"I know where Brogan is,' Jaffrey told the man sitting a little apart from him on the park bench. He waited, a small smile hovering on his lips as he anticipated the next move in this game. Information like this had its value and he would not be shortchanged by this person, no matter what importance the Hundi felt that he had.
As the other man suggested a suitable figure Jaffrey's smile changed to a frown.
'You insult me,' he said, then waited once more as the Hundi remonstrated with him.
'Things are not so easy, Mr Jaffrey,' the Hundi pouted. 'We are in a recession still. Money is always hard to come by,' he lied.
Jaffrey knew that this would take time. Such matters always did. It was all part of the procedure; he would be given a figure, knock it back, suggest an impossibly inflated price himself until a bargain was agreed upon. There was no take-it-or-leave-it about their methods. He had something to sell and he knew the Hundi would be buying.
'The police might want to know this,' Jaffrey said slyly, looking to see what effect his words might have. But there was not a flicker of change in his companion's expression.
At last an acceptable sum was offered and he could tell the man what he wanted to know.
'Brogan was seen by my son,' he said proudly, nodding as he eyed the Hundi's bulky black jacket. The man had arrived not too long after Jaffrey had called him but he knew that a thick wad of notes would already be secreted about his person, ready to hand over once the information was given.
Jaffrey edged a little closer along the bench. 'He's in Mallorca.
A town called Gala Millor,' he said, raising his hand to his mouth as though to prevent the words being overheard. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. 'My boy is a smart one,' he grinned. 'Followed Brogan back to his hotel. Even found which room he was in,' Jaffrey held the paper in the air triumphantly.
In one quick movement the Hundi stood up, snatched the paper and dropped an envelope onto the bench. Then, hardly pausing to read its contents, he stuffed the paper into his wallet, slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket and walked away from the other man without a word.
Jaffrey watched him go, making a rude gesture at his unseeing back. The Hundi commanded a lot of respect in the community and it would not do to openly cross this man. Still, he had what he wanted, he thought, opening the envelope and counting its contents greedily, giving absolutely no thought to what consequences this encounter might have for Billy Brogan. q[r 'How long?' Brogan's mouth was an 0 of astonishment at the Spaniard sitting next to him on the jetty. He'd never been on a boat longer than the half hour that it took to travel from Wemyss bay to Rothesay.
'The wind may alter that,' the man shrugged, looking up at the skies as though to see what the weather might tell him, 'but, yes, I think it will take at least fifteen hours.'
Brogan followed the man's gaze. The skies had little whippets of cloud scudding across an expanse of searing blue. Sailors knew all about such things, he supposed. This man had the expertise he needed – he could set off from Mallorca at dusk and be on the African mainland by noon tomorrow. Marrakesh! The very name conjured up mountains of hashish, just waiting for someone like him to come and buy.
Brogan licked his lips, tasting a saltiness borne on the incoming breeze. They had discussed a price and he'd agreed to it, mentally talculating how much money he would have left.
'You come tonight?' the Spanish captain asked, his small dark Seyes never wavering as he looked at the Scottish man beside him.
Brogan had spun him a tale about needing to leave Mallorca in hurry, not being able to buy a plane ticket in time for an important meeting in Marrakesh, but he knew fine the Spaniard had en through his lies. That nut-brown face criss-crossed with Wrinkles had seen enough of life to know what was going on. The rice he'd asked reflected that, too, Brogan guessed.
'I will take you to a village. Near to where you wish to go,' the paniard told him. 'I know a harbour,' he nodded and turned way, looking out to sea as if their destination was clearly imagined in his mind's eye. 'The harbour master is a friend. He will not ask questions.' The Spaniard turned back to look at Brogan, smiling a knowing smile. 'Or ask to see passports,' he added.
Brogan nodded, trying not to seem too relieved by this. He'd keep up the pretence as long as he was with this man, but he was*cutely aware that the Spaniard had a good idea of his fugitive status.
'Okay. I'm cool with that,' he said, nodding his head. Tut how o I get to Marrakesh after that?'
The man shrugged. Plenty of buses. Not difficult. You'll see.'
'Right, I'll be here at seven o'clock, then,' Brogan said, proffering his hand for the man to shake.
'If I am not here, remember to ask for Carlos,' he told Brogan.
'One of my sons will be preparing the boat for departure. Adios,' he nodded.
As the drug dealer walked back along the esplanade he failed to see the expression on the Spaniard's face or see him chuckling to himself.
Carlos smiled as he shook his grizzled head, watching the Scotsman head back to his hotel. Such fools as this could make him a wealthy man, he thought. Marrakesh!
He laughed silently imagining Brogan's face when he found out his true destination.