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his life and limb at the disposal of the French Foreign Legion for a stated period of five years.
    He might be mad for coming back here, but at least he wasn't mad and stupid . He knew what to expect in Morocco this time. He had scanned the dock as the ship approached and spotted Legionnaires prowling the area. They had fight-scarred faces and bellies that hung over their belts from too much time drinking beer in dockside taverns. A retrieval squad if he'd ever seen one.
    He had taken off his shirt and boots, stowed them in his valise, and then slipped overboard to swim down the dock to a place where the cargo being unloaded from another ship would provide cover for him to climb ashore. Once on the dock, he shook off as much water as he could, dressed, and climbed to the top of the stacks of crates to watch the Legionnaires.
    Raising his patch and squinting away the glare that plagued the vision in his left eye, he recognized one of the men… a fellow named Banane… a wiry little weasel with a nasty temper and a nose flattened into a half crescent against his face. Apollo snarled silently. Just the sort the Legion would assign to do their dirtiest, most disgusting work. A human dung beetle. With apologies to upstanding insect dung beetles everywhere.
    From his vantage point on the cargo, he scanned the dock in both directions and realized that there was no cover for further escape for fifty yards in either direction. With an oath, he flattened against the top of the crates and reconciled himself to waiting there until the retrieval squad moved on or darkness fell.
    Then he spotted her .
    Abigail Merchant was standing at the top of the gangway, arguing with one of the shore officials about an impromptu "tax" required of all persons disembarking from ships in the harbor. It was just like her, he thought, to come all the way to Morocco and then refuse to leave the damned boat because of scruples over a few dirhams in shore bribes.
    An abrupt movement at the bottom of the gangway caught his eye and he spotted several dirty, half-naked wharf rats snatching up three large carpetbags and hauling them off at a dead run.
    Pay attention, woman — they're robbing you blind ! It was all he could do to keep from shouting it at her.
    "My bags—they're taking my bags!" She finally saw what was happening. "Stop them—somebody stop them!" She rushed down the gangway, shoving her way past the porters returning up it for more cargo, but the thieves had already reached the corner of a nearby street and were disappearing.
    " Un voleur — arretez-vous !" Haffe shouted, pointing from the cabin deck. But his call only caused confusion amongst the crew and dockworkers, many of whom had checkered pasts and thought he was accusing rather than alerting them. " Legionnaires !" Haffe tried calling to the soldiers loitering at the corner. " Allez, allez! Un voleur !"
    The Legionnaires seemed startled at first, then indignant at the notion that they were being asked to exert themselves in so mundane a cause. Tightening their grips on their truncheons, they took off in the opposite direction.
    Captain Demetrios rushed up from one of the cargo holds to see what the yelling was about and quickly ordered some of his men to drop what they were doing and give chase.
    As the Star's crew erupted in arguments about which way to go, where the thieves were likely to be headed, and what they might use as weapons against such brazen criminals, a handful of men came running from further down the quay… burly dockworkers bearing spars and lengths of iron pipe…
    followed by a stocky, nattily dressed man in a white three-piece suit. The man came to a stop beside the trouble-prone Miss Merchant and doffed his hat.
    Apollo froze, unable to expel the breath he'd just taken.
    "Please… allow me to be of service, mademoiselle," the man declared in a mellifluous French accent, planting his silver-headed walking stick on the dock and striking a pose beside it. When she