The one-eyed man took out an invoice from beneath the table and pushed it in front of him.
"I don't want your money. Help me ship a batch of military breathing valves out of the blockade zone. Once the goods are aboard, I'll give you the route."
"How much?"
"Six crates."
Morel flipped past the first page, scanned the three serial-number lists, then turned the invoice back around.
"Ship it yourself."
"Aren't you in the shipping business?"
"Shipping doesn't mean selling my life. Even if I finish the job, I still need to be alive to spend the money."
He tapped three sets of serial numbers.
"Breathing valves for Kakin's active-service submarines. They were only refitted half a month ago. Something went missing from a military warehouse, and this batch will be put on the wanted list tonight. Whoever takes it off your hands will be paying off your theft debt."
The one-eyed man's hand froze around his teacup.
"You've got it wrong."
"The model number can be changed, but the connector dimensions can't. The pressure-regulation structure in the third crate can only be fitted to the new submarines they announced a few months ago. Covering it with paperwork for scrapped equipment might fool newcomers."
As if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, several nearby thugs crowded over.
One gripped the knife at his waist, while another blocked the space behind Morel, his hand already slipped into his crotch as though he had something big hidden inside.
The tea stall owner put away his kettle and dragged his stool next door. The number of onlookers only grew, and the passageway was soon blocked.
The one-eyed man lowered his voice.
"Take the money and leave. Don't make trouble for yourself."
With a cigar between his fingers, Morel tapped the ash into