He said that I'd paid my dues for the crimes I'd committed, but that if I ever did that crime again I would be killed or captured straight away. Whatever else you have to do to stay free, he said, don't ever do that crime again. He told me to split from my friend, because he was sure to get caught, and if I was with him I'd be caught, too. And he told me to travel the world. Tell people as much as they need to know, he said. I remember that he was smiling when he said it, like there was nothing to it. And ask people for help, he said. You'll be all right... Don't worry ... It's a great adventure, your life, and it has only just begun ..."
There was a pause as I lapsed into silence once more. A waiter approached the table to clear away our empty plates, but Khader waved him away. The mafia don stared at me, his golden eyes unwavering, but it was a sympathetic and encouraging stare.
"I left his office-the philosopher's office, at the university- and I knew that everything had changed with just that little conversation. I went back to the motorcycle gang and my friend. I gave him my guns, and I told him that I had to leave. I went off on my own. He was captured, six months later, after a gun battle with the cops. I'm still free, if that word means anything when you're a wanted man with nowhere to go. And that's it. Now you know the story."
"I would like to meet this man," Khaderbhai said slowly. "This lecturer in philosophy. He gave you good advice. But tell me, I understand that Australia is a very different country, not like India-why do you not return there, and tell the authorities about the torture you endured in the prison? Would this not make you safe, and return you to your life and your family?"
"Where I come from, we don't inform on anyone," I replied. "Not even on torturers. And even if I did-even if I went back there and stood in the dock as a Crown witness, and gave evidence against the screws who torture prisoners-there'd be no guarantee it would stop. The system would look after them. No sane man trusts the British justice system. When was the last time you ever heard of a rich man throwing himself on the mercy of the court? It doesn't happen. The system would look after the torturers, and they'd get away with it, no matter what they did and no matter how much proof there was. And I'd go back in jail.
And I'd be in their power again. And they'd make a pretty good mess of me. I think... I think they'd kick me to death down there, in the punishment unit. Anyway, it's not an option. You don't lag people. You don't inform on people, not for any reason.
It's a principle. It's probably the only one we've got left when we get locked up in a cage."
"But you believe that these prison guards are still torturing other men in that prison, just as they tortured you?" he pressed.
"Yes, I do."
"And you are in a position to do something about this, to try to alleviate their suffering?"
"I might be. I might not be. Like I said, I don't think the system would be in any hurry to bring them to justice, or to rush to our defence."
"But there is a chance, just a chance, that they would listen to you, and put an end to the torture of the other men?"
"There's a chance. I don't think it's a big one."
"But still there is a chance?" he insisted.
"Yes," I said flatly.
"So it could be said that you are in a way responsible for the suffering of the other men?"
The question was offensive, but his tone was entirely gentle and compassionate. I stared into his eyes, and was sure that he meant no offence or harm. It was Khader who'd rescued me from the Indian prison, after all and, indirectly, from the Australian prison that we were discussing. "You could say that," I answered calmly. "But that doesn't change the principle. You don't tell on people-not for any reason."
"I am not trying to trap you Lin, or trick you. But you will agree, I think, from this example, that it is possible to do the wrong thing for the right reasons." He smiled again, for the first time since the story of the escape had begun. "This will come back to us, at another time. I have raised it in this way because it is a very important point about how we do live our lives, and how we should live our lives. There is no need to talk of it now, but this question will come back to us in another discussion, I am sure, so I would like you to remember it."
"And what about currencies?" I asked, seizing the opportunity to change the subject away from me, and toward the rules of his moral universe once more. "Don't currencies come under your heading of sinfull crimes?"
"No. Not currencies," he said firmly. The voice was deep, the words surging upwards from the diaphragm into the chest, and passing through the rumbling gemstone-tumbler of his throat. What emerged was a tone of voice that resonated with the hypnotic piety of a sermoner, reading from the Koran, even as he talked of his most profitable crimes.
"And gold smuggling?"
"No. Not gold. Not passports. Not influence."
