by Jack Higgins
As he looked across the harbor, a small rowing boat appeared from between two moored dhows. The brawny Arab who pulled on the oars was being urged on by a fat, bearded official in crumpled khaki uniform and white headcloth. There was a slight cough from behind, and Kane reached out a hand without turning round. Piroo passed him a large gin-sling in which ice tinkled, and said gently, “Perhaps Captain Gonzalez will wish to search the boat, sahib?”
Kane shrugged. “That’s what he’s paid for.”
He sipped the drink slowly, savouring its coldness with conscious pleasure, and watched the boat approach. As it bumped against the side of the launch, Gonzalez smiled up at him, his face shiny with sweat, a paper Japanese fan fluttering in his right hand in a vain effort to keep the flies at bay.
Kane grinned down at him. “Looks as if the heat’s getting to you, Juan.”
Gonzalez shrugged and replied in perfect English, “Only duty compelled me to put in an appearance on the quay in my official capacity when the mail boat came in from Aden.” He mopped his face with a corner of his headcloth. “Where are you from this time?”
Kane finished his drink and handed the glass to Piroo, who was still standing at his elbow. “Mukalla,” he said. “I had some letters to deliver for Marie Perret.”
Gonzalez kissed his fingers. “Ah, the delightful Mademoiselle Perret. We are privileged men. Here on earth a glimpse of Paradise. Are you carrying any cargo?”
Kane shook his head. “We tried for a shark on the way back, but he took half my line as well as the hook.”
Gonzalez raised a hand and rolled his eyes. “You Americans—so energetic, and for what?”
“Are you coming aboard to check?” Kane said.
Gonzalez shook his head. “Would I insult a friend?” He waved to the oarsmen to push off. “I hurry home to a tall drink and the cool hand of my wife.”
Kane watched the boat disappear amongst the mass of moored fishing dhows that floated a few yards from the beach. After a while, he tossed his cigarette down into the water and turned from the rail. “I think I’ll go for a swim,” he said. “Get the deck swabbed down, Piroo. Afterwards, you can go ashore to visit that girl of yours.”
He went below to the cabin and changed quickly. When he came back on deck he was wearing an old pair of khaki shorts, and a cork-handled knife in leather sheath swung from the belt at his waist.
Piroo was standing by the rail, hauling vigorously on a rope, and a moment later a large canvas bucket appeared. He emptied its contents over the deck and threw it back into the water.
Kane didn’t bother with a diving mask. He went past him on the run and dived cleanly over the rail. At this point, the harbor was some twenty feet deep and he swam down through the clear, green water, reveling in its coolness. For a brief moment he hovered over the bottom, and then he kicked against the white sand and started up.
When he had almost reached the surface, he changed direction slightly until he was underneath the hull. The two-gallon oil can still hung suspended beneath the keel as he had left it.
He examined it and then quickly surfaced. Piroo was standing at the rail, the canvas bucket in his hands. Kane nodded briefly, took a deep breath, and dived again.
When he reached the oil can, he took out his knife and slashed the rope which secured it in place. At that moment, the canvas bucket bumped against his back, and he pulled it toward him with his free hand and pushed the oil can inside. He jerked twice on the rope and the bucket was hoisted smoothly to the surface.
He was in no hurry. He swam down to the white sand of the harbor bottom again and then floated lazily upwards in a stream of sparkling bubbles. When he surfaced and hauled himself over the rail, the deck was deserted. A towel was lying on top of the hatch, neatly folded and waiting for him. He quickly dried his body, and as he went below he was rubbing his damp hair briskly.
Piroo was squatting on the floor of the cabin. The oil can was between his knees, and he expertly prized open the lid with a chisel. His hand disappeared inside and came out holding a bulky, oilskin package. He raised his face inquiringly. “Shall I open, sahib?”
Kane shook his head. “We’ll let Skiros have that pleasure. After all, he’s paying. Better get rid of that can, though.”
The Hindu took the can and went up on deck. Kane hefted the package in his hands for a second, a slight frown on his face, then he dropped it onto the table and went and lay on the bunk.
Tiredness flooded through him in a sudden wave, and he remembered that he hadn’t slept for the past twenty-four hours. He closed his eyes and relaxed. There was the unmistakable bump of a boat against the side of the launch and Piroo appeared in the doorway. “It is Selim, sahib.”
For a moment Kane sat on the edge of the bunk, a frown on his face, and then he slipped a hand under the pillow and took out a .45 caliber Colt automatic. He pushed it into the waistband of his pants, brushed past Piroo, and went upon deck.
A tall Arab was climbing over the rail. He was dressed in immaculate white robes and his headcloth was bound with cords of black silk. Cold eyes flashed in a swarthy face, and his mouth was thin and twisted by an old scar which disappeared into the beard.
