Kaan signalled at the old bartender for another pint. Meanwhile, without a word, the middle-man pulled out a stack of banknotes folded in half from his inside pocket and slid it on the counter towards Kaan. “The rest when you unload the cargo,” he said. Kaan reached out and pocketed the stack without looking at it. The middle-man’s beer arrived, giving them a short interlude from their word-efficient conversation.
“What time tomorrow?” Kaan asked once the bartender moved out of earshot.
“Daybreak. East pier. Faruk will be waiting.”
“How many this time?”
“ Thirteen ? You people out of your mind? It’s a dinghy for God’s sake!”
The middle-man stared with a blank face. When he finally spoke, he sounded lethargic. “Tell your uncle to send someone else,” he said, “You’ve cold feet.”
Kaan fell quiet and sipped his beer. The dark faces he had seen in the last two years paraded his mind. Men, women,