There were a few bars in Thamel where the US Marines hung out. In Tom and Jerry was a room full of candles, dim lights, pool tables and flags of every nation and Government organisation imaginable hanging from the ceiling. It had the type of atmosphere that made you want to curl up at one of the small wooden tables against the window, order a 650-millilitre Carlsberg and wait for intrigue.
It was a typical night during a typical bustling tourist season in mid- October, and around 11 pm. Tom and Jerry’s was doing its usual business and the house was full of the usual French trekkers, Jesuit school teachers, local gang boys looking for their white “visa girls”, pimps, hash dealers, musicians, volunteers, and Tibetans, Nepalis and Indians.
There were British Foreign Service types, odd loners and, above all, US Marines. As usual and way too predictable to be safe, the Marines that guarded the US embassy had taken seats at their traditional big table in the middle of the room. This was good. Not only did I like chatting up the Marines — they always seemed to be in a good mood — but I knew that they carried baggage with them. In Nepal, when the Marines went out on the town, at least to Tom and Jerry’s, there would always be a couple of young guys hanging around, conspicuously avoiding each other and usually in plain view of the Marines. Welcome to the CIA training camp for new operatives: Tom and Jerry’s, I fantasised.
Generally, Western tourists are elated and talkative. A decided and pronounced lack of social skills or inhibition seemed to suggest something other than trekking as a motivation for being there, but that was stretching things and I could just as easily have been describing your average budget Israeli backpacker for that matter. But these people, these Marine “watchers”, were different. There was never a word out of place or an unusual narrative. They were all just “in Nepal to check it out” or something to that effect. They especially like to make mistakes when they are on holiday and in a bar. But the big test was the handshake. A big American iron grip that suggested these guys were in control of the situation always seemed to tip me off; even mountain climbers don’t shake hands like that — too official.
One night, I put this archetype to the test. A conversation with whoever would turn into a friendly arm-wrestling match. These generally created a minor spectacle and were always a lot of fun. I’d eventually wind up over at the table of one of my suspected “watchers” and ask for a contest. “Hey, OK, you got me, but that was fun. I’m Jim — what’s your nameIJ” He would mumble something and I’d ask again. “Sorry, it’s loud in here. Did you say John langleyIJ”
“You mean like langley, VirginiaIJ” one of them answered one night before he could catch himself.
“Well, no, and oops, I guess. You were just a little too quick on the release there, John. No, I don’t mean langley, Virginia, home of CIA headquarters, but you have a nice evening, OKIJ”
Another time I caught the attention of a heavy-set young Indian man standing at the bar.
“Hey, man, I saw you wrestling that guy. You want a beerIJ I just came up from Hyderabad for a tech show. What do you do for fun in this town, manIJ Can we get some girlsIJ” First off, there was no tech show in Kathmandu. Second, he was way over the top with his acting — a poor performance. He was irritating, so I gave him a handshake with the full intent of leaving. He wouldn’t let go; damn strong for an Indian “tech” guy. So I bent his hand in a little bit of a Jiu Jitsu hold and he promptly slipped out. “Hey, man, don’t be trying that Jiu Jitsu shit on me! I’m just here to meet girls.” It had been a long night, so I just left him and went home.
On another visit, Raj, behind the bar, said, “Sorry about that Indian guy the other night. He comes here sometimes. He’s with the RAW”
I was up at Tom and Jerry’s, showing off for my buddy Chris Beall and pointing out prospective candidates, when a captivating Brazilian girl came to our table and sat down. She had a name that sounded like “Managua”, the capital of Nicaragua, but I never quite got it straight — I’m not even sure she was from Brazil.
“What brings you to NepalIJ” I asked as I offered my hand. “I’m thinking maybe some trekking in mountains,” she said as she grabbed my palm in a vise-like grip.
She, Chris and I talked merrily for what seemed like an hour, and then I starting feeling my oats a bit and felt like trying something risky.
“So, are you a shooterIJ” I asked. “I prefer a nice nine-millimetre semi, like a Glock. What about youIJ”
“Depends on what you use it for,” was her harmless enough answer. “For me, the Glock is fine, but not with anything fancy like an extended clip. No need for more than the 17-round clip. Hard to hide and snags in the coat otherwise.”
I retreated: “Oh.”
“For me, if I use the Glock 17, I change to threaded barrel, 28 thread, left hand. The lone Wolf is good, but it comes dirty and you have to scrub it. We make blueprint of the Evolution-9 suppressor and build our own, but we leave off the Nielson so it’s no round cycling and no lost cartridges — one must always watch where one s brass falls, noIJ”
I was fully confident that she would have a wonderful trek, and as Chris and I beat a hasty retreat, I was also confident that I would never find any of her spent cartridge casings, ever.
Excerpted from Saviours and Fools by James Rinaldi, published by Pentagon, Rs 895