The ghost's words—disturbances in the supply chain—echoed in the silent garage long after he had left. They were a riddle wrapped in a threat. Harsh replayed the moment, the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible weight of the envelope in the ghost's hand. Had it been a warning? A test? Or simply a statement of fact from a man who dealt only in facts?
Paranoia became his new constant. He scrutinized every customer at the alcove, wondering if they were Swami's eyes. He watched the street for unfamiliar faces lingering too long. The stacks of hidden money in Rao's scrapyard felt less like a triumph and more like evidence waiting to be discovered.
He needed information. The not-knowing was a poison.
Prakash Rao, his eyes older and more cautious than ever, was the key. The scrap dealer's network of contacts was wider and more nuanced than Harsh's, extending into the docks' deeper, less visible currents.
"The ocean is restless, he said?" Rao muttered, when Harsh found him sorting through a pile of copper wire. "The ocean is always restless. The question is, what is causing the waves?" He wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. "There is talk. Not much. Whispers."
"What whispers?" Harsh pressed, the urgency sharp in his voice.
"The Americans are coming. The whole world is holding its breath. Shipping lanes are tightening. Security at the major ports is doubled. The big players—the Swamis of the world—they are consolidating. They are making sure their own shipments get priority. They are squeezing out the smaller, independent operators first. Clearing the board before the big storm hits."
It made sense. A world on the brink of war meant chaos, but for those who controlled the chaos, it meant opportunity. Venkat Swami was securing his empire.
"But there is more," Rao added, his voice dropping. "A different whisper. Not about the Americans. About a new player. A small one, but… bold. Someone is moving product. Not through the main channels. Using the old ways. The dhows, the fishing wharves. It is a tiny trickle, but in a desert, even a trickle is noticed."
Harsh's blood ran cold. They were already noticed. The Al-Habib had left a ripple.
"Who is it?" Harsh asked, forcing his voice to stay calm.
Rao shrugged, but his eyes were sharp. "No one knows a name. They are a ghost. But the word is, they are good. Their product is clean. This… irritates the big players. An unlicensed vendor in their market. It is not about the money lost; it is about the disrespect. The challenge to their control."
The pieces clicked into place. The ghost's "disturbances" weren't just about the Gulf War. They were about him. About Harsh's own operation. Venkat Swami's machine had detected a glitch. A tiny, insignificant blip on its radar, but it was a blip that shouldn't be there.
The delayed shipment wasn't a problem; it was a strategy. Swami was tightening his grip, making the market hungry, and in doing so, he was flushing out the competition. He was drying up the pond to see which fish would gasp first.
Harsh felt a strange mix of terror and perverse pride. He was a blip. A ghost. A name whispered in the same breath as global war and port security. He was so small, and yet, he had somehow managed to irritate a giant.
He left Rao with a new sense of dread. The game had changed again. It was no longer about staying hidden. It was about staying hidden while a searchlight began to sweep the area.
He had to be smarter. More careful. The next shipment from Vijay would be even riskier. He couldn't use the same wharf. He needed new buyers, further out of the city, with even more discretion.
That evening, as he was closing the alcove, a young boy approached. Not the well-dressed one from before. This one was grubby, a street urchin from the docks. He handed Harsh a crumpled piece of paper.
A phone number was scrawled on it. And below it, a message:
The ocean is restless. The sailor must be too. New port. New time. Call.
It was from Vijay. The Dubai connection had also felt the disturbance. The system was reacting.
Harsh crumpled the note in his fist. The ghost had been right. The ocean was choppy. The storm of war was brewing on the horizon, and the underworld was stirring in response.
He was no longer just a player in the game. He was a piece on the board, and the board was being shaken.
He had wanted to build an empire. Now, he was fighting just to keep his head above water in the growing swell. The first taste of real power had been sweet, but the next might well be his last.
The cage he had been so comfortable in was changing shape. The bars were now moving inward.
(Chapter End)