Kristatos had been right. The brothers looked tough customers, people to whom life was cheap. Maltese, or more probably Corsican, renegades from the Unione Corse. Pirates gone free-lance. The mustached one showed flecks of red in his eyes, and a tic. Hasheesh, thought Bond, recalling from the Headquarters file that addicts to the drug were capable of anything. He summed them up as trouble, while putting the gold Ronson to another of his cigarettes from the gunmetal case -- the Balkan and Turkish mixture made specially for him by Morland's of Grosvenor Street, with the three gold bands.