Chapter 13

Phipps raised both hands and his cold blue eyes disappeared and became two red discs of glass. He moved the line of the binoculars over the pier and into the historic harbour beyond, starting his survey at the headland and its many-sided fortification that guarded the port’s entrance. He swept the glasses along the quay, ignoring the fishing boats in the foreground that bobbed through his field of vision. He stopped for a second on a slip-way that broke the wall and angled down into the water; the reflections from a steel blade had stabbed into his retinas. Adjusting the binoculars, he saw a woman with bloodied hands came into focus. He lowered his eyes and squinted but seemed not at all surprised. ‘I wonder . . .’ he said putting his eyes back to the lenses. This time he adjusted the magnification and played with the focus; he then released a chestful of air. ‘Ah, only fish,’ he said to himself. He continued along the waterfront, noticing the tattered awnings of abandoned cafés and restaurants. ‘Sorry, fellows,’ he said under his breath, ‘I’m not in the vanguard of a returning horde of western tourists.’ He kicked at the rusty deck railings. ‘And this isn’t a fancy cruise liner.’ He took the binoculars away from his eyes for a moment. ‘I’m all on my own,’ he mouthed, ‘and I don’t have too many dollars.’

A few more degrees to his left and he found what he was looking for, although he passed it once before realising what it was. The paint was faded and peeling, large pieces of plaster had dropped off, and half of the windows were cracked or smashed. But with increased magnification he managed to make out the pale letters of the English word written on a shabby sign just under its roof: Harbourmaster. ‘That’s it,’ he said. He then took a deep breath and dropped the binoculars.

The Maharajah was moving slowly towards what must have been the deep water moorings of the container terminal, far from the quaint harbour that Phipps had just surveyed through his binoculars. He looked along a line of motionless derricks then into the dark interior of an abandoned warehouse and wondered when the port had last seen any real shipments.

He took a notebook from one of the many pockets stitched to his sleeveless jacket and then a pencil from another. He flipped through several full pages before scribbling something onto the first empty space he came to. First impressions.

Turning away from the derelict terminal, smoke on the ridge of a distant mountain caught his eye. He quickly held up the glasses and as the white puff came under his gaze he heard the muffled thud of a distant weapon. ‘Is that it?’ he said to himself. His right hand left the matt blackness of the binoculars and came up to the uncovered short-cropped hair of his bulbous head. He scratched. ‘Is that it?’ he said again, this time with a grin.

He returned to the notebook and pencilled in two more words: shit and hole.