The Black Tide

area of water and green trees like an oasis on one corner of its barren top, and below it, in the sand, the glass-glinting square of the desalination plant, then the town, neat acres of brown, the white of the coastguards’ buildings, and the sea on either side with the fishing boats lying off or drawn up on the sand. And against it all I suddenly saw Choffel’s face, his mouth wide open, the black hair plastered to his white forehead and his arm raised as he sank from sight in the wash of a wave. Somewhere down there his body floated in the blue sea, pale skeleton bones beginning to show as the fish picked him clean.

I remember thinking about the eyes and that I should have done something to help him. His features were so appallingly vivid as I stared through the window at the line of the coast stretching away far below.

And then the wheels touched down and I opened my eyes to find we had landed in Karachi. One of the pilots came aft from the flight deck insisting that nobody moved until I had got off the plane. There was a car waiting for me and some men, including Peter Brown, the Lloyd’s agent. No Customs, no Immigration. We drove straight out through the loose-shirted untidy mob that hung around the airport entrance, out on to the crowded Hyderabad-Karachi road, the questions beginning immediately. Sadeq — I had referred to a man called Sadeq. Who was he? What did he look like? But they knew already. They had had his description from the oil company’s Marine Superintendent in Dubai. They nodded, both of them,

checking papers taken from a coloured leather briefcase with a cheap metal clasp. Peter Brown was sitting in front with the driver, neatly dressed as always in a tropical suit, his greying hair and somewhat patrician features giving him an air of distinction. He was a reserved man with an almost judicial manner. It was the other two, sitting on either side of me in the back, who asked the questions. The smaller of them was a Sindhi, his features softer, his dark eyes sparkling with intelligence. The other was a more stolid type with a squarish face heavily pock-marked and horn-rimmed glasses slightly tinted. Police, or perhaps Army — I wasn’t sure. ‘He had another name.’

‘Who?’ I was thinking of Choffel.

‘This Sadeq. A terrorist, you said.’ The small man was riffling through the clipful of papers resting on his briefcase. ‘Here — look now, this telex. It is from Mr Perrin at the GODCO offices in Dubai.’ He waved it at me, holding it in thin dark fingers, his wrist as slender as a girl’s. ‘He said — that’s you, I’m quoting from his telex you see … He said Sadeq was an Iranian terrorist, that he had another name, but that he did not know it, which may be true as it is several years back during the Shah’s regime.’ He looked up. ‘Now you have met him again perhaps you recall his other name.’ He was peering at me sideways, waiting for an answer, and there was something in his eyes — it is difficult for eyes that are dark brown to appear cold, but his were very cold as they stared at me unblinkingly. ‘Think very carefully please.’ The voice so soft, the English so perfect, and in those eyes I read the

threat of nameless things that were rumoured of the security section of Martial Law prisons.

‘Qasim,’ I said, and he asked me to spell it, writing it down with a gaudy-coloured pen. Then both of them were asking questions, most of which I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know what offences Qasim had committed against the Shah’s regime before the Khomeini revolution or what he was doing on board the Aurora B under the name Sadeq, why he had hi-jacked the ship, what the plan was. I didn’t know anything about him, only his name and the fact that the dead Shah’s police had said he was a terrorist. But they didn’t accept that and the questioning went on and on. I was being grilled and once when I nodded off the little man slapped my face. I heard Brown protest, but it didn’t make any difference, the questions continuing and becoming more and more searching. And then, suddenly, when we were into the outskirts of Karachi on the double track of the Shahrah-e-Faisal, they stopped. ‘We will take you to the Metropole now so you can sleep. Meanwhile, we will try to discover some more about this man Choffel.’ He leaned over to Peter Brown. ‘Let us know please if you have any information about these ships from London.’

The Lloyd’s agent nodded. ‘Of course. And you will let me know the result of the Omani airforce reconnaissance.’

The little man pursed his lips, a smile that was almost feminine. ‘You’re finding this story difficult to swallow, are you?’ Brown didn’t answer and the man leaned forward. ‘Do you believe him?’ he asked.

Brown turned and looked at me. I could see the uncertainty in his eyes. ‘If he isn’t telling the truth, then he’s lying. And I don’t at the moment see any reason for him to lie.’