The

THICK
GRAVY
A novel by
BY
MUHAMMAD
SABIR HAFEEZ
©2010 MUHAMMAD SABIR HAFEEZ. MUHAMMAD SABIR HAFEEZ HAS ASSERTED HIS RIGHTS, UNDER
THE COPY RIGHTS AND PATENT’S ACT 1988, TO BE IDENTIFIED AS THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK OF
FICTION TITLED AS “ HIGH OCTANE”.

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should be addressed at “msabirhafeez@gmail.com,

THICK GRAVY (a.k.a.)/ High octane

Contents:

Rap at the Meddeteerian Sea

Rap at the Meddeteerian Sea
Rose took a deep breath from the cabin’s window, which let the gushing breeze into our luxury
cruise cabin (our hidey-hole). It was a painful caper, as the goodies we had under our
bellies(not literally), were now burning hot with the fear of Interpol and the maritime sea police
that might be looking for the fugitives on the run, from Tripoli to here. Booty of smuggled
diamonds, which reportedly looted from an insurance company’s safe vaults in New York, was
amiss.

We were bound from Tripoli to Nairobi to Korea for a high-octane pick n drop exchange for
some technical and more fearful goodies, of which I have not the least idea. At this moment we
were somewhere in the middle of Mediterranean Sea. After the last night raucous fight, we were
both tired. IRIS has suddenly halted due to some technical problem in its navigation system and
it was awaiting an SOS help via their satellite radio on starboard.

The captain assured all of us “no problem at all”, just waiting for a reconnaissance from the
people at the shipping company for further en-routing, you know a slight detour, he smiled his
best reassuringly, while he talked to all of us. “Enjoy the best of the Med here. “He said and
walked away.

Rose, however, was perturbed as she thought that it was going to add three to four more days
in our already rationed time. While walking on the open deck the last night before the halt
down, she was cheerful and thankful to me for spending just a wonderful time with her,
caressing away all her worries of the dangerous work she was carrying out on behest of some of
her most dangerous men in the world, who in turn were running the corporate affairs of their
wealthiest customers, which no normal Bank would cater to.

She operated as a confidence ambassador for her clients. she has pulled on many a successful
capers, yet the thought of exchange of goodies in an African country then to the socialist Korea,
shunned by the most powerful economy was going to raise a million questions about her
bizarre travelling, which no doubt was already noticed by the data base managers of many
intelligence agencies around the world.

However, the idea of a honeymooning couple on a round the world cruise was less detectable
by her foes and friends alike, rest for the Man behind all this.

Even in today’s’ hyper technical world, crazy over the information high way, the conventional
ways of smuggling actual goodies from one country to even other continents, is considered the
most safe, reliable and proffered mode of exchange among the game players.

Smuggling, have become more sophisticated and rapid, where the most important thing, being
the information itself now traveled faster than the fast via internet, where resources mobilized
instantly, the customs and ports staff bribed through e-banking and the sesame channels
opened.

The black economy despite the crisis of financial markets, melt down, scandals, and strict
regulations, was growing vehemently, as the principal of diversification demanded the wealthiest
one to disperse their net worth across the globe and wide the commodities, tangibles and
intangibles alike. This made courier like me to thrive in the specialized services industry.

It was not my idea to have a slow cruise that long that it may took a whole fortnight to reach to
Nairobi. Our first point of contact there was some Mr. Slavodore, half Egyptian and half French.
A middle aged, cunning looking man, as seen in his latest picture, I received via email, a short
while ago.

The route and the strategy, both were crafted by madam herself in the first person, as usual and
I was quiet sure that I was good decoy for the mission critical.

In her comfortable Parisian pent house’ briefing room, she was warm and welcoming as she
uttered in her usual dialect “Dear boy, as she patted me; everything must be discreet and only
you can handle it.

Now in the morning of this day I was feeling as uneasy in the cabin, as Rose, but could not risk
the outward air of the ship’s deck, as a chopper has just landed on the deck carrying some
technical people (it was what we were being told) from company’ one of the affiliates.

What you think, can we clear up early and move ahead? She asked as she lurched on her pillow,
stretching her lazy body, and events of last night just flashed once again in my hot memories.

Do not think so. Yet we do not know what is up. Normally such big ship do not stall up for
something going wrong in the navigation system, as the routes are well charted and there are
no unchartered territories.

Then let us go to the dining hall, at least we can smell some sun and air by the poolside, she
asked me.

However, I refused on a note of a caution. Not now, I told her. I can now see some peculiarly
uniformed and muscular people, their bosoms and trunks were dark blued and ID’ printed on
shirts read as “Spartan’s”. We have a good but small iris view through the cabin’s window.

There was now quiet an activity going on with rising sounds, a little angry yet clear in pitch. I
could sense some sort of an emergency, and felt that perhaps some heavy machines were being
dragged on the deck.
Then some cold sweet broke into my forehead, as I now saw that type of machine it was. It was a
handy remote crane for going deep into the sea, use by professional salvage firms, and treasure
hunters, with a bathyscaphe like casket dangling below.

It was carried two personnel in full scuba diving equipments, and it was being lowered down
into the sea, by the operator.

Going for some fishing? Not. I knew it. The ship has no problem in its propellers or something
that might require a show down into the abyss of the sea.

The captain himself was pacing nearby on the deck and shouting some instruction to the crew.
The crew was efficient as it lowered a big plastic net basket simultaneously with the bathyscaphe
like diving apparatus carrying two yellow dressed engineers or someone like them.

I noticed that there were only a few sun tanners on the main deck, and none of them noticed or
cared about what was happening. However, my belly was now churning in anticipation of some
shock.

Rose looked at my face and asked. Is something wrong? Don’t know yet, I replied irritant. Better
go out and have a look, she suggested and I agreed.

I was approaching the main deck, when from nowhere a crewmember just came into my and
politely me asked not to go up. On my hostile look, he hurriedly explained. Captain says so, as
some technical fault is being repaired and no one of the guest should be up except those
already up for their own convenience and safety.

Can you tell me what exactly is going on? I asked him. He happily explained to me this.

Yes. It’s some big industrial solid waste dumpers that hanged onto the blades of the propeller,
breaking one of its fins, and off course the water here has high density due to rocky mud, the
debris and the sea logging in that area, playing havoc with one of our propeller motor, and
those tech guys are down to clear it and collect some sample of the same for reporting it to the
local EPA authorities, he politely explained to me.

The way he explained, I knew it was a lie.

Illegal cargo harboring and specialized pick n drop services to a select client is always welcome
and the strictest of maritime law were usually defied for sake of earning better profits by the
shipping companies.

The ships engines were throbbing obediently and with as little noise as possible, as we would
expect from a well-tuned and perfuming cruise ship of that size.
There were around 150 paid guest on the ship for their own personalized oceanic trips arranged
by their respective travel companies but harbored on one same ship named ”IRIS”, owned by a
Greek firm.