The Hunt for Shambhala

3

Rakesh Madan surveyed the chaos that was Mumbai from the serene peace of Jambudvipa — his personal super yacht that was moored in the city’s famous marina. The sun was slowly making its way toward the western horizon and coloring the upmarket neighborhoods of Cumballa Hill and Malabar Hill and the Arabian Sea beyond them in a deep amber glow.

He dropped a wedge of lime into his Beefeater gin and tonic and took a long, considered sip. He appreciated the finer things in life, and enjoyed the botanicals in this particular gin, especially the orange peel. The alcohol seeped into every fiber of his body and he sighed as he felt the sedation calm his inner rage.

He strolled out to the rear deck and sat on one of the many leather seats strewn about on the polished teak. From here he was able to watch the city in safety and silence as millions of people went about their business like dung beetles. He wondered idly how many of those dung beetles he was seeing actually worked for one of his corporations. Not many, he concluded, given the high price of real estate in these parts.

Along with Malabar Hill, Cumballa Hill was home to more billionaires than any other part of India. Here was the famous Antilia, the home of Mukesh Ambani, which at $1.5 billion was ranked as the second most expensive private property anywhere in the world after only Buckingham Palace. Madan wasn’t a fan of the building, and dreamed of creating something much more impressive a little down the coast. Ambani’s residence required a staff of over six hundred people to run the place, but Madan intended to beat even that.

He lifted his eyes from the sparkling sea and strolled back inside his private apartment, turning his attention to the large map of Asia on the wall behind him. The fading sunlight was lighting the map the same warm, amber color that was painting the city beyond, but Madan’s mind was elsewhere.

Dacnomania… he thought about the word and what it meant. What did a simple psychiatrist in Mumbai know about anything? He scoffed at the diagnosis and shook his head. But then the woman in the Geneva clinic had told him the same thing, so perhaps there was something to it after all… perhaps that might explain the voices in his head — no, that wasn’t the right way to describe it. It was more like an urge deep inside his soul, driving him forward to kill and kill again.

It didn’t matter who.

It didn’t matter when.

Just for the sake of killing.

“I’m happy to report that Kuan has secured the item.”

Madan looked at his right-hand man and rubbed his hands together. “Splendid news, Kelaka. Tell me more.”

“In Hong Kong, sir… Kuan contacted us to say that Kunchai’s men have secured the journal. Professor Moore and her Australian associate retrieved the item from Shen’s collection but Kunchai’s men have taken it into their possession.”

“My possession.”

“Of course, Mr Madan, sir… but there’s bad news.”

Madan’s eyes narrowed as the man spoke. Not entirely certain he had heard correctly, the Indian entrepreneur cocked his head toward his underling and asked him to repeat what he had just said.

The man gulped and took a step back toward the door without even knowing he had done it. “Bad news, sir.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Moore and her associate seem to have acquired an aircraft and are in pursuit of the journal.”

“In pursuit of my journal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How so?”

“One of Kunchai’s men was killed and they took his phone. We think they might have got contacts from it.”

Madan felt the rage rising in his blood like lava and before he knew what was happening, the gin glass went flying across the expensive cabin and smashed into one of the marble support pillars. Fragments of the shattered tumbler burst into the air and rained down on the Basra seed pearl carpet. The scent of the juniper rose into the air from the rug and gave an oddly exotic feel to the otherwise dangerous atmosphere.

“What are you telling me, Kaleka?” he paced in a circle like a tiger before moving closer to his loyal servant. “Are you telling me that an English academic and one single burned-out Australian soldier have infiltrated Kuan’s circle?”

“Possibly sir, but Kuan says it’s under control.”

“He does, does he?”

“Yes, sir.” Kaleka took another step back. He was aware of his incredible strength — even as a child he was stronger than many adult men — but he was still wary of the notorious temper of his boss.

“And where are Moore and her friends now?”

“We have no idea. They flew out of Hong Kong on an old float plane.”

“An old float plane?”

Kaleka nodded. “A piece of junk, according to Kunchai’s men in Hong Kong.”

“I’m not interested in the opinion of fools. Did they get the registration code?”

“No, but our people are already investigating with the city’s air traffic control officials to find a destination.”

“I don’t care how long it takes, Kaleka — I want anyone who has seen the journal killed.”

“Sir.”

Madan dismissed the man and breathed out slowly. Kaleka’s news had unsettled him and he felt his blood pressure rising unnaturally high again. He felt it in his cheeks and around his eyes. He felt his heart pounding in his chest as he fought against a tsunami of internal rage and tried to calm down.

Moore was trying to get Stanhope’s journal back. She was not to be underestimated. She was only the façade of a bigger force. There was no doubt she had to be taken out of the game before she destroyed everything he had spent his life working toward.

He turned into the sun and closed his eyes.

The voices were coming back again, and this time they were clearer than ever.

You are the tenth avatar.

You are the Destroyer of Filth.

Your destiny is upon you.

You must destroy all their civilizations.