"My name's Monk Slavin, and I'm a flyer. I don't know what brought me to Calcutta, but something about the name had the smell of gold. It sounded like the kinda place where a good pilot, who didn't ask questions might make a deal. A big deal, and a fast one. But, nothing seemed to be drifting my way. Nothing but the intense, hot wind of the monsoon, and the fog from the Ganges and the sea, rolling over the city from all sides and strangling it. There was nothing to do but drink gin and quinine water at the airport bar and pray that you didn't get malaria..." Reaching for his half empty drink, Monk saw that there was another drink at the side of it - a full one - from a seductive lady with an offer that he couldn't refuse...