The Amber Trail (9 page)

“
Hampi. How much is
that?”

“
Fourteen
hundred.”

Dig counted out the
bills.

The boy examined a few of the
notes and returned them to him. “Fake.”

Dig blinked. “Huh?”

“
Fake notes.” He
pulled a genuine bill from his pocket and held it out. The paper
was softer and the ink sharper.

Dig thought back to the taxi
driver and his cheeks flushed warm. “Right.” He handed over a
larger note and the boy returned some change to him.

A nagging unease hung with him as
the conductor moved further down the aisle. After a moment he
pulled his bag to his lap and examined the front zipper. The pocket
was open. His phone was gone. He remembered the driver helping him
out of the taxi and clenched his teeth.

Great,
he thought.
I've
only been here thirty minutes and I've been ripped off
twice.

He already felt alone and
defenseless in the new country, but now the emergency link to his
family had been taken, he felt more isolated than ever.

It's just a phone,
he told
himself, but the unsettling churn in his stomach did not
dissipate.

The bus pulled away from the
kerb, and Mr Hairy Ears fell asleep beside him. With each bump in
the road, his head lolled and bounced off Dig’s
shoulder.

Dig took a deep breath and
checked his watch. Another thirteen hours to travel through the
night. He hugged his bag to his chest and willed the time to
pass.

He drifted in and out of a
nocturnal haze until the sunrise lifted over the horizon to reveal
a series of rocky mountains. As the bus laboured over the crest of
a hill it slowed, then pulled into the dirt shoulder with a flurry
of gravel against the undercarriage, and stopped.

Outside the window, a cluster of
police stood behind a set of timber barriers. A young policeman
stepped through the door and barked an order in Hindi. The
passengers retrieved their luggage and made their way forward off
the bus.

Dig turned to Mr Hairy Ears. “Are
we there? Hampi?”

The man shook his head. “Police
check.”

Dig grabbed his pack and pulled
himself to his feet. He tried to massage some life into his legs as
he limped down the aisle, then squinted into the early morning sun
as he stepped off the bus.

The passengers stood in a ragged
line on the road shoulder with their possessions piled around their
feet. A burly policeman in a black peaked cap moved down the line
and sifted through the possessions, requesting bags and boxes to be
opened for inspection.

Dig turned to Hairy Ears. “What
are they looking for?”

“
Anything illegal.”
He shrugged. “You know...drugs, alcohol, guns.”

“
Alcohol’s
illegal?”

He nodded, scratching at his jaw.
“Hampi’s a holy city. Alcohol is banned.”

“
Okay.”

The policeman lifted a bottle of
wine from the pack of a guy with oily dreadlocks, and thrust it
into his face, shouting. The guy stood stiffly with his hands
clasped together, before a junior policeman grabbed the guy’s upper
arm and dragged him away.

The head policeman sauntered down
the line until he reached Dig. He chewed gum as he looked him up
and down, then motioned at Dig’s pack. Dig held it open. The
policeman sifted through the bag before giving a small nod. He
pointed toward the bus, and Dig returned to his seat beside Hairy
Ears.

“
We escaped,” Dig
said.

Hairy Ears smiled and nodded. The
bus pulled back out to the road and continued its
journey.

Shortly after, square concrete
buildings began to crowd both sides of the road. The bus turned
into a wide piece of dirt lined with shops and market stalls, and
came to a lumbering halt at a crowded steel shelter. Inside the
bus, the passengers stood and began pushing toward the
door.

Hairy Ears stood beside Dig,
holding a cardboard box to his chest. He turned to Dig. “Hampi,” he
said.

Dig smiled. “Great,
thanks.”

DIG STEPPED DOWN FROM THE BUS
and
pushed through the crowd, trying to shake out the remaining
stiffness in his legs. Children dodged past him, chasing each other
down the dusty road. A vendor tried to beckon him into a clothing
stall. The tall spine of an ancient looking temple stood at the end
of the street. In the distance, pointed hills lined up across the
horizon, covered in boulders of orange stone.

On his left was a dusty shopfront
with a crooked sign in the window stating
Helpful Hari’s Tourist
Information
. Dig ducked through a curtain of amber beads
hanging in the doorway.

A man with a crooked tie and
bushy sideburns sat behind a counter. A girl with blond
e
hair and sunburnt arms stood in front of him, paging
through a brochure. “I think I’ll go on the boat tour,” she
said.

“
Excellent,” the man
said. “It leaves at 2 p.m. That’ll be six hundred rupees.” The girl
handed over some cash and he wrote out a receipt. “See you at two.”
She left the room.

The man turned to Dig. “Hello
Sir! I’m Hari. Where are you from?”

“
Australia.”

“
Ah, Steve Smith and
David Warner. Good Australian cricketers.”

“
Yeah. They’re pretty
good.”

“
David Warner is
playing for the Sunrisers tonight in the Indian Premier League. You
watching?
”

“
I wouldn’t mind, but
I don’t think I’ll have time. Has Dhoni retired yet?”

“
Yes, unfortunately
he has. India will miss him.” Hari brought his hands together in
front of him. “So, how can I help?”

“
Well,” Dig said.
“I’m looking for a business in Hampi called the Banyan Brewery. Do
you know where that is?”

Hari frowned and stroked the
loose fold of skin under his chin.

A clattering interrupted them as
a stocky, bearded man wearing a creased suit pushed through the
wall of beads. Hari gave him a subtle nod then turned to Dig.
“Please wait a moment.” He moved to the end of the counter and
started a whispered conversation. Hari produced a well-worn
notebook from beneath the table, scribbled on a slip and exchanged
it for a bundle of notes. The stocky man ducked his head and turned
back out into the street.

“
I’m sorry about
that,” Hari said. “Now, what was the business called
again?”

