It was a slow journey. Sam nursed the Land Rover the few miles into town in fourth gear, barely topping 15 miles per hour. Tuk-tuks, cars and even bicycles passed them. Tusker kept a wary eye out for Rausing’s black Land Cruiser as they entered Pasikudah but it was nowhere to be seen. The truck lurched through one roundabout after another until Sam finally coasted down a narrow side street lined with shop stalls, pedestrians, and parked vehicles.

“There it is,” she said and pointed out a stall with a sign above it in Arabic and English. “Majeed Motor Repairs Pvt.,” it read. A faded Union Jack was painted next to the name. An articulated metal overhead door was partially open and inside was another Land Rover, its wheels removed, perched atop jack stands. Stacks of tires lined the inside, along with various vehicle parts, including an intact engine on a wooden pallet. The bright flash of a welding torch emanated from the darkness at the back of the shop. “Another week and we’d be out of luck. Ramadan.”

Sam parked in front of the garage, honked the horn and shut off the engine. A man emerged from within, squinting in the bright daylight. He was a slight man with a wiry grey beard. He wore the white skull cap of practicing Muslims, but instead of a traditional long tunic, he had on a mechanic’s jumpsuit. It was filthy. When he caught sight of Sam, he broke into a smile.

“Ahmed!” Sam called out as she climbed from behind the wheel. Tusker got out and stretched. The man Tusker assumed was Ahmed Majeed approached Sam with his arms wide, then stopped short.

“I’m dirty,” he said, “I don’t want to get you covered in grease.”

“Ah, come on, so am I,” Sam said, and embraced him. The two of them chatted excitedly while Tusker stood awkwardly by. “Oh, sorry, this is Tusk, or, Julian Tusk, a friend who’s staying with us at the Deep Blue for a while.” Sam stepped back and Tusker extended his hand. Majeed grasped it with both of his and shook warmly.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Majeed,” Tusker said. “Everyone calls me Tusker.”

“How do you do, Tusker? But I’m not Majeed.” he replied. “My name is Ahmed Raheem.”

“Ah, I just assumed from the sign,” Tusker gestured up. Ahmed nodded.

“I sort of inherited the shop from Majeed.” He hesitated. “The family moved to Dubai after Mrs. Majeed died during the troubles.”

Tusker looked from Ahmed to Sam and back. There was an extended silence. Just before he could say anything, Ahmed gestured.

“I was about to put the kettle on,” he said, “Let’s have some tea and you can tell me what brought you.” The broad smile was back.