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 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 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.