“
The Banyan
Brewery.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve
never heard of that business.”

“
Are you
sure?”

“
Yes. Hampi is a
small place. If you walk to the end of this street you’ll have seen
the whole town for yourself, and there’s no business here of that
name. And besides, alcohol is banned in Hampi, so we have no
breweries. Maybe you can look up the road in Hospet.”

“
What about a guy
called Max? Have you heard of him?”

The man gave a blank look. “No. I
know most of the people in this town, but I’ve never heard of
him.”

Dig sighed. “Okay.”

The man smiled. “Maybe you need
to bribe an official. That’s the Indian way of doing things!” He
laughed. “Now, do you want to go on a tour of the ruins while
you’re here?”

“
No thanks. Maybe
later.”

“
A boat
trip?”

“
No.”

“
Bike
tour?”

Dig shook his head.

Hari leaned in close to Dig and
whispered. “Do you want a bet on the cricket? I can give you three
to one on the Sunrisers tonight. You can’t get a bet anywhere else
in Hampi, as sports betting’s illegal in Karnartaka. I’m only
offering this to you as you seem like a man who likes his
sport.”

“
No thanks. I need to
hang on to all the cash I’ve got at the moment.”

“
I can get you
Karcha, special rice spirit, also banned.”

“
Not right
now.”

“
Hostel?”

“
No, not interested,”
Dig said with a smile. “I tell you what though, because you’ve
helped me, if I ever
do
need anything I’ll make sure that I
buy it here, okay?” He stood and made his way to the
door.

“
Bus ticket? Train
ticket?” Hari followed him out of the building and onto the street.
“Okay sir! You make sure you come back to me when you buy your
tickets. For anything!” Dig gave a thumbs up, then walked up the
street with Hari’s voice trailing behind him.

The Hampi Bazaar was the town’s
main road, and Dig walked the five-hundred-metre length of it from
start to finish. On the journey, he stopped in two restaurants,
three hostels and a fruit stall, asking the inhabitants similar
questions about the Banyan Brewery or anyone called Max. All the
responses were the same, blank looks, shaking heads, or shrugged
shoulders.  

His concentration was evaporating
in the heat, so Dig sat on a stone wall outside the temple and took
a gulp of water from his bottle.

Where is it?
he thought.
It can't be far away. Dad’s been paying into bank accounts here
for years.

He narrowed his eyes, then
removed the invoice from his pocket, this time focusing on a
section at the bottom:

Preferred Payment Method: Direct
Bank Transfer

Bank: Canara Bank,
Hampi

Account:  0154563

IFSC Code: CNRB0001187

Back down the road, a battered
fluorescent sign hung over the street. He could just make out the
lettering as
Canara Bank
.

Dig pulled himself to his feet
and headed toward it. A small restaurant stood opposite, so he took
a seat, ordered a fruit juice, and had a closer look.

It was a formal building, with
two large stone columns framing the door, and policemen in khaki
uniforms flanking the entrance. One was at least six feet tall,
while the other was shorter and wider. Both slung rifles over their
shoulders. A steady stream of tourists and locals moved
between them
through the doors
.

Hari’s words rung in his ears.
Maybe you need to bribe an official. That’s the Indian way of
doing things!

He checked his wallet and removed
a thousand rupee note, folded it into a tight square and placed it
in the top pocket of his shirt—his backup plan. He finished his
drink, took a deep breath, and headed across the road.

The policemen were engrossed in
conversation as he approached. The taller man leaned against the
door jamb and gesticulated with his hands; the smaller man nodded,
his fingers drumming the butt of his gun. Dig tried to enter with a
relaxed, casual air about him—but instead felt like an underage kid
trying to blag his way into a nightclub. Nonetheless, as he entered
the taller policeman took a sideways glance and continued his
conversation without breaking sentence.

Walls of stained wood panelling
framed an open room with ceiling fans that spun slow revolutions.
The buzz of ringing phones and murmured conversations filled the
room, and the scent of toner was in the air.

Bank tellers stood behind glass
on one side of the room, serving a line of customers cordoned off
by guide ropes. On the other side, a man sat behind a desk with a
sign announcing that he was the
Customer Enquiry
section of
the bank.  

Dig made his way to a rack of
forms by the wall and found one entitled
Deposit Slip
. He
pulled the brewery invoice from his pocket and copied the bank
account numbers into the appropriate boxes.

Dig checked the note was still
inside his pocket. His stomach churned; he’d never attempted to
bribe someone before. Did you just hand the money straight over?
Leave it on the desk? Drop it on the floor? Put it in an envelope?
Was he supposed to use some kind of code word?

He glanced across at Mr Customer
Service. He looked to be in his fifties. Three pens were perched
neatly on the front pocket of his shirt. He supported a thick
beard, and broken blood vessels tracked across his nose. A faded
plastic sign on the desk read
Kumar Rangkot.

Dig took a deep breath, grabbed
the deposit slip, and crossed the room.

“
Hi.” Dig forced a
smile. “How are you?”

Kumar gave a small
nod.

“
Hot out there today
huh?”

Kumar
raised
an eyebrow.
“How can I help?”

Dig took a seat. “Well, I’ve a
small issue. I’ve just travelled over from Australia for a meeting
with my business partner in Hampi. You see?” Dig placed the Banyan
Brewery invoice on the desk between them. “And well, it looks like
the jetlag’s taken its toll as I’ve managed to misplace the address
of the company.” He rolled his eyes. “So I know the company’s got
an account with your bank as I’ve been sending them money here for
years, but I’d appreciate if you could remind me of their address
so I can make the meeting today.” Dig smiled. “Here, I’ve filled
out a slip with the account details, so if you could just write the
address on here it’d be great.”