Private India by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Thrillers / Crime
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2014-11-11T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 55

THE STRETCH OF the city from Bhendi Bazaar to Mohammed Ali Road was entirely illuminated each night during the holy Islamic festival of Ramadan. Food lanes were doing brisk business at the end of the day’s fasting. They would continue turning out copious quantities of their wares throughout the night.

In a small workshop a few yards away a blacksmith was firing up his acetylene torch, the tip glowing incandescent as the old man welded metal tubes back in place. Standing watch over the process was the thin man from the Indian Mujahideen and his partner.

“I still cannot understand why you need the sealed ends of the tubes to be openable,” said the blacksmith, clamping the tube with tongs over his anvil in order to strike it.

“I’m not paying you to fucking ask me stupid questions,” said the Mujahideen angrily. “Just get the job done so that we can get out of here.” He winked at his partner, who seemed overly nervous.

“This is not going to happen quickly,” the blacksmith retaliated. “It can take multiple rounds of heating and reheating. I suggest you come back in a day or two. Leave the material here with me.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said the Mujahideen. “Just keep hammering away. We’ll sit here and watch.”

“I can’t afford to hammer when the metal’s cold. It will end up creating a cold shunt that weakens the work,” argued the blacksmith earnestly. The Mujahideen man exhaled in exasperation. Why the fuck did the best workmen always turn out to be a pain in the ass? Why was this old man asking questions that would put him in danger of being killed? The thin man counted slowly in his head, forcing himself to calm down. His first priority was getting this stuff fabricated. He would decide how to deal with the blacksmith later.

He glanced at his partner, who was fidgeting nervously. These educated types were the worst of the lot. No guts, no glory. Just lots of jittery arguments and spineless behavior.

As the two men watched the blacksmith they fell into a sort of trance. There was a Zen-like beauty to hammering hot metal into shape. It was evident that the blacksmith was a perfectionist, hammering, heating, and polishing until he achieved a perfect factory finish. Every few minutes he would clean the anvil and unclutter his surroundings before going back to his painstaking work.

“Take your time,” said the Mujahideen. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

“There are no mistakes in my profession, sir,” replied the blacksmith, sweat trickling down his face. “Unlike a piece of wood which can turn out too short when you cut it, if a piece of metal is botched, we simply wait, reheat, and give it another go. There are always second chances—both in metal and in men.”

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