In the afternoons they close Ledra Street to all traffic except taxis and delivery vans, so I could just drift down the middle of the road with the easygoing crowd, mostly local and mostly in bright cheap clothes. Just a few uniforms and blue berets, a few old ladies wrapped in the traditional black. The sunlight was warm and soft, not the trip through the toaster that it would be in a month or so, but there were thunderheads stacking up on the mountains to the south-west, and an occasional distant grumble of thunder.

I drifted, stopped for a cup of gritty sweet Turkish coffee, bought a pair of sunglasses, bought myself a pair of nylon socks – and then, because that seemed mean, bought Ken a pair as well. It's funny how you never get time to buy ordinary things at home; I'm always getting my handkerchiefs in Frankfurt and my paperclips in Brussels.

So by then I was almost up to the permanent roadblock to the Turkish quarter. I could have gone through – they don't mind foreigners – but there didn't seem much point right then. So I turned left and drifted towards the Paphos Gate, and once I was there it wasn't more than five minutes to the Ledra Palace and goodbye to my resolution about spending Castle money only in Castle Hotels.

The little old barman was just setting up for the evening, filling bowls of nuts and crisps. He did a quick double-take and said gravely: 'It's been a long time, Captain.'

'Nearly two years.'

'Whisky and… soda, is it, sir?'

'And not too much ice.'

He put a bowl of overcooked peanuts in front of me and trotted off to organise the drink. It's a tall, dim room and the stone-tiled floor gives a slight echo that makes it seem even cooler than it is. Almost empty, now, but full enough at other times for them to have started punching out the arched french windows to make an extension into the garden. And then the old hands from all over the world will sit in there and complain that it just isn't the same any more, and they'll be right but they'll still be there.

He came back with the Scotch. 'And Captain Caviti – is he with you, sir?' He'd remembered Ken's name; not mine.

'He'll be around. Mind if I ring somebody in the hotel?'

He put the phone in front of me and went back to the nuts and crisps and ice. I asked for Mr Jehangir's room and got a polite voice that said it was jolly good of me to call and he'd be down as soon as he could get some togs on. Sergeant Papa must have quite an ear to spot the faint trace of accent; I wouldn't have got it if I hadn't been listening for it.

I sipped my Scotch and ate a peanut and waited and… and now what? Back to Britain in a few days – but what after that? Well, for the summer we might find some charter outfit that wanted a couple of extra bods; that would build up a bit of fat against the cold. But it wouldn't be heading us towards our own aeroplane again. For that, we needed capital – or a personal introduction to Father Christmas. And he'd have to be in a pretty good mood even for Father Christmas: Ken and I weren't bright young things with decades of earning power ahead. At forty, we'd only got about fifteen years before a medical downcheck put all the future behind us. By then, we had to be in a position to hire others to do the flying, or…

The woods are full of old pilots who just assumed they'd have it made before the doctor pulled the sky from under them. Or assumed they'd be dead, of course; plenty escape that way.

On that happy note, somebody leant over me and asked: 'Captain Case?'

'I'm Roy Case. And just Mister.'

'Oh splendid. Uthman Jehangir,' and he held out a long brown hand.

The rest of him was a lean, tanned fifty-year-old with crinkled grey hair, a square white smile with gold trimmings, a very formal blue suit and white shirt. Beirut, for sure; they all dress like bank managers over there. Of course, half of themare bank managers.

I asked: 'What are you drinking?'

'No, please, allow me.'

Any time. So I took another Scotch and he asked for a red Cinzano and soda. Then, as he moved and sat down on the next stool, I realised he was lame in his left leg. Or no: something about the businesslike way he arranged the knee with his hand, the shiny uncreased stiffness of the shoe… an artificial leg, from above the knee.

He lifted his glass: 'Cheers.' And we sipped. 'I rang your hotel…'

'I got the message. What can I do for you?'

'You fly the Castle International plane, don't you?'

It isn't a plane. 'I did last, I will next, but at the moment it's-'

'Oh yes, I know about Castle going into receivership.' He had the silly habit of flashing his white grin as a full stop at the end of each sentence, but his eyes were bright and watchful. 'I heard that you got stuck with a cargo of champagne?'

All the fire-warning lights in my head flashed on at once. 'Uh-huh.'

'D'you think the receivers could be persuaded to sell it?'

'Better ask them.' Oh no, don't for God's sake call London! 'I mean – ask their man here. Loukis Kapotas. He's at the Castle most of the day.'

He whipped out a little leather notebook with gold corners and wrote it down. Then looked up and grinned once more. 'What marque is it?'

'It says Kroeger Royale '66.'

'Splendid. Jolly good stuff. How many boxes?'

'Only a dozen.' I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy. I mean, the man might be honest or something. 'But why do you want it?'

'For resale, of course. I supply wines and spirits to… er… private houses in Beirut. And next week we have a rather sudden visit from some friends down in the Gulf. I expect you know these… er… gentlemen with their oil revenues? In their own countries they have to set a good example by being strictly Muslim, so when the weather starts boiling up and they escape to Beirut…' he spread his hands and grinned; '… naturally they want a rest from their devotions.'

I knew – no, I'd onlyheard about these private parties of oil sheikhs in the big houses of Beirut 's hillside suburbs. A lot of everything and everything of the best – at a price, of course. But when you've got oil derricks sprouting like weeds, what's a bottle of Kroeger Royale to help launch the latest Swedish virgin?

'But can't you pick it up around Beirut?"

'Oh, I just got caught short with the rush, and the St George and the Phoenicia won't sell me any…'

'And bankrupt stock comes cheap at any time.'

The grin flashed on-off. 'And that, of course. If you could persuade your Mr… er, Kapotas to sell at a reasonable figure, I'm sure you'd find your time hadn't been wasted.' So I could take a cut as the middleman – and he'd assume I was taking a commission from Kapotas for finding a buyer. Jehangir would normally do business that way… And why not, come to think of it?

'And,' he added, 'the matter of getting it on to Beirut: how much would it cost for you to fly it there?'

About 140 nautical miles, say fifty gallons there and back plus landing fees… andmy fees, this time… 'Call it a realistic sixty quid sterling.'

He twitched his elegant shoulders.ÍSplendid. If you have a word with Mr Kapotas first, I can call him tomorrow.' And if he could get it at four quid a bottle and resell at a minimum of ten, then he'd clear an easy £750 after all overheads… Hell, maybe the man-was honest, if you see what I mean.

'Fine,' I said slowly. 'I'll do that right now. I wanted to be back before dinner anyway.'

'Is the food any good, there?' he asked, genuinely interested.

'Last night it was terrible, but they've got rid of that chef already.'

It was just on dusk when I got back to the Castle, the eastern sky turning a dark velvet blue and the first stars coming on with that odd abruptness that must be something to do with the eye of the beholder. Sergeant Papa came to attention in a slow-motion parody of his army days. 'Good evening, Captain.'