“You wait here,” the sailor said, a flush of greed sobering him slightly. “I make a phone call.”

Janson drummed his fingers on the bar as he waited; if his drunkenness was feigned, his display of agitation required little acting. After a few long minutes, the seaman returned.

“I speak to a captain I know. He says if you come aboard with drugs, he will throw you into the Aegean without a life jacket.”

“Absolutely not!” Janson said, aghast. “No drugs!”

“So the Albanian whore took those, too?” the man returned wryly.

“What?” Janson’s tone rose in indignation, a humorless businessman whose dignity had been insulted. “What are you saying?”

“I joke with you,” the seaman said, mindful of his fee. “But I promised the captain I’d give you the warning.” He paused. “It’s a containerized cargo ship. U.C.S.-licensed, like mine. And it leaves at four in the morning. Gets in at berth number six port of Izmir, four hours later, OK? What happens at Izmir is on you—you don’t tell anyone how you got there.” He made a neck-slicing gesture. “Very important. Also very important: you pay him a thousand dollars at Pier Twenty-three. I’ll be there to make introductions.”

Janson nodded and started to peel off large-denomination drachmas, keeping his hands under the counter. “The other half when I meet you in the morning.”

The seaman’s eyes danced. “Fair enough. But later, if the captain asks what you paid me, leave a zero off. OK, my friend?”

“You’re a goddamn lifesaver,” Janson said.

The sailor wrapped his fingers around the roll of bills, appreciating their heft and thickness, and smiled. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Janson shook his head distractedly, gripping his ring finger. “I’ll tell her I was mugged.”

“You tell your wife an Albanian mugged you,” the seaman counseled. “Who wouldn’t believe that?”

Later, at the Izmir airport, Janson couldn’t help but reflect on the curious pattern of such ruses. People gave you their trust when you proclaimed just how untrustworthy you were. Someone victimized by his own greed or lust was a readier object of sympathy than someone who came on his bad luck honestly. Standing shamefaced before a British tour guide, he trotted out a version of the story he’d told the seaman.

“You shouldn’t have been cavorting with those dirty girls,” the tour guide—pigeon-breasted, with shaggy, white-blond hair—was telling him. His grin was less sporting than sadistic. “Naughty, naughty, naughty.” The man wore a plastic badge with his name on it. Above it, printed in garish colors, was the name and slogan of the cut-rate tour company that employed him: Holiday Express Ltd.—a package of fun!

“I was drunk off my arse!” Janson protested, slipping into a lower-middle-class Home Counties accent. “Bloody Turks. This girl promised me a ‘private show’—for all I knew she was talking about belly dancing!”