Danes' cabin was aft.  The largest of the six cabins aboard the
kill-9, but hey, he was the captain!  Although the largest, saying it
was large would perhaps be a bit generous.  There was enough room for
his bed on the starboard side, a semi-circular sofa running around the
aft-end of the cabin and his desk on the port side, plus all of the
customary lockers seemingly tucked in every available cranny onboard
such sailing vessels.  A small head containing a shower was located
behind a door in a small nook forward of the desk.  The cabin was
surfaced in tasteful teak paneling, which could probably do with a new
coat of varnish.  After this mission, Danes promised himself, there
would be time enough.  He sat down at his desk and pulled the envelope
out of his pocket.  The cacao leaf stared back at him, as if mocking
him.  ``Open me!'' it said, ``You want to know what lies within...''
He wasn't sure of that, but even so, despite itching to open this
envelope for the last few days since the cabin meeting, he sat there
staring at it for several minutes before building up the courage.

Danes opened the envelope.  Inside was a single sheet of paper and on
it was written:

\begin{quote}
\emph{Go to Grand Cayman.  Once you arrive you are to escort Matroska
  the Prussian and assist him in any way he requires.  Then you may
  proceed on to your final destination as agreed.}
\end{quote}

It was signed simply ``Enrico''.  Fuck!  Thought Danes.  Fuck, fuck,
\emph{fuck!}  The Cayman fucking islands??  He was as much of a fan of
offshore banking as the next man, but it was well known that the
american government had all too much influence there.  Danes had spent
the last few years slowly pissing off the US government by blasting
the free internet all over the gulf coast from international waters
whenever he was in range.  They were looking for any reason to take a
pirate internet ship down, him especially.  Now here he was, carrying
several hundred kilos of cocaine into a US-friendly port, just having
sailed from Colombia (not one of the US's favorite countries) and
esorting a shadowy underworld bad-arse on FSM-knows-what kind of
mission!  He'd have rathered sail round Cape Horn in the middle of
fucking winter than drop anchor in that vipers' den.  No fucking
wonder he was told in a note and not in the meeting itself.  That
would have changed things, though Danes doubted there was any way he
could've chosen to refuse even at that early stage ,the strategy was
probably designed to prevent any possible violent outbursts from those
with less controlled tempers than Danes.  Still, what could he do?  He
couldn't make the coke deal with Hernandez's buddies in Mexico if he
didn't finish this Matroska business in a satisfactory manner.  They'd
have notice from Hernandez to sort him out if he tried that.  Plus,
Matroska probably wouldn't be very happy if he kicked him off the ship
either.  He could always skip out with the coke, but then he's got a
pissed off Enrico Hernandez, a pissed off Matroska, and a bunch of
cocaine in a now very hostile (to him) carribean.  No, Danes shook his
head, there was no option really.  He had to just get it over with and
hope to FSM that this all turned out for the best.

Not for the first time Danes wondered why the hell he was doing all
this?  Dealing with all these arseholes who would chew you up and spit
you out without thinking twice.  Still, it was good money and he did
need quite a cash flow to keep his free internet node side-project
going.  Danes sighed softly to himself.  This debate was for another
time.  Right now there was nothing for it but to just force it in, and
try to survive.  He usually did, mostly.

He pushed back on the chair and stood up carefully.  The motion of the
ship was more pronounced now.  They must have rounded the headland
which protected the harbour of Turbo and moved into rougher waters.
He felt the boat heel over to port and steadied himself slightly as
the movement settled into a new rhythm.  The sails were up now.  The
persisistant thrumming of the engine ceased.  It's funny how you get
used to a sound and you don't notice it, but when it stops, it feels
like the silence is deafening.  Suddenly all he could hear was the
swooshing of the water past the hull as the ship carved her way
onwards, and the faint singing of the wind outside.  This was what he
loved most.  A fair wind, a gentle sea, and his ship surging forwards
as her sails catch the breeze.  Then his mouth twisted into a sour
grimace as this moment was shattered by the recollection of what lay
ahead.  God damn, god damn he thought.

Still, he \emph{might} be able to get some more info about what he had
to do from his guest, who was the source of all this trouble.  He
wasn't too optimistic about it, given the stony-faced nature Matroska
had exhibited thus far, not to mention his reputation.  But still, he
figured it was worth the try.  What was the worst that could happen?
Then he tried not to think about that...

A quick jaunt up the hatch-way to make sure all was well with the
watch.  He knew it was, he could feel the boat moving well through the
water, so that was just an excuse to himself.  Just a delay tactic so
he could postpone confronting Matroska a few minutes longer.  Outside
the temperature was warm, as it almost always was around these parts,
though a fresh breeze blew, taking away the edge.  He could see the
glow from the lights of Turbo on the horizon to starboard but it was
quickly slipping away aft.  A few hours more and they would be out of
the Gulf of Uraba and out into the vastness of the Caribbean sea with
nothing between them and whatever lay in store for him on Grand Cayman
but 700 nautical miles of ocean.

``How's everything going up here?''  Danes asked.  Hans was at the
wheel.  Once they got clear of the gulf they would turn on the
autopilot, but Danes liked her to be hand-steered this close to land.
There was no-one else in sight.  Frank was probably down in his cabin,
or tinkering with one thing or another.  Estrid, well, she could have
been anywhere, you could never predict.

``All's well skip.  A fair breeze and calm seas.  We'll be out of
Uraba in 3 hours at this rate.''

``Excellent, once we clear Punta Arenas del Norte set a course for
Grand Cayman.''

``Grand Cayman?  Cunt of a thing skip. This should get interesting.''

``Yes,'' sighed Danes, ``but let's hope it doesn't get too interesting!''

``Aye, lets,'' echoed Hans stoicaly before staring off into the
blackness once more.

There was no more delaying it now, he just had to do it.  Back down
the hatch-way, Danes made his way forward, past the galley where Frank
was busy brewing a fresh batch of coffee in preparation for taking the
next watch.

``Cup of the old black stuff?'' Frank asked jovially.  The look Danes
wore on his face must have mirrored his thoughts because Frank
immediatly chuckled, ``Might just irish that up for you skip, you look
as though you could use it!''

``When I get back from this Frank, I'm sure I will.'' And he swept on
through the main cabin with it's comfortable sofas, TV, and
fu{\ss}ball table (the original one they had didn't work well at all
at sea of course, so Danes had converted it to an electronic version
so his addiction would be sated), past the crew quarters, the
workshop, and finally up to the closed door of the forcastle cabin.