Shepherd shook his head. ‘It used to be part of Pakistan.’
Salik looked surprised. ‘You are right. We gained our independence in 1971 after a civil war. Bangladesh means “land of the Bengali people”. We should never have been part of Pakistan. Like the British taking over Northern Ireland.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s the same thing,’ he said.
‘Oh, it is,’ said Salik, seriously. ‘You should read your history. The Irish are fighting for what we had to fight for thirty years ago.’
‘What about you?’ asked Shepherd. ‘When did you come to this country?’
‘I was three years old,’ said Salik. ‘My father came over just after I was born, in 1958, and he sent for me and my mother and my three siblings a few years later. He worked as a hotel porter and by the time he died he owned three hotels here in Bayswater and had twenty-four grandchildren.’
‘A good life,’ said Shepherd.
‘A good life, well lived,’ agreed Salik. ‘I should be as lucky as my father. Inshallah.’
‘You have a big family?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Four children,’ said Salik proudly. He took out his wallet and unfolded a flap to reveal small photographs of three boys and a girl, all neat in school uniforms, smiling at the camera with bright eyes.
‘Nice kids,’ said Shepherd.
‘And you, Tony? You have a family?’
‘Divorced,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s hard to keep a relationship when you’re at sea.’
‘My father spent three years in London while my mother stayed in Bangladesh,’ said Salik. ‘True love never dies.’
‘I guess my wife didn’t really love me,’ said Shepherd.
‘Children?’
‘A boy. I don’t see much of him. She moved up north with her new boyfriend.’
‘A boy needs his father,’ said Salik. ‘He needs his mother when he is a child but he needs his father to show him how to be a man.’
‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. He picked up his glass and sipped his lager.
The first dishes arrived, along with an oval stainless-steel plate piled high with rice. ‘Ah, the chef’s speciality,’ said Salik. ‘ Aloo dom. Potato curry. The secret is in the yoghurt he adds. My own wife can’t cook aloo dom as well as he can.’
Another waiter appeared from the kitchen with a tray of more stainless-steel bowls. Salik pointed at each in turn as they were placed on the table.
‘ Doi begun,’ he said. ‘Aubergine in yoghurt. Kanchkolar dom, green banana curry.’ He pointed at another dish. ‘Now this one I doubt you’ll have had before. Shukta – it’s lauo with lentils. One of my favourites. Lauo is bottle gourd. Do you know it? Like melon, but not as sweet. It’s a difficult flavour to describe. Anyway, you fry cubes of lauo with mung beans, then simmer with ginger and turmeric, add peas and a sprinkling of coriander leaves.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘What the chef here does is to fry mustard seeds in hot oil, then add the cooked vegetables and bring them to the boil again. It’s one of his secrets but I bribed one of the waiters to tell me what he does.’ He laughed.
Matiur gestured at something else. ‘This is my favourite,’ he said. ‘ Reshmi kebab. Minced chicken kebab.’
A big Asian man appeared at the kitchen door, his face beaded with sweat. He was wearing grubby white baggy trousers, a white T-shirt and apron. A threadbare chef’s toque was perched at a jaunty angle on his head. He was holding a large oval tray and grinning broadly. ‘And here’s the man himself,’ said Salik. ‘My very good friend Nasram. Possibly the best chef in London.’
‘What do you mean “possibly”?’ chided Nasram, setting the platter on the table. A whole fish lay on it, covered with a thick, reddish sauce. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Don’t listen to anything this man tells you,’ he said. ‘This is what I am famous for. Makher taukari. My own recipe. You will have tasted no fish curry like it.’ He extended a shovel-like hand. ‘Welcome to my restaurant,’ he said.
Shepherd shook it. ‘Tony,’ he said. ‘Pleasure to be here.’
‘Do not let this man lead you astray,’ said Nasram, grinning at Salik.
‘In what way?’
Nasram patted Salik’s ample stomach. ‘He likes his food too much, this man. Moderation in all things is the way to a long and happy life.’
‘I’ll try to remember that,’ said Shepherd.
‘Enjoy,’ said Nasram. He chuckled and headed back to the kitchen.
Salik waved at the food. ‘Please, Tony, start.’
Shepherd spooned some of everything on to his plate, picked up his fork and began on the aloo dom. He raised his eyebrows. It was good.
‘What do you think?’ asked Salik.
‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd.
Salik handed him a platter of naan bread. He ripped off a chunk and dipped it into the aubergine.
‘So, tell me about your boat,’ said Salik.
‘It’s called a rib, a rigid inflatable boat,’ said Shepherd. ‘Virtually invisible to radar, it can cruise at fifty knots.’
‘And it can cross the Channel?’
‘Easily.’
‘Even in bad weather?’
‘We’d try to do it in reasonable weather,’ said Shepherd. ‘It can go out in storms, but why would we?’
‘And how much would you want?’ asked Matiur.
‘That depends on what you’re bringing over,’ said Shepherd. ‘Like I said before, it’s all about risk.’
‘We should be paying you for the trip,’ said Matiur, ‘not for what you are carrying.’
‘Let me put it another way, then,’ said Shepherd. ‘How much do you think you’ll want to bring over?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Salik.
‘The weight. The boat can carry about a thousand kilos.’
Salik pursed his lips. ‘Probably a hundred kilos. Maybe two hundred. I am not sure.’
‘How can you not be sure?’ asked Shepherd. ‘You buy it by weight, don’t you?’
‘No, not really.’ He said something to Matiur in Bengali and the two men laughed.
‘What’s the joke?’ asked Shepherd. He had to keep playing the part of the slightly stupid sailor. As far as Tony Corke was concerned, the brothers were bringing in drugs.
‘We don’t buy it by weight, my friend,’ said Salik.
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Shepherd.
‘It makes perfect sense,’ said Salik.
Shepherd put down his fork. ‘I think I have the right to know what I’m going to be carrying,’ he said. ‘I’m the one whose balls will be on the line.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you’ll be carrying,’ said Matiur. ‘You’ll get your money anyway.’
Shepherd reached for another hunk of naan. ‘I guess that’s true.’
‘It is, my friend,’ said Salik.
‘What about more deliveries in future? Can this be a regular run?’
‘It is possible,’ said Salik. ‘But first things first. The men in France want to see you.’
‘What?’
Salik smiled reassuringly. ‘It is not a problem. They just want to know who they are dealing with.’
‘You can tell them I delivered the first load.’
‘I have. But I also had to tell them that you charged me thirty thousand pounds.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Shepherd. Meeting the French end of the currency ring was exactly what he wanted but Tony Corke wouldn’t be thrilled at the idea of getting involved with foreign gangsters.
‘The men who gave Pernaska the cans to bring over.’
‘And they’re French, yeah?’
Salik shook his head. ‘Albanian,’ he said.
‘Why are you working with Albanians?’ asked Shepherd.
‘They have the money,’ said Salik.
‘What money?’ asked Shepherd, pouncing on Salik’s slip.
Salik and Matiur exchanged a look. Matiur gave a small shrug. ‘Okay,’ said Salik. ‘We’re not bringing drugs over. It’s cash. Currency. And the Albanians have it.’
‘If it’s just money, why not put it into the boot of a car and bring it over on the ferry?’
‘Because Customs have the right to impound any money they suspect is from criminal sources. And anyone doing regular runs on the ferries or who takes their car through the Eurotunnel is flagged. And if you fly or take the Eurostar your bags are X-rayed.’