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‘I am not trying to trap you, Lin, or trick you. But you will agree, I think, from this example, that it is possible to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.’ He smiled again, for the first time since the story of the escape had begun. ‘This will come back to us, at another time. I have raised it in this way because it is a very important point about how we do live our lives, and how we should live our lives. There is no need to talk of it now, but this question will come back to us in another discussion, I am sure, so I would like you to remember it.’

‘And what about currencies?’ I asked, seizing the opportunity to change the subject away from me, and toward the rules of his moral universe once more. ‘Don’t currencies come under your heading of sin-full crimes?’

‘No. Not currencies,’ he said firmly. The voice was deep, the words surging upwards from the diaphragm into the chest, and passing through the rumbling gemstone-tumbler of his throat. What emerged was a tone of voice that resonated with the hypnotic piety of a sermoner, reading from the Koran, even as he talked of his most profitable crimes.

‘And gold smuggling?’

‘No. Not gold. Not passports. Not influence.’

Influence was Khader’s euphemism for the full range of interactions between his mafia group and the society in which it thrived. They began with bribery, in a schedule of venalities ranging from insider trading to the securing of profitable tenders. When bribes failed, Khader’s influence extended to debt collection and protection rackets, aimed at businesses that operated in the areas he controlled. Not least in the spheres of his influence was intimidation, through force or blackmail, of political and bureaucratic recalcitrants.

‘So, how do you determine how much sin is in any one crime? Who judges that?’

‘Sin is a measure of evil,’ he replied, leaning back to allow the waiter to clear away his plate and the crumbs on the table in front of him.

‘Okay. How do you determine how much evil is in any one crime? Who judges the evil in it?’

‘If you really want to know about good and evil, we’ll have a walk, and talk further.’

He rose, and Nazeer, his constant companion, rose like his shadow and followed him to the sink, tap, and mirror housed in an alcove that was set into the back wall of the restaurant. They washed their hands and faces, hawking and spitting noisily into the sink, as did every other man in the restaurant at the conclusion of his meal. When my turn at washing, hawking, and spitting was complete, I found Khaderbhai talking with the owner of the Saurabh on the footpath outside the restaurant. When they separated, the owner embraced Khader and asked for his blessing. The man was a Hindu, and his forehead bore the mark of blessing he’d received at a temple only hours before. Yet when Khaderbhai held the man’s hands in his own, and softly mumbled a Muslim blessing, the devout Hindu responded with delight and gratitude.

Khader and I strolled back towards Colaba. Stocky, ape-like Nazeer walked a metre or so behind us, scowling at the street. At Sassoon Dock we crossed the road and passed beneath the arch at the main entrance to the old dockyard. The smell of prawns, drying in the sun in pink mountains, made my stomach flip, but when we caught sight of the sea the stench was lost in the strong breeze. Nearer to the docks we threaded our way through crowds of men pushing handcarts, and women carrying baskets on their heads, all bearing crushed ice and a burden of fish. Factories that produced the ice and processed the fish added their industrious clangour to the wailing of auctioneers and salesmen. At the edge of the dock itself, there were twenty large, wooden fishing boats, built to the same designs used for vessels that had sailed the Arabian Sea, on the Maharashtrian coast of India, five hundred years before. Here and there between them were larger, more expensive metal boats. The contrast between those rusted, graceless hulks and the elegant wooden boats beside them spoke a history, a modern saga, a world story that moved from life at sea, as a romantic calling, to the profiteer’s cold, efficient lusting for the bottom line.

We sat on a wooden bench in a quiet, shaded corner of the dock where fishermen sometimes rested to share a meal. Khader stared at the vessels, which were shifting and genuflecting at their moorings on the lapping tide.

His short hair and beard were almost white. The tight, unblemished skin of his lean face was tanned to the colour of sun-ripened wheat. I looked at the face-the long, fine nose and wide brow and upward curving lips-and wondered, not for the first time, and not for the last, if my love for him would cost me my life. Nazeer, ever watchful, stood near us and scanned the dock with a glowering expression that approved of nothing in the world but the man who sat beside me.