It all started with a suggestion from Omar. Two patrol boats had just intercepted the Janeeta II. Omar had seen them coming, and ten kilos of pure heroin had quickly been flushed into the muddy brown waters of the Indus. The officers had searched the ship from stem to stern, but had found nothing. Omar had complained bitterly the whole time. “We are just a simple river ferry, good sirs. We have customers. We have merchandise to ship and deadlines to meet.”
The police had ignored him and, if anything, became more aggressive in their hunt. Eventually they left, leaving the Janeeta II in a state of disarray. There were many thinly veiled threats about the ship’s fate if drugs were ever found onboard. And from a business standpoint, the loss of ten kilos so close to their ocean delivery point was considerable. Omar and his crew continued on to their rendezvous point, for the sole purpose of telling their contact that they had no product and that they would be back in approximately a month’s time. Yousseff, who was onboard at the time, then ordered Omar to turn the boat around and head back to Rawalpindi. The two stayed up well into the night discussing the problem.
It was Omar, with his mechanical skills, who came up with idea first. “We could manufacture a second hull for the front of the Janeeta II. It would create a hidden space that was waterproof and only accessible if you knew where the hidden switches were. If it were done properly, no one would ever find it, unless they already knew it was there. They wouldn’t tap the hull under the water to look for hidden compartments. Search dogs wouldn’t find it.”
“Can you do it, Omar? Can you create a waterproof outer compartment that they wouldn’t find?” asked Yousseff, immediately seeing the utility of such a creation.
“I think so, but we would need to drydock someplace for a few days to do the work.”
“Where?” pushed Yousseff.
“At the remnants of KSEW, I think,” replied Omar. “There is unused space along the inner harbor of Karachi. We might be able to pick up some harbor land and shop space cheap.”
He was referring to the Karachi Shipbuilding and Engineering Works, a company that had been enormous but was now starting to feel the operational difficulties of a multi-union workforce, internal inefficiencies, and government corruption. The corporation had been shrinking for years, selling off small pieces, one at a time. Many of its dock properties, which covered almost two miles of harborside property, had fallen into disuse and disrepair. Some smaller, family-run operations had sprung up in the areas vacated by the large corporation.
“Next trip down here, we’ll check it out. We’ll take the Janeeta II around the corner, and head to Karachi. Might even be fun. In the meantime, let’s start drawing up some plans for this,” said Yousseff.
A month later they were back, with a load of 20 kilos crammed into a new compartment in the V-berth of the ship. Omar had done the best he could, with the limited facilities they had, and had managed a partially hidden room for the transport of drugs. It wasn’t anywhere close to what they had discussed, but was the most they could construct in such a short period of time, without access to a drydock facility. Yousseff was not satisfied with the addition, and spent the entire trip keeping his eye out for the authorities. Happily, rain fell during the entire trip, which Yousseff saw as a good thing. The river police were less likely to patrol in the middle of the monsoon downpours. They preferred the sun, just like everyone else.
They delivered their load to their usual contact — a Captain Bartholomew, who owned a rusting freighter that changed her name and paint colors often. This month, the ship had the name “Marcy B” painted on the sides. They picked up their payment — several suitcases that held more than a quarter of a million American dollars in cash. Then the Marcy B headed south, and the Janeeta II went north.
Yousseff had never cared for Karachi. You could see the brown hemisphere of pollution covering the massive city even on a dreary, overcast, and wet day like this. The pervading odor was the smell of diesel and exhaust. The city’s population was growing so rapidly that the infrastructure had not kept up with the needs of her millions of citizens. The streets were incredibly noisy, and were packed with motor vehicles of every conceivable make and condition. There was also a lot of poverty. It was not uncommon to see a small Peugeot or Toyota held together with duct tape. There were huge areas that were made up entirely of shantytowns — homes patched up with cardboard and bits of lumber, and held together by sections of corrugated pipe.
The huge, protected harbor was as busy as the city, with many cargo and container ships always docked, waiting to be loaded or unloaded. Hundreds of smaller craft whizzed about, with no apparent pattern or logic to their movements. Yousseff watched the action with distaste, as Omar piloted the Janeeta II through the outer breakwater and into the harbor itself. Omar motioned to the distant, southeastern area of the harbor. Squinting in the rain, Yousseff could see acre after acre of cranes, gantries, industrial shops, and docks.
“That’s KSEW,” Omar said. “We go there.”
“Doesn’t look like much,” Yousseff responded. At that moment, he was missing the lazy Indus and his distant mountain home, and wasn’t in the mood for new adventures.
Omar directed the ship toward the southeastern shore. As they approached the KSEW land, he changed course and paralleled the shore about 200 feet out.
“Look at the mess, Omar,” Yousseff said. “You’d have to take a bulldozer to it and start over.”
“No wonder they’re going broke,” Omar responded. “Nobody seems to be working at anything productive. Look at the cranes. They are almost all sitting idle.”
“Take us to where the smaller outfits are. I don’t feel good about KSEW doing any type of work on the Janeeta,” Yousseff said.
“OK, boss,” joked Omar. More than a mile of dilapidated docks, cranes, and warehouses went by. Eventually Omar brought the ship into a smaller, private drydock facility. They tied her up and hopped onto the dock. The only person around was a young teenager, maybe 15 years of age, if that. He was perched high up, repairing a crossbeam on what appeared to be an extension of the main shop building. Yousseff motioned to him.
“Yo, boy, come down here. We have work for you.” The young welder slid down the main beam in a jiffy, practically falling at their feet. He still had his welder’s helmet on, with the face piece lifted up.
“What would you like?” he asked, eyeing them, sizing them both up, and looking at the somewhat aging Janeeta II.
“We need some work done on the Janeeta’s hull. On the bottom. Needs a drydock, and lifts, which it looks like you have here,” said Omar.
“What kind of work?” asked the boy.
“We need an exterior, watertight compartment, that can be easily opened from the interior of the boat. It must blend in with the existing hull.”
“Ah. Drug smugglers, yes?” the young man responded.
Now Yousseff stepped in. “Can you do the work or not?” he asked.
The young lad had bright, inquisitive eyes and a quick sense of humor. Yousseff instantly liked him, and felt he could trust him. Of all of Yousseff’s many gifts, his ability to see the strengths and weaknesses in people was one of the most useful. He saw much strength in the young welder standing before him.