him up over the low rail. ‘Everything all right, Sahib?’
Kane nodded as he unstrapped the tank. ‘No trouble at all. One shark, and he was only trying to be playful.’
The Hindu grinned, teeth flashing in the darkness, and handed him a towel, and Kane went below. The water had been surprisingly cold, and he rubbed himself down briskly and then dressed.
When he went back on deck, the wind was freshening and Piroo brought him more coffee. As he drank it, Kane caught a last glimpse of the Kantara’s navigation lights on the horizon, and remembered the woman.
She had certainly been attractive and he wondered what she was doing on an old tub like the Kantara. There could be no satisfactory answer, of course.
For a moment, he seemed to catch a faint touch of her perfume on the night air. He smiled wryly and, going into the wheelhouse, started the engines and took the launch forward into the night.
4
They came into Dahrein in the early afternoon. As the launch rounded the curved promontory crowded with its white houses, a two-masted dhow, lateen sails bellying in the Gulf breeze, moved out of harbour on the long haul across the Arabian Sea to India.
The Kantara was unloading at the jetty. On the white curve of the beach, fishermen sat patiently mending their nets and a few children played naked in the shallows.
Kane cut the engines and signalled to Piroo, who was standing in the stern, anchor ready in his hands. It disappeared into the green waters of the harbour with a splash. For a moment longer, the launch glided forward and then, with a gentle tug, it came to a halt fifty or sixty yards from the crumbling stone jetty that formed the east side of the harbour.
Piroo disappeared into the cabin, and Kane stepped out of the wheelhouse. He lit a cigarette and walked slowly along to the stern, where he stood with one foot on the brass rail, the peak of his battered and salt-stained cap pulled well forward to shield his eyes from the intense glare of the sun.
He was a tall, powerful man in faded blue denims and sweat-shirt. His brown hair was bleached by the sun and badly needed cutting, and there was a three days’ growth of beard on his chin. The sun-dried skin of his face was drawn tightly over prominent cheek-bones and his eyes were deep-set in their sockets, calm and expressionless, always staring into the middle distance or beyond the next hill as if perpetually searching for something.
As he looked across the harbour, 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 head-cloth. 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 González 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 González 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.’
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
