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signpost that indicated Matano to the left.
    As he drove along the narrow road he could smell the sea through the fog, and gradually it seemed to clear a little. He reached Matano fifteen minutes later and drove through silent streets toward the waterfront.
    He parked the car in an alley near the Club Tabu as instructed and went the rest of the way on foot.
    It was dark and lonely on the waterfront, and the only sound was the lapping of water against the pilings as he went down a flight of stone steps to the jetty.
    It was quiet and deserted in the yellow light of a solitary lamp and he paused halfway along to examine the motor cruiser moored at the end. She was a thirty-footer with a steel hull, probably built by Akerboon, he decided. She was in excellent trim, her sea-green paintwork gleaming. Not at all what he had expected. He examined the name Buona Esperanza on her counter with a slight frown.
    When he stepped over the rail, the stern quarter was festooned with nets, still damp from the day’s labor and stinking of fish, the deck slippery with their scales.
    Somewhere in the distance the door of an all-night café opened and music drifted out, faint and far away, and for no accountable reason Noci shivered. It was at that moment that he realized he was being watched.
    The man was young, slim and wiry with a sun-blackened face that badly needed a shave. He wore denims and an old oilskin coat, and a seaman’s cap shaded calm expressionless eyes. He stood at the corner of the deckhouse, a coiled rope in one hand, and said nothing. As Noci took a step toward him, the door of the wheelhouse opened and another man appeared.
    He was at least six feet three, great shoulders straining the seams of his blue pilot coat, and wore an old Italian navy officer’s cap, the gold braid tarnished by exposure to salt air and water. He had perhaps the ugliest face Noci had ever looked upon, the nose smashed and flattened, the white line of an old scar running from the right eye to the point of the chin. A thin cigar of the type favored by Dutch seamen was firmly clenched between his teeth and he spoke without removing it.
    “Guilio Orsini, master of the Buona Esperanza .”
    Noci felt a sudden surge of relief flow through him as tension ebbed away. “Enrico Noci.”
    He held out his hand. Orsini took it briefly and nodded to the young deckhand. “Let’s go, Carlo.” He jerked his thumb toward the companionway. “You’ll find a drink in the bar. Don’t come up until I tell you.”
    As Noci moved toward the companionway, Carlo cast off and moved quickly to the stern. The engine burst into life, shattering the quiet, and the Buona Esperanza turned from the jetty and moved into the fog.
    The salon was warm and pleasantly furnished. Noci looked around approvingly, placed his canvas grip on the table and helped himself to a large whisky from a cabinet in one corner. He drank it quickly and lay on one of the bunks smoking a cigarette, a warm, pleasurable glow seeping through him.
    This was certainly an improvement on the old tub in which he had done the run to Albania before. Orsini was a new face, but then there was nothing surprising in that. The faces changed constantly. In this business it didn’t pay to take chances.
    The boat lifted forward with a great surge of power, and a slight smile of satisfaction touched Noci’s mouth. At this rate they would be landing him on the coast near Durres before dawn. By noon he would be in Tirana. More dollars to his account in the Bank of Geneva, and this was his sixth trip in as many months. Not bad going, but you could take the pitcher to the well too often. After this a rest was indicated—a long rest.
    He decided he would go to the Bahamas. White beaches, blue skies and a lovely tanned girl wading thigh deep from the sea to meet him. American for preference. They were so ingenuous, had so much to learn.
    The engines coughed once and died away and the Buona Esperanza slowed violently as her