* * *
The small river barge was dominated by a rather large stack of barrels and crates. Some had been spray painted with numbers and letters in the same pattern, while others were completely devoid of any markings. Most seemed battered and frayed, while few seemed brand new. As the last light of the day fell around them, it cast a blurred, murky reflection of the uneven heap on the water rolling lazily past the flimsy, almost flat hull.
“You see,” said the Swede scratching his reddened beard as if deeply ponderous, “You have to have a… How do you say that?”
“Perspective?”, asked Ethan and drew on his cigarette. The sound of crickets and buzzing mosquitoes were drowned by the monotonous `put-put’ of the two-stroke motor that somehow managed to barely propel the barge.
The Swede replied with a smile that took a moment or two to form on his sun-burnt face. He then added as he peeked behind Ethan at the helmsman, a boy in his teens:
“Perspective. See, Muembe there lacks perspective. He just wants to feed his family. Never asks a thing.”
“I don’t think he’d been working for you if he did.”
“Well, of course not. If anyone did, I’d be out of business,” he said turning back to face Ethan with a thin, gentle smile on his face. Ethan nodded and said nothing. His gaze wondered for a moment before it fell on the cargo. He then asked the Swede:
“And you just run up and down the river like that? No questions asked by anyone?”
“Sometimes, some do. But I can be very persuasive. Plus, the Nigerian Navy is more or less, a common joke around these parts,” he said and shook his head wildly.
Ethan drew on his cigarette slowly and asked:
“You’re saying this is easy? Is that why you don’t even bother with a canvas or some camouflage?”
“A canvas would draw even more attention. If I do meet a boat on the river, then they’ll probably think I’m just running a shipment for the Army. The river is so plentiful, see? Fishermen fish, and I haul,” the Swede replied, waving his arms about.
“How much does this pay then?” asked Ethan with a frown on his brow.
“Are you looking to get into the business? Because I’d hate the competition,” replied the burly man, laughing heartily to himself.
“Not really, no. I’m kind of into the business myself, but I’m not a middleman.”
“Ah. Mercenary then?” he asked with a smile.
“Slightly different. Though I can’t be sure there’s a real difference,” replied Ethan with a somewhat weary look.
“Royal Marine!” the Swede exclaimed, pointing wildly with a finger.
“For God’s sake, is it that bloody obvious?” asked Ethan slightly irritated. The swede leaned toward him and said, nodding with his head once so often:
“The knife. You seem calm but your body is tense. You keep an eye all the time. One hand on the cigarette, one near the knife. Edgy but cool. Not regular British Army. I can tell. They are-”
Nicole then appeared from the small galley below and said in a flat, tired voice, “He’s full of shit. I told him who you are,” and then she sat down on the deck, crossing her legs before adding “Must be going bored out of his mind.”
“I’m just trying to make your friend here feel at ease,” the Swede said throwing his hands in the air, acting the insulted part. Ethan drew a last whiff and threw his cigarette in the water before asking with smoke coming out of his mouth and nose:
“We could have come straight to this guy, why did we-”
Nicole interjected with a suddenly conversational tone:
“We needed to check with Adu first. We didn’t know whether the Swede would even have a delivery today. See, Adu and the Swede are partners, so to speak,” she said with a gleaming smile and fluttered her eyes only for Ethan to see, before she threw her head backwards to gaze at the still faint stars in the sky.
His face sat in a frown for a moment or so, before looking sideways at Nicole and then back again at the Swede who was looking upwards and bobbing his head slightly as if counting in his head. He checked his wristwatch; it was almost ten o’clock.
“Twenty, twenty-five thousand pounds. Give or take,” said the Swede suddenly. Ethan did not have to act surprised or impressed when he said:
“Bloody hell. Where do they get that kind of money?”
“That,” the Swede said waving a hand dismissively, “is not my concern.”
“I mean, how do they get hold of that kind of exchange. The exchange rate is ridiculous, not to mention the exorbitant inflation.”
“Well, I’m not an expert, but the French economy isn’t that bad.”
“The who?” said Ethan with genuine puzzlement even though there was nothing wrong with his hearing.
“Your friend isn’t exactly up to date on this war, is he?” said the Swede to Nicole who simply shrugged.
“I thought that… Never mind. I’m tired. I really am. Let’s not have this kind of discussion right now. I’d rather listen to the radio,” said Ethan in a very natural way.
“There’s one down below. I am the host, I’ll go get it.”
Not a moment after the Swede went below, Nicole quickly turned her head and shot Ethan a look that overflowed with a raging intention for murder. She hissed, rather than said:
“Moron.”
Ethan replied calmly, almost nonchalantly:
“I won’t stab this one, don’t worry.”
Her nostrils flared with anger instinctively and right before she could retort, the Swede came back up, with the radio in hand. He tuned the dial first and then turned it on. Intense brass sounds and pompous drums came from the small speaker, while the Swede seemed instantly gratified judging from the grin on his face. Ethan asked him then:
“Could you tune that to the BBC?”
“You don’t like Wagner?” the Swede asked in disbelief.
“I thought only the Germans had this craze about Wagner,” said Ethan with a shrug.
“I thought he was Austrian,” replied the Swede, looking puzzled.
“Never mind that. `Top of the Pops' is on now,” said Ethan with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
“`Top of the Pops'? Seriously? You want to listen to that, now? Here?” said Nicole.
“It won’t hurt or anything, will it? I’m a big fan of the Stones.”
The Swede shrugged and turned the dial, while the selector remained on the AM setting. Through a flurry of white noise and incoherent sounds, a clear voice could be heard from the speaker albeit with some static but nevertheless with surprisingly good reception:
“…so until they’re ready, let’s listen to their latest single to hit the record stores, `Hey Jude’!”
A loud applause was heard and the announcer’s voice was cut crisply, while the clapping faded away and soon the voice of Paul McCartney came softly through.
Ethan’s brow became a deep furrow. He flexed his hands and looked at Nicole with a calm, steady gaze. She felt his stare upon her after a moment and looked at him with a quizzical expression. He shook his head slightly and simply said:
“I just hate the Beatles,” after which suddenly and least expected, the young boy at the helm smiled brightly and sang along, “…naa, na na na naaa, hey Jude…”