Rising Tiger: A Thriller (40)

Harvath smiled. “I grew up less than twenty miles from the Mexican border. I can handle spicy food.”

Vijay cocked a challenging eyebrow at him. “Are you sure?”

“Something tells me we’re going to find out,” said Harvath, cocking one right back.

When the waiter came over, Vijay ordered everything in Hindi. At the very end, he added, in English, “And a large portion of yogurt for my friend. Just in case.”

The ex-cop was trying to mess with his head. Harvath simply smiled in return. Leahy had warned him that some Indian dishes were so far off the Scoville scale that they should come with a skull-and-crossbones warning. Should you suffer the misfortune of stumbling into one of those dishes, the best antidote was yogurt. Harvath didn’t know what Vijay had planned, but it looked like they might be pushing the culinary envelope.

As a rule, Harvath didn’t drink while he was working, but when Vijay asked if he’d like to have a beer with him, he had said yes. A bit of social lubricant could go a long way in cementing a relationship with a source.

“Do you like a good IPA?” the man had asked.

“An India Pale Ale?” Harvath responded. “Sure.”

“Do you know where the name comes from?”

“To be honest, not really. I’m more of a lager guy.”

“It comes from the Brits,” he explained. “They used to have their beer shipped to India from England. That can be a pretty rough voyage, and in the beginning a lot of their beer spoiled. So brewers began experimenting. They made it more alcoholic and increased their use of hops. It resulted in a bitter but more aromatic beer that could safely make the journey. The British soldiers, in particular, loved it.”

With Harvath’s permission, Vijay ordered them each a popular, made-in-India IPA called White Rhino.

When the beers arrived, they said “Cheers,” clinked bottles, and took a drink. Harvath, being a lager guy, was pleasantly surprised by the flavor. It was smooth and not bitter at all. He said a small prayer and crossed his fingers that Vijay would perform as well on the food he had ordered.

The plates came out in waves. Laal Mass, a lamb dish in a tangy red chili sauce. Keema Baati, a deep-fried minced-meat pastry with fresh green chilies and green peas. Jaipuri Chicken, a chicken made with curry, cream, and lots of gravy.

They were all delicious. While the heat varied from dish to dish, there was nothing that Harvath couldn’t handle. He was beginning to think he was going to make it through unscathed, when the waiter appeared with a fourth item.

It was a Bhut Jolokia chutney. When Harvath asked what he was supposed to eat it with and Vijay said, “Some people eat it all by itself, others put a spoonful of it on naan,” he had a feeling this was the “surprise” dish—the one the yogurt had been brought out for.

“Aren’t chutneys raw foods?”

“This one has been very specially prepared. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you going to have any?”

“After you,” Vijay replied.

That was all Harvath needed to hear. This was the real test. As spicy as everything else had been, he was now certain that this was the main event. Scooping some onto his plate with his spoon, he took a bite.

The first thing he noticed was the itching in his scalp. Then his nose began to run and his eyes water. It was at that moment that his entire mouth felt like someone had filled it with fire.

He tried to quench the burning with a long swig of beer, but it didn’t even put a pinprick in the pain. Ignoring the laughter coming from Vijay, he helped himself to a massive portion of yogurt.

The only thing he had ever eaten that came close was a Red Savina haba?ero. This pepper blew that one away.

He washed down the yogurt with his bottled water and then grabbed Vijay’s, opened it up, and drank that down, too.

“Do I need to call a doctor?” the man asked.

Harvath shook his head. “No, I’m fine,” he said, his eyes still watering. “In fact, I think I’ll try some more. This time on a piece of naan.”

Vijay reached out his hand and stopped him. “I think it’s better if you stop now. Trust me.”

“If you insist.”

“I very much insist.”

The waiter brought over more bottled water and Harvath downed another one, along with some more yogurt. “What the hell does Bhut Jolokia mean?” he asked, finally beginning to recover.

“You have the same vegetable in America. It just goes by a different name. I believe you call it a ghost pepper.”

“That was a ghost pepper? Are you serious?”

“I probably shouldn’t have bought such expensive cigars for us,” he said, laughing. “You’re not going to be able to appreciate it now anyway.”

“Oh, no,” said Harvath. “I’m smoking that cigar, whether I can taste it or not. I hope you spent a fortune on it. You’re also paying for this dinner. I don’t care if you bill it to the embassy, take it out of your kids’ college fund, or you need a loan from your mother-in-law. There’s no way I’m going to finance my own torture.”

Vijay laughed even harder.





CHAPTER 25


Once dessert had come—a dish similar to funnel cake called Imarti—and Harvath had asked for a bottle of water to go, Vijay pulled out his credit card and paid for the meal.