Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (carter reed .txt) 📗

fixed Dhammasara with his grey eyes. “Given the way the Chinese are buying up Sri Lanka, the Muslims won’t be your only problem for long. But then, as you say, it’s none of my concern.” The slightest of smiles creased a corner of his cruel mouth. Venerable Dhammasara didn’t react, but only pressed his palms together, then turned back into the temple.

As Rausing descended the steps outside, the Land Cruiser rolled up to collect him. Rausing slipped into the passenger seat and looked at his driver, Scholz, who nodded back. “All OK, sir?”

“Fine,” Rausing replied, distractedly looking out the tinted glass at the dark scenery as Scholz pulled away. “Get me back to my ship.”

The monk was a fanatic, a fool, and he despised him. But in a week it wouldn’t matter. He would be far away from this forsaken island. The Land Cruiser passed Kandy Lake and headed onto the A9, back east to Batticaloa.

The China Bay Club

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. That evening.

The China Bay Club of Trincomalee can trace its origins back to 1882, when the British Navy bought the former home of a wealthy Dutch trader and turned it into a club for officers. The China Bay Club adhered to the protocols of the countless other clubs across Britain’s vast empire: white-coated, dark-skinned servants waited on black-jacketed, white-skinned men of privilege who sipped gin and planned the course of history. The club, which was named for the crescent of water out its breezy windows, remained much the same up until the 1920s, when it opened up to a wider clientele, including civilians, wives, and the occasional mistress. By World War II, it became the center of the social scene in eastern Ceylon, peopled by international journalists, spies, and RAF pilots on leave from the nearby air base. After the war, and Ceylon’s independence, locals were finally allowed entry and over the years the club has evolved into a thriving, diverse social scene, retaining its imperial charms but with more of an egalitarian buzz.

A flock of giant fruit bats flapped silently overhead as Tusker and Ian walked across the lawn. It was a warm night, with a sea breeze that coated everything in a salty sheen. Tusker wore a black linen shirt, open at the neck, and a pair of khaki trousers. He’d left his red Mount Gay cap behind for once, a sure sign he was dressing up. It was only the second time he’d worn long pants in Sri Lanka, but though the club had relaxed its jacket and tie policy, shorts were still frowned upon. Ian wore a pair of lime green pants and a dark blue polo shirt.

They were greeted warmly by a beautiful Southeast Asian woman at the reception, who asked if they had a reservation for dinner. “No, we’ll just sit in the bar if that’s OK, love,” Ian said with his gap toothed grin. “By the way, do I detect a Vietnamese accent?” The woman blushed and nodded, gesturing to the room to her left and the two men passed into the bar side of the club.

The bar ran the length of the room, and sunburned European tourists, well-heeled locals, handsome businessmen in blazers and long-legged women in short cocktail dresses were all bellied up to it. It was warm inside and Tusker pushed through to the wide verandah out back. A very drunk man and his date were just getting up from a table and Tusker swooped in to claim it, sliding the collection of tonic water bottles and a heaped ashtray to one side.

A Sri Lankan waiter appeared immediately. He wore a stiffly starched white shirt with a black bowtie. Some things at the China Bay Club hadn’t changed.

“We’re waiting for a third, but I’ll take a gin and tonic please, with plenty of ice, and a wedge of lime.” The man nodded and looked at Ian, who ordered a lager and a bowl of spicy cashews.

The drinks arrived, glasses sweating in the humidity. The manicured lawn sloped away from the verandah into some coconut trees, the bay twinkling beyond. The ice in Tusker’s glass was melting quickly and he drank it fast and ordered another. He was tired from the day’s long drive and thinking about Upali. Ian tried to make conversation.

“That Samanthi is a real cutie, eh?” He swigged from his bottle. Tusker didn’t say anything. “Then again, you know what they say about dating the innkeeper’s daughter.” He laughed. Still nothing from Tusker. He tried a different tack.

“I wonder what Dinesh got out of the police. Did he call you?”

“Only to arrange a time to meet tonight,” Tusker said, still looking out at the dark bay. He turned and banged his fist on the table so that the glass and tonic bottle clinked. Ian jumped. “It just can’t have been an accident! Upali was as careful as they come and boats don’t just catch on fire.”

“Yeah, but gas, electronics… and that Ranjith smoked like a chimney.”

Tusker shook his head. Just then, a small, bald man with round glasses approached their table. Tusker’s immediate impression was of Mahatma Gandhi, though instead of a robe, this man wore a striped button-down shirt and perfectly pressed grey trousers.

“Dinesh Ranasinghe.” He smiled and extended a hand. Tusker stood up and pumped Dinesh’s hand, then gestured for him to sit. The white-coated waiter returned.

“Just some cool water with lemon, please,” Dinesh said and the waiter disappeared. “Upali spoke very highly of you, Mr. Tusk,” he said, turning to Tusker. “Said you were schoolmates.”

“Yes, we were,” Tusker replied. “Upali tends, er… tended to exaggerate though.” He managed a smile. He was impatient with small talk. “What have you learned about the sinking?”

Dinesh shook his head and shifted in his chair. “The police seem to know very little and have no way of investigating what happened to the Taprobane. They don’t have divers with that level of expertise and their relations with the navy are not good.”

He took off his glasses and carefully wiped