Somehow, over the noise of the wind and waves, Vince had heard the commotion and had come to Yousseff’s rescue. And not a second too soon.
“Come down to my quarters, Youss,” he said. “I’ve got some first aid supplies there. I can fix you up.”
“You saved my life, Vince. Those pigs would have dropped me into the Pacific.”
“I know. They’ve done it before. When we get back to Karachi, we’ll get a new crew. Just stay close to me until then,” the first mate answered. “We don’t want a repeat performance here.”
Yousseff followed Vince to his quarters, and they stayed up until dawn, discussing life. On that night, Vince became one of Yousseff’s closest friends; he was given access to Yousseff’s inner circle, and became a party to many of the less-than-legal operations devised by Yousseff. The way of badal and nunwatel applied here too. For saving his life, Yousseff became Vince’s servant, and gave him full entry to his multifaceted operations.
Over the course of the next two years, Yousseff ingratiated himself with Captain Bartholomew. The ship had never run or looked better. Before long Bartholomew was allowing Yousseff to take the wheel on their expeditions. Within a year Yousseff was plotting his own courses and navigating the small ship through busy sea lanes. Vince remained first mate, but was content to relinquish the captain’s duties to Yousseff. While Yousseff was not mechanically gifted, he had great skill in dealing with people, and the crew was becoming more professional. Within 18 months, Yousseff successfully completed his first docking maneuver, at the busy port in Manzanillo, Mexico.
Back home, Omar, Ba’al, Izzy, and Kumar were maintaining their shares of Yousseff’s empire, and there were few events that required his intervention. Yousseff’s directions regarding the police were simply to steer clear of them. Nooshkatoor was a thornier problem, as he seemed intent on putting the upstart Karachi Drydock and Engineering Company out of business. But with the property paid for and an abundance of work, mostly in retrofitting old freighters and river craft, KDEC was established, and there was not much that Nooshkatoor could do. Still, he remained a problem, sending union agents to Kumar’s door, reporting the business to the port authorities for fictitious infractions, and implying to anti-narcotics agents in Karachi that KDEC was a cesspool of drugs. It was obvious to everyone that Yousseff would have to find a way to deal with him at some point.
More importantly to Yousseff’s immediate plans, however, was that he had started accompanying Bartholomew on the all-important drug transfers. In Vancouver, Manzanillo, and Panama — places where security was low, where boarding a ship was easy, or where dropping a small boat in the water and running a mile or two to a more isolated area was not a big deal — Yousseff was Bartholomew’s shadow. These moments were always nerve-wracking, even for the normally calm Yousseff. They dealt with rough characters, for whom killing, murder, mayhem, and death were normal job hazards. Bartholomew, Yousseff, and a couple of crew members, all armed to the teeth, would make their way to some prearranged rendezvous for the exchange of drugs and suitcase. There they’d go through the rituals of sampling, inspection, and counting, always under a cloud of fear, the men alert for ambush or theft. These exchanges took place many times each year, and every time a substantial quantity of drugs was sold.
Yousseff had already been traveling with Bartholomew for two years, learning the business. His many hours as Bartholomew’s confidant, advisor, and organizer were starting to pay off. Soon, he knew, he would possess not only the ship but also Bartholomew’s legitimate and illegitimate businesses. He could see that the pirate was tiring of the trade, and was looking to cash out. When Yousseff was 26, Bartholomew came to him with a proposal.
“I am getting on in years,” he said. “All this time at sea is beginning to wear on me. I want to spend more time at home. I want to retire. Perhaps I can interest you in buying this ship.”
Yousseff pretended to think about it for a while. He had known that this was coming, and he knew that he would buy the ship. But not too hastily.
“Well, Bartholomew,” he said. “She is old and rusting. The motors need to be replaced, and I would need proper navigational equipment. She might not survive a hard storm. Even in a 50-knot wind she might buckle and sink. You yourself have not bought proper insurance for years because the old lady just isn’t insurable. And I am just a sailor. Where would I get the money for something like this?”
Captain Bartholomew had never been told how wealthy Yousseff actually was. At this point, the young man owned many properties in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He owned Karachi Drydock and Engineering, which was making spectacular profits, given that most of its expenses, including labor, were paid for in cash supplied by Yousseff. Any company profits were invested in high-quality equipment and additional harborside and downtown property in Karachi. Yousseff also owned an extremely profitable river ferry company, which now had a dozen 40 and 50-foot ferries shipping cargos of various sorts up and down the Indus. Bartholomew had never been told about any of the companies. He didn’t know that Yousseff owned a string of safe houses on both sides of the Khyber Pass, or that this diminutive man was becoming the largest cultivator of opium poppies in Afghanistan. As far as the captain knew, Yousseff was just another sailor in his mid-20s, sailing because he enjoyed being on the water, and in different ports, coupled with the thrill and profits of dealing with illicit contraband. Unlike the other sailors, though, Yousseff had shown intelligence and interest in the venture; two things that had led Bartholomew to think that this particular young man might be interested in something more than just sailing. It was what had led to the offer.
“I’ll make you a good deal,” Bartholomew said, stroking his chin in thought. “You can pay me over time from the profits you make. You don’t even have to make a down payment. Just pay me over two or three years. But not in cash. I want real money. Clean money. In foreign banks.”
“Well,” said Yousseff thoughtfully, “I will need to be able to connect with the purchasers in North America. I need to be properly introduced to those people in the US and Mexico and Canada. I need to be more than just another sailor standing around holding an AK-47. I need to know how you contact those people, and how arrangements are made. If you do that for me, I might consider it.”
Bartholomew knew that Yousseff would ask this. It was a fair question. Yousseff knew as well as Bartholomew that the ship didn’t make a nickel of profit in bringing its scant 80 or 90 containers across the ocean; that was just for cover, in case they were boarded by authorities. The only profits he made were through the transportation of drugs. Bartholomew looked Yousseff up and down, considering. He saw Yousseff’s hard gaze. He realized that there was a great deal more to this young man than he had originally thought. He also sensed that Yousseff would keep his side of the bargain.
“That’s a reasonable request,” he said at length. “Pay me over two years. Let’s talk price.”
Yousseff drove a hard bargain, regardless of the fact that he could have paid the price, in laundered dollars, many times over, on the spot. They finally agreed on a sum, and a scheme for monthly payments. Captain Bartholomew would introduce him, over the next four or five months, to his contacts in America, Mexico, and Canada.
The next trip to Vancouver’s harbor was the last that Bartholomew was to take. The ship waited for a few days in the outer harbor before docking at the container terminal on the other side of Stanley Park. Bartholomew, for all his lack of industry and discipline, had developed an ingenious method for off-loading his illicit wares. On the port side of his ship, a few feet above the waterline when the ship was fully loaded, he had, through a hidden recess in the ship’s hull, created a slot in which he stored a small 18-foot runabout, with two very powerful outboard engines. The recess was designed so that it was invisible to anyone conducting either an interior or exterior inspection. A crude winch and pulley system raised and lowered the runabout to and from the water. This craftily designed interior space was the primary reason for Bartholomew having stayed in business for so long. Between that, the constant repainting and renaming of his ship, and the care that he took when transferring product, his operation was more successful than it should have been. These were the reasons that he could retire, with wheelbarrows full of money, with an estate on the coast, a home in downtown London, another in Paris, still another in Karachi, and a lovely 50-foot yacht, on which he spent most of his time, plying the west India and Pakistan coastlines.