Page 85 of Rising Tiger

Scooping up the money, the bartender put it into the till and set to work making the drinks.

Harvath’s gaze drifted from the ex-cop to the dance floor, paying about as much attention to the newly arrived drunk as he would in any other situation. It was important to know where the man was and if he was getting worse, but other than that, the best course of action was not to engage.

The barman arrived with the two drinks and placed them before his customer. Vijay made quick work of them.

After swirling the first one for a moment to release some of the water from the ice, he tossed it right back—one, fast, gluttonous gulp.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he reached for the second drink and knocked it over. That began what Harvath could only assume was a long string of curse words in Hindi.

The bartender told him that everything was okay and that he would make him another drink. Vijay nodded at the man and gestured to suggest that of course he would make him another drink. It was the only right thing to do.

If Harvath had been tending bar, he would have handed over the fresh drink, told him to enjoy it, and then told him to find someplace else to continue his evening. But Harvath wasn’t the bartender and this wasn’t your average watering hole.

This was, at best, a place where Aga Sayed laundered his ill-gotten gains and at worst, a location from which he ran many of his criminal endeavors. No one here would want any problems with the cops.

Before he had even finished his fresh, second drink, Vijay was setting his sights further upmarket. Eyeing the top shelf, he was surprised to see a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

“Is that real Johnnie Blue?” he asked. “Or bullshit used to fleece your tourist customers?”

To his credit, the barman maintained his cool. Though he resented the accusation, he replied, “No, sir. It is most definitely legitimate Johnnie Walker Blue Label whiskey.”

“Good,” said Vijay, a little heavier on the slurred speech. “I’ll have one of those next.”

“Very good, sir. It is eighteen hundred rupees a glass. How would you like to pay?”

The ex-cop got his wallet back out, opened it, and feigned disbelief that there was no cash.

“Perhaps you have a credit card I could run?” the bartender offered.

Vijay threw his hand dismissively in the air. “I canceled them. Only cash. No paper trail for my wife’s attorney to trace.”

Patting himself down, he stopped at his breast pocket and removed a tattered business card.

Placing it atop the bar, he used two fingers and dramatically slid it toward the barman.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” the man asked, studying the Indian Police Service logo and Vijay’s rank as an inspector general.

“I’d like to establish a house account.”

“In other words,” the barman replied, “you want us to let you drink on credit.”

“Isn’t that what a house account is?” Vijay said, a bit acerbically, but not enough to arouse suspicion and blow his cover.

“I’ll have to talk to my manager.”

The ex-cop nodded and drained his second drink. “You do that,” he said, holding up his empty glass. “In the meantime, I want that Johnnie Blue. It would be a shame if your business got a reputation for being anti-police.”

The threat was unmistakable. The bartender poured him a Johnnie Blue on the rocks and then waved the manager over.

They met at the other end of the bar, where Harvath was, and discussed the situation. Even though Harvath didn’t speak a word of Hindi, he could sense the general gist of the conversation.

The barman then handed over Vijay’s business card and the manager disappeared through a curtain of green, plastic jewels, presumably to head to the office and call someone higher up the food chain. Hopefully, that person was Aga Sayed.

While they waited for a response, Harvath was relieved to see Vijay barely sipping at his whiskey. He had no doubt the ex-cop had a pretty healthy tolerance for alcohol, but he was already two in. They both needed to keep their wits about them.

His Godfather beer all but gone, Harvath ordered a Bira 91, so named for India’s telephone code, and even though it was a much lower alcohol content, reminded himself to go slow. Even with a couple of drinks, he could still handle things, but there was no use in taking on too much unnecessary risk.

He could only imagine what his after-action report might look like ifthings went south. We had a shit plan, with no backup and zero support, which we thought adding alcohol to would improve.

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