‘One day you will go too far,’ Selim said softly. ‘One day I may have to kill you.’
‘I’m frightened to death.’
The Arab controlled his anger with difficulty. ‘The package.’
Kane pulled the Colt from his waistband and cocked it. ‘Get off my boat.’
In the sudden dangerous silence which followed, a cask boomed hollowly from across the harbour as a labourer rolled it along the wharf. Selim’s hand tightened over the hilt of his jambiya, and Kane took a quick pace forward, lifted a foot and pushed him back over the low rail.
The two Arab seamen who were sitting at the oars of the heavy rowing boat hastily pulled their master over the stern, where he sprawled for a moment, coughing up water, sodden robes clinging to his body.
Kane stood with a foot on the rail, the Colt held negligently in one hand. For a moment Selim glared up at him and then he snapped his fingers and the two oarsmen pushed off from the launch, faces expressionless.
On the other side of the rusty freighter at the jetty, a large, three-masted dhow was moored, which Kane recognized as Selim’s boat, the Farah. The rowing boat moved slowly towards it and, after watching for a few moments, he turned from the rail.
Piroo shook his head slowly and his face was troubled. ‘That was a bad thing to do, Sahib. Selim will not forget.’
Kane shrugged. ‘Let me worry about that.’ He yawned lazily as the tiredness took hold of him again. ‘I think I’ll sleep for a while. Let me know when Skiros turns up.’
Piroo nodded obediently and squatted on the deck, his back against the rail, as Kane went below.
He pushed the Colt back under the pillow, poured himself a drink, and then lit a cigarette and went to the bunk. He lay with his head against the pillow, staring at the roof of the cabin, watching the blue smoke twist and swirl in the current from the air conditioner, and thought about Selim.
He was well known in every port from the Red Sea to the Persian Gulf. He traded in anything that would make him a profit – gold, arms, even human beings. That was the part of his activities which Kane couldn’t stomach. There was still a heavy demand for slaves, particularly female, in most Arab countries. Selim did his best to satisfy that demand. His speciality was young girls.
Kane wondered how Selim would react if the Farah happened to meet with an accident one dark night. It could be simply arranged. A charge of that plastic water-proof explosive he had used on the salvage job at Mukalla would do the trick. It was a pleasant thought.
His eyes closed and the darkness moved in on him.
He had slept for no more than an hour when a gentle pressure on his shoulder caused him to awaken. Piroo was standing by the bunk.
Kane pushed himself up on one elbow. ‘What is it – Skiros?’
The Hindu nodded gravely. ‘He is waiting on the jetty, Sahib.’
Kane swung his legs to the floor, stood up and stretched. ‘Okay, you’d better bring him across in the dinghy.’
He went up on deck, the Hindu at his heels. Skiros was standing on the edge of the jetty, his face shaded by a large Panama hat. He was wearing a soiled white linen suit, and a slight breeze lifted from the water against him, moulding his grotesque figure.
As Piroo dropped down into the dinghy and sculled rapidly towards him, the Greek raised his malacca cane and called cheerfully, ‘Is it safe for me to come across? I’ve already had one bath today.’
Kane waved a hand. ‘I’ll have a drink waiting for you.’
He watched Skiros negotiate the iron ladder pinned to the side of the jetty and safely step into the dinghy, and then he went below. He had just finished mixing two gin-slings when the dinghy bumped against the hull of the launch. A moment later Skiros creaked heavily down the stairs and entered the cabin.
He flopped into a chair with a groan. ‘Why the hell do you have to anchor your boat in the middle of the harbour? Why can’t you tie up at one of the jetties like everybody else?’
Sweat stained his jacket in great patches and trickled along the folds of his fat face. He produced a red silk handkerchief and mopped the worst of it away, then removed his Panama and proceeded to fan himself. His hair was shiny with pomade and carefully combed, and his tiny black eyes sparkled with cunning.
Kane handed him one of the drinks. ‘You should know me by now. I don’t trust anybody in this damned town. Let’s say I prefer to have a moat around me.’
Skiros shook his head. ‘Crazy Americans. I shall never understand you.’ He sipped appreciatively at his drink and then placed it carefully on the table. ‘I believe you had a little trouble with Selim?’
Kane lit a cigarette. ‘I wouldn’t call it trouble. I simply tossed him off my boat. Since when has he been working for you, anyway?’
The Greek shrugged, and took his time over lighting an oily black cheroot. ‘I find him useful, now and then. He does the odd trip to India for me when it’s necessary. I only sent him this afternoon because I was busy with something else.’
Kane frowned. ‘Well, don’t send him again. I don’t like his smell. I once picked up four slaves he dumped overboard three miles out in the Gulf when a British gunboat was on his heels.’
Skiros shrugged and raised one hand in a gesture of submission. ‘All right, so you don’t like the way he makes his money, but take a tip from me. He’s lost a lot of face over the way you treated him this afternoon. From now on I’d be extremely careful if I were you.’
Kane pushed the oilskin package across the table. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
Skiros produced a clasp knife and proceeded to cut open the package carefully. ‘Did you have any trouble?’
Kane shook his head. ‘I was at the rendezvous just after midnight. The boat was late, and O’Hara was drunk as usual. Guptas was in charge. He told me something interesting.’
‘What was that?’
‘They saw the Catalina about thirty miles out, off-loading from a Portuguese freighter.’
Skiros laughed. ‘So Romero’s developed sticky fingers too. That is interesting. What about customs when you came in?’
Kane shrugged. ‘No trouble there. Gonzalez didn’t even come on board. All that business with the oil can under the keel was a waste of time.’
Skiros shook his head. ‘Nothing is a waste of time in this work. One day, when you least expect it, he will take it into his head to perform his duties conscientiously.’ He removed the outer wrappings of the package as he spoke, and revealed a neat stack of Indian rupees.
As Skiros counted the bundles, Kane shook his head. ‘I’ll never understand this racket. Gold smuggled into India, rupees smuggled out.’
Skiros smiled. ‘It’s all a question of exchange. In this modern world it is really so easy to make money. One doesn’t need to steal at all.’ His face was shiny with sweat once more. He held his hands lightly over the stack of bank-notes and sighed. ‘Ah, my friend, if you knew the effect money has on me. When I moved here from Goa six months ago I’d no idea what a gold mine the place is.’
Kane poured himself another drink. ‘Why don’t you try spending some of it once in a while?’
Skiros shrugged. ‘I started life on a mountain farm in northern Greece. The fields were more stones than soil. My mother was an old woman at twenty-five, and one year, when the crops failed in the drought, my two sisters died of starvation. It is something I have never forgotten. That is why I live only to make money. I gloat over the size of my bank balance. I begrudge every