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

gone. He’d have normally suspected a burglary, but Ian’s Omega watch was still sitting on the bedside table next to his passport. Tusker quickly changed into a polo shirt and fresh khaki shorts and left to find Sam.

Ten minutes later, they were bashing down the road from the Deep Blue in the Land Rover. The truck lurched and bounced violently on the ruts and potholes. As they reached the junction with the main road, Tusker reached for a seatbelt.

“Sorry,” she said while looking over her shoulder for an opening in the traffic, “this one’s ex-military. They stripped out any amenities, including the seatbelts. You’ll have to trust my driving.” He saw himself reflected in her sunglasses as she smirked at him.

Sam swung the Land Rover through a roundabout, expertly double-clutching a downshift into second gear and sneaking in ahead of a groaning Leyland bus. As they gained speed, a hot breeze blew in through the crude cabin vent flaps and sliding windows, doing little to counteract the sweat that poured freely down Tusker’s face.

“What do you think your father can get the navy to do?” Tusker shouted above the din of the engine and road noise.

“Thathi used to serve in the navy,” she replied. “He’s got an old pal that works at the base. I’m not sure what they can do, but it’ll be good to have their support.”

Tusker’s damp shirt was sticking to the vinyl seat back. It was too loud to carry on a conversation and they drove in silence. He glanced across at Sam. She had put on the same olive colored shorts he’d first seen her in and a ribbed tank top with no bra underneath. Her neck and chest shimmered with a mist of perspiration. She’d kicked off her rubber slippers when she got into the Land Rover, and her bare feet worked the clutch, brake, and gas pedals as she rowed through the gears. He found the whole scene somehow erotic and he reached across and put his hand on her bare thigh. It was cool and firm.

“Is this what you call, in America, distracted driving?” She flashed a smile without taking her eyes off the road.

Tusker closed his eyes and thought back to the night before, in the small bed, their hands quietly learning each other’s bodies in the dark. Baila music played in the next room. He traced the outline of her firm breasts, felt the stubble under her arms and the moistness between her legs. She had silently rolled over and straddled him. The whole thing hadn’t lasted long, and they lay side by side panting quietly, going to sleep without a word.

“We need to stop for gas.” Sam’s voice jolted Tusker upright. They were passing through Pasikudah, the last big town between Batticaloa and Trincomalee. The streets were choked with all manner of people and animals on the move—tuk-tuks, taxis, buses, bicycles and cattle. It was slow going. Sam used the horn liberally as she ground the Land Rover into second, then third, the gearbox protesting with a crunch. Finally, she turned into a Ceypetco service station on a street corner and switched off the engine. An attendant ambled over to the open window and she handed him a sheaf of rupee notes.

“I’m roasting,” Tusker said as he peeled himself off the seat. “I’m going to run over to that shop and grab some bottles of water.” He jumped down from the truck and jogged across the road, dodging a swaying lorry that blasted a warning with its triple air horns.

The shop was sweltering and smelled of rotting fish. Several women floated up and down the small aisles in sarees and a bored-looking man sat behind the counter waving flies away. Tusker walked to a small refrigerated case at the back of the shop and took out four small plastic bottles of ice cold water. While he was waiting to pay, he looked out at the bright street. He could see Sam sitting in the Land Rover as the attendant finished filling the tank. A large vehicle flashed across his view. It was one of those oversized Toyota SUVs, a deluxe version with tinted glass and large tires. It came to a stop two doors down from the gas station at a branch office of the Royal Ceylon Bank. A man stepped out on to the road. A Western man in a red cap. It was Roland, and the cap he was wearing was Tusker’s.

“Bastard…” muttered Tusker through clenched teeth.

“Sir?” The man at the checkout said to Tusker, who looked down and clumsily handed over some cash.

“Keep the change,” Tusker said, taking the water bottles in his hand and moving towards the door, not taking his eyes off that Toyota. He glanced over at the gas station. Sam had started the Land Rover and was easing it onto the road, waiting to turn left and come across to pick him up. He hoped Roland wouldn’t see her. He wanted to see what he was up to first.

Roland was talking to a man in the left hand passenger side window of the Toyota, someone Tusker couldn’t see. He smiled and nodded. Then the door opened and a man stepped out onto the curb. He was tall and fair, with swept-back silver hair, a turtleneck and trousers. When he shielded his face against the harsh sun, an expensive watch glinted on his wrist. The man was a full head taller than Roland. It was Rausing.

As I suspected, Tusker thought to himself. Roland was connected to Rausing. He stood in the shade of the shop and continued to watch the two men, debating whether to confront Roland. Suddenly, a car horn blared. It was Sam in the Land Rover. She was double parked in the middle of the road, waving to Tusker to get in. He looked back at Roland and the man. The sound had made them look and Roland was staring right at Tusker with his mouth open. Rausing was frowning.