“Marijuana!” he burst out as soon as the others had moved away. “We move fifty tonnes of marijuana out of Australia!” I sat up with a jolt. “Good God, Nick!” I gasped. “Fifty tonnes! There’s not that much in the whole bloody country.” “I can get it,” he replied quietly. “Where do we move it to?” I asked. “Singapore.” “How?” He leaned back into the armchair, smiling like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. It was weeks later that I was to question that grin, but not until after the killing had started, not until the waves had begun crashing into the stern of the ship, the salt spray covering the decks, the hull grinding, tearing itself upon the coral. Not until terror had taken hold!