Jack Higgins - Sheba

González 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 head-cloth. ‘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.’

González 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.’

González raised a hand and rolled his eyes. ‘You Americans – so energetic, and for what?’

‘Are you coming aboard to check?’ Kane said.

González shook his head. ‘Would I insult a friend?’ He waved to the oarsman 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 Piroo on the run and dived cleanly over the rail. At this point, the harbour was some twenty feet deep, and he swam down through the clear green water, revelling 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 towards 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 harbour 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 prised open the lid with a chisel. His hand disappeared inside and came out holding a bulky, oilskin package. He raised his face enquiringly. ‘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 on to 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-calibre Colt automatic. He pushed it into the waistband of his pants, brushed past Piroo, and went up on deck.

A tall Arab was climbing over the rail. He was dressed in immaculate white robes, and his head-cloth 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 half 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 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.’