enjoyed answering her questions for his own enthusiasm was high. It was nearly two o’clock before they had finished.
“How are the watchtowers coming?“Johnny asked.
“All up, ready and waiting.” And suddenly Johnny had a two-edged inspiration.
“Might as well go and have a look.” He made it casual.
“Okay, I’ll fetch the Land-Rover,” the foreman agreed.
“I know the way.” Johnny put him off. “You go and get your lunch.”
“It’s no trouble-” the foreman began, caught Johnny’s frown, cut himself short, then glanced at Tracey. “Yeah!
Sure! Fine! Okay - here are the keys.” He handed Johnny the Land-Rover keys, and disappeared into his own quarters.
Johnny checked the grub box, and they climbed into the open Land-Rover.
“Where are we going?“Tracey asked.
“Inspect the watchtowers along the sandspit.”
“Watchtowers?”
“We’ve put up a line of fifty-foot wooden towers along the beach. From them we will take continual bearings on Kingfisher when she is working offshore. By radio we will be able at any time to give her the exact position over the bottom to within a few feet, as a check to the computer.”
“My, you are clever.” Tracey fluttered her eyelashes at him in mock admiration.
“Silly wench,” said Johnny, and let out the clutch. He swung down past the radio shack on to the hard wet sand at the edge of the lagoon; accelerating he hit second then third and they went away around the curve of the lagoon, headed towards the great yellow wind-carved dunes that lined the coast.
Tracey stood up on her seat, clutching the edge of the windscreen, and the wind snatched at her hair. She pulled the retaining thong from it, and shook it out into a shiny black flag that snapped and snaked behind her.
“Look! Look!” she cried as the flocks of startled flamingoes lurched into flight, streaming white and pink and black over the glossy silver water.
Johnny laughed with her, and swung the Land-Rover towards the dunes.
“Hold on!” he shouted, and she clung to the Windscreen, shrieking in delicious terror as they flew up the steep side of a dune, spinning a cloud of sand from the rear wheels and then dropped over the crest in a stomach- churning swoop.
They crossed the sandspit and hit the beach, racing along it, playing tag with the waves that shot up the sand.
Five miles up the beach Johnny parked above the highwater mark and they ate cold chicken and drank a bottle of chilled white wine sitting side by side in the sand, leaning against the seat cushions from the
Land-Rover. Then they went down to the edge of the sea to wash the chicken grease from their fingers.
“Yipes! It’s cold.” Tracey scooped a double handful of sea water.
Then she looked at Johnny and her expression became devilish.
He backed away, but not quickly enough. The icy water hit him in the chest, and he gasped.
“War!” It was their childhood cry.
Tracey whirled and went off long-legged along the beach, with Johnny pounding after her. She sensed him gaining on her, and shouted.
“It was a mistake! I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!” At the last moment as he reached out to grip her shoulder, she jinked and ran knee-deep into the sea.
Turning at bay to face him, she kicked a spray of water at him, shouting defrance and laughter.
“All right, come on then!” Braving the flying spray, he reached her and picked her up kicking and struggling and waded out waist deep.
“No, no - please. Johnny. I give in - I’ll do anything.” At that moment a freak wave, bigger and stronger than the others, knocked Johnny’s legs out from under him.
They went under, and were rolled up the beach, to stagger out, completely soaked, clinging together, helpless with laughter.
They stood beside the Land-Rover trying to wring the water out of their clothing.
“Oh, you beast!” sobbed Tracey through her laughter. Her hair was a sodden mass, and drops of sea water clung in her eyelashes like dew.
Johnny took her in his arms and kissed her, and they stopped laughing.
She went loose against his chest, her eyes tightly closed and her lips, salty with sea water, opened against his.
The radio telephone in the Land-Rover beside them began to bleat fretfully, flashing its little red warning light.
They drew apart slowly, reluctantly, and stared at each other with dazed, bemused eyes.
Johnny reached the Land-Rover, unhooked the microphone and lifted it to his lips.
“Yes?” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and repeated.
“Yes?” The foreman’s voice was distorted and scratchy through the speaker.
“Mr. Lance, I’m sorry to have ” he was clearly about to finish interrupted you.” But he stopped abruptly, and began again. “It’s just that I think you should know we’ve had a gale warning. Northerly gale building up quickly. If you want to get back to Cape Town You had better get airborne before it hits us - otherwise you could be shut in for days.”
“Thanks. We’ll be back right away.” He hung up, and Tracey smiled shakily. Her voice was also husky and unnatural-sounding.
“And a damn good thing too!” Tracey’s hair was still damp, and the borrowed poloneck jersey swamped her. The grey trousers were also borrowed, rolled up to show her bare feet.
She sat very quietly and thoughtfully in the passenger seat of the Beechcraft. Far below them a small fishing vessel lay with a white cloud of seabirds hovering over it, and she watched it with exaggerated attention. There was a heavy feeling of restraint between them now, they could no longer meet each other’s eyes.
“Pilchard trawler.“Johnny noticed her gaze.
“Yes,” said Tracey, and they were silent again.
“Nothing happened.“Johnny spoke again gruffly.
“No,” she agreed. “Nothing happened.” Then shyly she reached out and took his hand. Lightly she rubbed the stump of his missing finger.
“Still friends?” she asked.
“Still friends.” He grinned at her with relief, and they flew on towards Cape Town.
Hugo Kramer watched the aircraft through his binoculars, balancing easily against the roll and pitch of the bridge.
“Police patrol?” asked the man at the helm beside him.
“No,” Hugo replied without lowering the glasses. “Red and white twin Beechcraft. Registration ZS - PTB. Private aircraft, probably one of the diamond companies.” He lowered the glasses, and crossed to the wing of the bridge. “Anyway, we are well outside territorial waters.”
The drone of the aircraft engine faded away, and Hugo transferred his attention to the frantic activity on the deck below him.
The trawler, Wild Goose, lay heeled over under the weight of fish that filled her purse seine-net; at least a hundred tons of seething silver pilchards bulging the net out alongside the trawler into a round bag fifty feet across.
While above it a shrieking canopy of seabirds swirled and wheeled and dived, frantic with greed.
Three of the crew on a scoop-net which hung from the overhead derrick were dipping the fish out of the net, swinging a ton of fish at each scoop over the side, and dropping them like a silver cloudburst into the trawler’s hold. The donkey engine on the winch clattered harshly in time to their movements.
Hugo watched with satisfaction. He had a good crew, and although the fishing was only a cover for the Wild Goose - yet Hugo took pride in his teutonic thoroughness which dictated that the cover should be as solid as possible.
In any case, all profits from fishing were for his personal account. It was part of the agreement with the
