“Peasant boys. Bunch of peasant boys.”

“Hey,” Shyam said. “I’m a peasant boy myself.” He touched the patch sewn on his khaki shirt: ARA, it read. Army of the Republic of Anura. “This isn’t tattooed on my skin, all right? When my two years are up, I’m going back to the farm.”

“That’s what you say now. I got an uncle who has a college degree; he’s been a civil servant for ten years. Makes half what we do.”

“And you’re worth every ruvee,” Shyam said with heavy sarcasm.

“All I’m saying is, you got to seize what chances life gives you.” Arjun flicked a thumb at the can on the road. “Sounds like that one’s still got beer in it. Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Pukka refreshment, my friend.”

“Arjun,” Shyam protested. “We’re supposed to be on duty together, you know this? The two of us, yes?”

“Don’t worry, my friend.” Arjun grinned. “I’ll share.”

When the truck was half a mile past the roadblock, the driver eased up on the accelerator, and the young man riding shotgun sat down, wiping himself off with a towel before putting on a black T-shirt and strapping himself in. The beer was foul, noisome, and sticky in the heavy air. Both guerrillas looked grave.

An older man was seated on the flat bench behind them. Sweat made his black curls cling to his forehead, and his mustache gleam in the moonlight. The KLF officer had been prone and invisible when the truck crashed the checkpoint. Now he flicked the COMMUNICATE button on his walkie-talkie, an old model but a sturdy one, and grunted some instructions.

With a metallic groan, the rear door of the trailer was cracked open so that the armed men inside could get some air.

The coastal hill had many names and many meanings. The Hindus knew it as Sivanolipatha Malai, Shiva’s footprint, to acknowledge its true origins. The Buddhists knew it as Sri Pada, Buddha’s footprint, for they believed that it was made by Buddha’s left foot when he journeyed to the island. The Muslims knew it as Adam Malai, or Adam’s Hill: tenth-century Arab traders held that Adam, after he was expelled from Paradise, stopped here and remained standing on one foot until God recognized his penitence. The colonial overlords—first the Portuguese and then the Dutch—viewed it with an eye to practical rather than spiritual considerations: the coastal promontory was the ideal place for a fortress, where mounted artillery could be directed toward the threat posed by hostile warships. It was in the seventeenth century that a fortress was first erected on the hill; as the structure was rebuilt over the following centuries, little attention was ever paid to the small houses of worship nearby. Now they would serve as way stations for the Prophet’s army during the final assault.