“What the hell do you want?” Kane demanded.
Selim fingered the silver haft of the curved jambiya at his belt. “Skiros sent me,” he said. “I have come for the package.”
“Then you can bloody well go back to Skiros and tell him to come himself,” Kane said. “I’m particular who I have on my boat.”
“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 harbor as a laborer 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 toward 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 waterproof 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 toward 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 harbor? 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 banknotes 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 penny I have to pay out.”
Kane grinned. “While we’re on the subject of paying out, I’ll take my cut now. Dollars as usual, if you don’t mind.”
Skiros laughed so that the flesh trembled on his huge body. “But I would never forget you, my friend. After all, you are an essential part of my whole organization. The kingpin, I believe you call it.”
“Skip the flattery and let’s have the cash,” Kane said.
Skiros produced a bulging wallet and proceeded to count out hundred-dollar bills. His hands were sweating and he placed each bill reluctantly upon the table. When he had reached twenty, he paused, then added five more. “There you are, my friend,” he said. “We agreed on two thousand, but I give you a bonus of five hundred dollars. Let no man say Skiros does not reward good service.”
Kane swept the bills into the table drawer. “You old spider. You know damned well most of it will come back to you, either over the bar at your hotel or across the gambling tables.”
Skiros laughed again, his face crinkling so that the eyes almost disappeared, and pushed himself to his feet. “Now I must go.” He moved to the door and then paused. “But I am forgetting some important news.” He turned slowly. “A woman came in from Aden on the boat this afternoon. An American named Cunningham—Mrs. Ruth Cunningham. Extremely pretty. She has been asking for you.”
Kane stiffened, a surprised frown crossing his face. “I don’t know anyone called Cunningham.”
Skiros shrugged. “She appears to know you, or to know of you at least. She is staying at my hotel. I told her I would be seeing you, and she asked me to give you a message. She would like you to come to the hotel. She said it was most important.”
Kane still frowned down at the table, leaning forward, his weight on his hands. After a slight pause Skiros said, “You will come?”
Kane straightened up and nodded. “Sure, I’ll come. I’ll be there some time this evening.”
Skiros nodded. “Good, I shall tell her.” He smiled. “Don’t look so worried. Perhaps she is only a tourist. Maybe she wishes to charter your boat to go spearfishing along the reef.”
Kane nodded slowly. “Yes, you’re probably right.” But he didn’t believe that was the reason—not for a moment—and after Skiros had gone, he went back to the bunk and lay down, staring at the ceiling, groping back into the past, trying to place Ruth Cunningham. But it was no good. The name meant nothing to him.
He glanced at his watch. It was just after three, and for a little while longer he lay there, then with a sigh of exasperation he swung his legs to the floor and started to dress.
He pulled on his faded denims and a sweatshirt and went up on deck. Piroo was lounging against the rail, head bowed against his chest so that only the top of his white turban was visible. Kane stirred him slightly with one foot and the Hindu came awake at once and rose easily to his feet. “I’m going ashore,” Kane said. “What about you?”
Piroo shrugged. “I think not, sahib. Later perhaps. I will row you across to the j
etty and then return with the dinghy. It would be wiser. Selim might return.”
Kane nodded. “Maybe you’ve got a point. If he does, you’ll find my Colt underneath the pillow. Don’t hesitate to use it. I’ve got more friends round here than he has.”
He dropped over the side into the dinghy, and Piroo took the oars and pulled rapidly toward the crumbling stone jetty. When they reached it, Kane stepped onto the iron ladder and climbed it quickly. As his eyes drew level with the top of the jetty, he saw a woman sitting on a large stone a few feet away, watching him.
He moved forward and she got to her feet and came to meet him. She was dressed in an expensive white linen dress, a blue silk scarf was bound round her head, peasant-fashion, and she wore sunglasses.
When she removed then, he recognized her at once as the woman he had met on the Kantara the previous night.
She smiled uncertainly and there was puzzlement in her voice. “You again! But I was looking for Captain Kane—Captain Gavin Kane.”
“That’s me,” he said. “You’ll be Mrs. Cunningham. What can I do for you?”
She frowned and shook her head in bewilderment. “Mr. Andrews, the American Consul in Aden, advised me to look you up. He told me you were an archaeologist. That you were an expert on Southern Arabia.”
He smiled slightly. “I presume you mean I don’t look the part. Andrews was right on both counts. I am an archaeologist among other things, and I do know something about Southern Arabia. In what way can I help you?”
She stared out over the harbor, a slight frown on her face, and then she turned and looked at him coolly from steady gray eyes. “I want you to find my husband, and I’m willing to pay highly for your services.”
He reached for a cigarette and lit it slowly. “How high?”