundarbans Wildlife Park, India

“I’m still not clear exactly why we need an army escort in a game preserve,” Phillip Langley said.

His guide, a thirty-something diplomat named Rajit Singh, concealed any frustration that he may have felt concerning Langley’s poor retention. Smiling, he replied, “All wildlife is protected in the Sundarbans, and most particularly tigers, sir. Of course, the law is one thing, and reality is something else entirely, as I’m sure you know.”

Joyce Langley spoke up from the seat beside her husband, swaying with the rocking motion of their boat as it moved ever deeper into the world’s largest mangrove swamp. “You mean that poachers hunt the tigers, even here?” she asked.

“Most certainly, memsahib,” the guide replied. “And here most cunningly of all.”

Stomach uneasy, Phillip Langley asked, “When do we go ashore?”

“Not long, sir,” Singh assured him. “Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

The heat was even more oppressive here than in Calcutta, where Langley and his wife had spent the previous night in what passed for a four-star hotel, after meeting their guide at the local seat of government. Langley’s role as special U.S. envoy and a member of the President’s task force on preservation of endangered species had assured Langley the best room in the house—which wasn’t saying much.

At least, he reassured himself, it was a far cry from the teeming, reeking slums they’d seen while driving from the airport to their rendezvous with Rajit Singh. Langley was clueless as to how people survived in squalor so profound and hopeless. Given half a chance, he would’ve filmed Calcutta in 3-D, bottled its smell and shared the grim experience with everyone who ranted about poverty in the United States.

Compared to the worst of Calcutta, the South Bronx and Cabrini Green looked like a juicy slice of Beverly Hills, 90210. Langley wasn’t sure that any of the people he’d seen lying in the streets and gutters had been dead, but on the other hand, living in such conditions made the prospect of a coronary sound like sweet relief.

Now, here they were, sweating beneath a broiling sun, the humidity close to one hundred percent, and his industrial-strength bug repellent was barely holding the king-sized mosquitoes at bay. They’d seen some birds that Langley didn’t recognize, and several crocodiles that eyed him as if he was a prospective snack.

Even with the rocking of the boat, Langley had almost soured on the plan to go ashore. Ideally, he’d have ordered Singh to turn the boat around and take them back to the Port Canning railhead, but how would that look in his final report?

Stiff upper lip, he thought, wiping the perspiration from it with his sleeve.

“I understand most of the tigers in the Sundarbans are man-eaters,” his wife was saying, using all of her considerable charm on Rajit Singh.

“You are correct, memsahib,” the guide replied. “That is another reason for the military guard, you know. Because prey in the game preserve is scarce, and humans run so slowly, most of the three hundred Bengal tigers here have eaten men. We record an average twenty-six maulings per year, most of them fishermen and woodcutters.”

“And still, you work to save the tigers?”

“But of course. It is the law.” Raising an arm to point, Singh told them, “There, ahead, you see the dock where we will land.”

Langley could see the dock, all right, but he felt less secure than ever about stepping from the boat. Twenty-six tiger kills in a year meant one every two weeks. When had the last one been, he wondered. Was it time to log a fresh statistic on the butcher’s bill?

The boat was veering toward the dock on his left. Langley knew he was running out of time. “About these tigers, Mr. Singh,” he said. “What happens if we meet one on our tour? I mean, if we meet a hungry one.”

Singh smiled at that, just short of mocking him. “Fear not, sir. We have the pistols without bullets—oh, what do you call them?”

“Starter pistols?”

“Yes! We have the starter pistols and electric prods. Is very safe.”

“But we have rifles, too,” Langley reminded him, eyeing their uniformed escort.

“Rifles are only for the poachers and the bandits, sir.” Singh’s tone was solemn now. “We shoot a tiger only as the very last resort, sir, in a most extreme emergency. And even then, I fear my job is forfeit.”

“Still,” Langley insisted, “in a real emergency—”

“Have no fear, sir.” The guide had found his smile. “I have not lost a Western diplomat so far.”

“So far?”

“Joking! We have the laugh together, yes?”

Hilarious, Langley thought, as he forced a smile. Joyce poked him in the ribs, a subtle elbow shot, and he managed to say, “That’s quite a wit you’ve got there, Mr. Singh.”

The guide beamed at him. “Everyone is telling me the same, sir. If I was not in the government employ, I should be a comedian.”

“Something to think about,” Langley replied. In case a tiger eats my ass.

The boat nosed in against the dock, where some native youths stood waiting to secure the lines. More soldiers also stood by, rifles slung or tucked beneath their arms, guarding a pair of Land Rovers.

“There are no highways in the Sundarbans,” Singh told them, when they stood once more on semisolid ground, “and few passable roads. To really see the game preserve, a person must walk or travel on the waterways, but I believe you would prefer to ride.”

You got that right, Langley thought. If I have to be among man-eating tigers, lock me in a sturdy SUV.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Joyce said.

“Sadly, the Rovers have no air-conditioning,” Singh said, “but we shall roll the windows down. Only a few tigers jump through the windows of a moving vehicle.” He let them soak that in, then said, “I joke again!”

“Better and better,” Langley said. “About those gangs you mentioned—”

“Mostly poachers,” Singh replied. “Mostly a group led by the pig Naraka. My apologies, memsahib.”

“Naraka?” Langley asked.

“A bad man. Very bad. But have no fear, sir. I believe we shall not meet with him today.”