The Black Tide

‘A man has disappeared.’ The cold dark eyes gave me a sideways glance. He took a newspaper cutting from the clip of papers. ‘This is from the Karachi paper Dawn, a brief news item about a tanker being blown up on the English coast. It is dated ninth January. Karen Rodin. Was that your wife?’

I nodded.

‘It also says that a French engineer, Henri Choffel, accused of sabotaging the tanker and causing it to run aground, is being hunted by Interpol.’ Again the sly sideways glance. ‘The man who is with you on this dhow — the man you say is shot when you were escaping from the Aurora B — his name also is Choffel… What is his first name, is it Henri?’

‘Yes.’ I was staring at him, fascinated, knowing what he was thinking and feeling myself suddenly on the edge of an abyss.

‘And that is the same man — the man Interpol are looking for?’

I nodded.

‘Alone on that dhow with you, and your wife blown up with the tanker he wrecked.’ He smiled and after that he didn’t say anything more, letting the silence produce its own impact. The abyss had become a void, my mind hovering on the edge of it, appalled at the inference he was drawing. The fact that I hadn’t done it was irrelevant. It was what I had planned to

do, the reason I was on the Aurora B. And this little man in Karachi had seen it immediately. If it was such an obvious conclusion … I was thinking how it would be when I was returned to the UK, how I could avoid people leaping to the same conclusion.

The car slowed. We were in Club Road now, drawing into the kerb where broad steps led up to the wide portico of the Metropole. We got out and the heat and the dust and noise of Karachi hit me. Through the stream of traffic, beyond the line of beat-up old taxi cars parked against the iron palings opposite, I glimpsed the tall trees of the shaded gardens of the Sind Club. A bath and a deck chair in the cool of the terrace, a long, ice-cold drink… ‘Come please.’ The big man took hold of my arm, shattering the memories of my Dragonera days as he almost frogmarched me up the steps into the hotel. The little man spoke to the receptionist. The name Ahmad Khan was mentioned and a key produced. ‘You rest now, Mr Rodin.’ He handed the key to his companion and shook my hand. ‘We will talk again when I have more information. Also we have to decide what we do with you.’ He gave me a cold little smile and the Metropole seemed suddenly a great deal more luxurious. ‘Meanwhile Majeed will look after you.’ He nodded in the direction of his companion who was talking now to an unshaven loosely-dressed little man who had been hovering in the background. ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he asked the Lloyd’s agent.

Peter Brown shook his head. ‘I’ll see Rodin settled in first.’

‘As you wish.’ He left then and I watched him go with a sense of relief, his slim silhouette changing to powder blue as the glare of the street spotlighted his pale neat suit. ‘What is he — Intelligence?’ I asked.

Brown shrugged. ‘Calls himself a Government Information Officer.’

‘And the other?’

‘Security, I presume.’

We took the lift to the second floor, tramping endless cement-floored corridors where bearers, sweepers and other hangers-on lounged in over-employed idleness. The Metropole occupies a whole block, a great square of buildings constructed round a central courtyard. The first floor is given over to offices, almost every room with a sign over it, the names of countless small businesses and agencies. I glanced at my watch. It was still going, the time 17.36. We stopped at a door and the policeman handed the key to the unshaven little man who had accompanied us. He in turn handed it to the bearer who was now in close attendance. The room was big and airy, with a ceiling fan turning slowly and the windows open and looking out on to the huge courtyard. Kites were coming in to roost on the trees and window ledges, big vulture-like birds, drab in the shadows cast by the setting sun. ‘You will be very comfortable here.’ The policeman waved his hands in a gesture that included the spartan beds and furniture, the big wardrobes and tatty square of carpet, a note of envy in his voice. The Metropole to him was probably the height of glamour.

He searched the drawers and the wardrobes,

checked the bathroom. Finally he left, indicating the unshaven one and saying, ‘Hussain will keep watch over you. And if there is something more you have to tell us, he knows where to find me.’

‘Is there?’ Brown asked as the door closed behind him.

‘Is there what?’

‘Anything more you have to tell them.’

‘No.’

‘And it’s true, is it — about the Aurora BV