floods.
‘Oh God.’ I groaned. ‘He’s got the whole team with him.’
I parked beside the Ferrari, and Sal and I began unloading our equipment from the boot. She picked up her easel and slung it over her shoulder, then with a huge folder of parchment in one hand and a box of paints in the other she ducked through the wicket gate into the hangar. I should have gone with her, of course, but I was so absorbed in checking my luggage that it was three or four minutes before I followed her. By then it was too late.
As I stepped through the low aperture into the brightly lit hangar, my stomach churned with alarm. The gleaming sharklike silhouette of the Lear jet formed a backdrop for a tension-charged tableau. Seven of Louren’s bright young men clad in the regulation casual garb - smartly cut safari suits and fleece-lined car coats - stood in a discreet circle about the two protagonists.
Louren Sturvesant very rarely loses his temper, and when he does it is only after severe and prolonged provocation. However, in less than two minutes Sally Senator had managed to achieve what many experts before her had never accomplished. Louren was in a towering, shaking, tight-lipped rage, which had his seven BYM awed and slack-mouthed.
Sally had dropped her load of equipment on the concrete floor and was standing with clenched fists on her hips and bright explosions of colour burning in her cheeks, trading Louren glare for glare.
‘Dr Kazin told me I could come.’
‘I don’t care if the goddam King of Woody England told you that you could come. I’m telling you that the plane is full -and that I have no intention of dragging a female with me on the first break I’ve had in six months.’
‘I didn’t realize it was a pleasure jaunt—’
‘Will somebody throw this bitch out of here?’ shouted Louren, and the BYM roused themselves and made a tentative advance. Sally picked up the heavy wooden easel, and held it in both hands. The advance petered out. I scuttled into the void and grabbed Louren’s arm.
‘Please, Lo. Can we talk?’ I almost dragged him into the flight office - although I thought I detected a twinge of relief from Louren as I rescued him.
‘Look. I’m terribly sorry about this, Lo. I didn’t have a chance to explain—’
Five minutes later Louren strode out of the office, and without a glance at either Sal or the frozen group of BYM, climbed into the jet and a moment later his head appeared beside that of the pilot in the window of the cockpit as he adjusted his earphones.
I went to the junior BYM and gave him the word of the law.
‘Mr Sturvesant asked me to tell you to arrange a charter to Gaberones for yourself.’ Then I turned to the others, ‘I wonder if you could give us a hand with the luggage.’
While a gang of the most highly paid stevedores in Africa carried in Sally’s luggage, she preened with shameless triumph. I managed to whisper a harsh warning.
‘Back seat,’ I snapped. ‘And try to make yourself invisible. You will never know how close that was. Not only did you nearly miss the trip, but you almost talked yourself out of a job.’
We had been airborne for ten minutes before the pilot came back along the aisle. He stopped beside us and looked at Sal with open admiration.
‘Jesus, lady.’ He shook his head. ‘I would have given a month’s salary not to miss that! You were great.’
Sally, who had been suitably subdued since my warning, immediately perked up.
‘With boys that size I don’t even spit out the bones,’ she declared, and a couple of BYM who heard it swivelled in their seats with startled expressions.
The pilot laughed delightedly and turned to me. ‘The man wants to speak to you, Doctor. I’ll change places with you.’
Louren was chit-chatting with flight control over the radio, but he waved me into the co-pilot’s seat and I squeezed behind the wheel and waited. Louren ended his transmission and turned to me.
‘Breakfast?’
‘I’ve eaten.’
He ignored it and passed me a leg of cold turkey, and a huge slice of chicken and egg pie from the hamper beside him.
‘Coffee in the thermos. Help yourself.’
‘Did you get your ?25 million loan?’ I asked with a full mouth.
‘Yes - despite a last-minute panic.’
‘I didn’t think you needed to borrow, Lo. Have you fallen on hard times?’
‘Oil prospecting.’ He laughed at my suggestion. ‘Risk money. I prefer to gamble with other people’s money, and play the certainties with my own.’ He changed the subject smoothly. ‘Sorry about the detour. I am dropping the boys off at Gaberones. They’ve got a series of meetings with the Botswana government. Routine stuff, just settling the details of the concession. Anyway, it’s not too far off our course. Then we can press on alone.’ He filled his mouth with turkey and spoke around it. ‘Met report is lousy, Ben. Thick cloud down on the deck over the whole northern area. Happens about once in three years that you get low overcast in the desert - but today’s the day. Anyway we’ll have a stab at picking up the hills and the ruins, no harm done if we can’t though. We’ll not learn anything more from the air.’ He was relaxed and easy, not a trace of his early rage, he could switch it on or off as he wished, and we talked and laughed together. I knew his mood, it was holiday and release. He was truly looking forward to it. Lost city or no lost city, it was an excuse to get out into the wild country that he loved.
‘This is like the old days. God, Ben, how long is it since we got away together? Must be all of ten years. Remember the canoe trip down the Orange River - when was that? 1956 or 7? And the expedition to find the wild bushmen.’
