Khasab

Oily, black water parted ahead of the decrepit boat and the salt spray stung the eyes of the four men aboard. The land in front looked dead, unearthly, deserted. The passage through the Straits had been uneventful, which amongst these wasted lives was a good thing. Outbound from Iran a full moon had sparkled on the silver sheen of the Gulf; the boat cutting a swath through the salty water like a hot knife through yielding butter. The four men disembarked from the converted dhow onto the new 'tourist' pier in the forgotten, dusty outpost of Khasab. There were very few lights illuminated. Humid air tinged with the smell of cooking mutton hung heavy about the pier and the men's clothing clung to their bodies.

Ron wiped a shirtsleeve across his glistening forehead. He had black eyes, which seemed to dwell deep in the caverns of his eye sockets protected by the overhang of his prominent brow. Many emotions he hid in these caverns; he was a difficult man to assess, to gauge, to measure. Mystery shrouded him like a shield. Very few people had penetrated this protective layer.

The pier was deserted. Tied at the docks were several tourist dhows waiting for the next batch of strangers who wanted to see the majestic fjords to the north. It struck Ron just how perfectly suited to the business of smuggling this place truly was. The fjords could hide just about any boat that may have alerted trouble, and landing in this town late at night almost never rang any suspicion. They could slip in unseen, make the rendezvous and be gone without hardly making a sound. The silence only punctuated by the occasional bleat of a wiry goat being heard on the soft breeze blowing in from the empty peninsula behind them - which, as Ron further mused, allowed them a customs free entry into the Emirates...hell there wasn't even a border post or a sign, nothing, just dust and dirt and goats.