Comfortable and warm, its original was maybe designed for protection against icy blasts pounding down from the Afghan mountains into West Pakistan, and Harpur reckoned it looked decently back-street ethnic, more peasant than those flash, I’ve-been-Intourist-to-Leningrad, curly, black fur jobs. The divers waited in their Land Rover near him. Harpur loved the docks, even at this chilly hour, and despite what was going on. The sun, red and weak, had started coming up behind one of a group of moored tug boats, Destiny II, the first bits of pale light profiling its stubby, powerful frame. So, what destiny had Destiny I met with? Perhaps only age and obsoleteness, which hardly rated as destiny at all, but which were a pain and always liable to get you. Around the bridge and mast of Destiny II hung a few strands of morning mist, and more strands rolled sleepily in the breeze across the black water. Once he’d seen a painting of a French port, maybe Le Havre or Fécamp, with the same misty effects, though the ships were sail.
