Tracey drew her head out of the hatch, and Sergio ducked back and looked down the passageway. The tool cupboard was bolted to the bulkhead under the stairs from the deck above. He turned and darted around the corner of the passageway. Tracey came out of the conveyor room, and went to the cupboard. She opened the doors on the glittering array of tools, each clipped securely to its rack.
While she stood before the cupboard, completely absorbed in her search for a half-inch spanner, Sergio came from around the corner and crept up silently behind her.
He lifted the steel bar over his shoulder and came up on his toes, poised to strike.
Tracey was muttering softly to herself, head bowed slightly, handling the spanners - and Sergio knew the blow would crush her skull.
He closed his mind to the thought, and aimed carefully at the base of her skull. He started the blow, and then checked it. For a second that seemed to last for a long time he remained frozen. He couldn’t do it.
With an exclamation of satisfaction Tracey found what she was searching for. As she turned away from the cupboard Sergio shrank back behind the angle of the bulkhead, and Tracey shuffled back into the conveyor room.
“I’ve got it, Johnny,” she shouted into the hatch.
“Bring it to me. Hurry, Tracey. Sergio will be getting suspicious,” he shouted back, and Tracey hitched up her voluminous trousers and wriggled into the hatch.
On hands and knees she crawled up beside him. It was cramped and hot in the narrow tunnel. He took the spanner from her.
“Hold the flashlight.” She took it from him, holding the beam on the panel while he unscrewed the retaining bolts and lifted off the cover.
Lying on his side he peered into the opening.
“There’s a container of sorts,” he grunted, and reached in.
For a minute he struggled with the clamps, then slowly he lifted out the stainless steel cup.
At that moment Kingfisher reared and plunged to a freak wave and the cup slipped from Johnny’s fingers, and from it spilled the diamonds. They cascaded over both of them, a glittering shower of stones of all sizes and colours. Some lodged in Tracey’s damp hair, the rest rolled and bounced and scattered about them, catching the light from the torch and throwing it back in splinters of sunshine.
“Yipes!” gasped Tracey and laughed at Johnny’s whoop of triumph.
Lying side by side they scrabbled and snatched at the treasure scattered around them.
“Look at this one,” exulted Tracey.
“And this.” They were crazy with excitement, hands filled with diamonds. They hugged each other and kissed ecstatically, laughing into each other’s mouths.
Johnny sobered first, “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“What about the diamonds?”
“Leave them. There’ll be plenty of time later.”
They crawled backwards down the tunnel, still laughing and exclaiming, and one after the other emerged into the conveyor room. While they straightened their Clothing, and regained their breath, Tracey asked, “What now?”
“First thing is to get young Sergio safely under lock and key, his crew also.” Johnny’s face hardened. “The bloody bastards,“he added angrily.
“Then?” Tracey asked.
“Then we’ll pull up the hose, and sail Kingfisher back into
Cartridge Bay. Then we’ll call up the police on the radio.
There’s going to be an accounting with the whole gang of the bastards - your darling brother included.” Johnny started for the door, asking as he crossed the deck: “Why did you close the door, Tracey?” i didn’t,” she replied as she hurried after him, and Johnny’s expression changed. He ran to the heavy steel door and threw his weight on it.
It did not move, and he swung round to face the door that led into the cyclone room.
It was closed also. He charged across the room and grabbed the handle, heaving at it with all his strength.
He stood back at last, and looked wildly about the long narrow cabin. There was no other opening, no hatch or porthole - nothing except the tiny square peephole in the centre of the steel door that led into the cyclone room beyond. The peephole was covered with three-inch armoured glass that was as strong as the steel that surrounded it. He looked through it.
The tall cyclone reached from floor to roof, dominating the room.
Beyond it the steel pipe that carried the gravel from the sea bed pierced the roof from the deck above, but the cyclone room was deserted.
Johnny turned slowly back to Tracey and put an arm around her shoulders.
“We’ve got problems,“he said.
After closing and locking both the doors that led into the conveyor room, Sergio climbed quickly back to his bridge. The helmsman looked at him curiously.
“How’s the lady?”
“Fine,” Sergio snapped at him. “She’s safe.”
And then with unnecessary violence, “Why you no mind your own business, hey? You think you Captain for this ship?” Startled, the helmsman quickly transferred his attention back to the storm which still raged lustily about them.
Sergio began to pace up and down the bridge, balancing easily and instinctively to her exaggerated motion. His smooth baby face was crumpled into a massive scowl, and he puffed on one of his cheroots.
With all his soul Sergio Caporetti was lamenting his involvement in this business.
He wished that he had never heard of Kingfisher. He would have traded his hopes of a life hereafter to be sitting on the seaftont at
Ostia, sipping grappa and watching the girls go by.
Impulsively he pulled open the storm doors at the angle of the bridge and went out on to the exposed wing. The wind buffeted him and set his soft hair dancing and flickering.
From inside his jacket he pulled the canvas bag.
“This is the trouble,” he muttered, looking at the bag in his hand. “Bloody little stones.” He threw back his arm like a baseball
Pitcher, set to hurl the bag out into that hissing green sea below him, but again he could not make the gesture. Swearing quietly to himself, he stuffed the stones back into his jacket, and went back into the wheelhouse.
“Call the radio operator,” he ordered, and the helmsman reached quickly for the voice tube.
The radio operator reached the bridge still owl-eyed with sleep and buttoning his clothing.
“Get on to Wild Goose,” Sergio told him.
“I won’t be able to raise her in this,” the man protested, glancing out at the storm.
“Call her.” Sergio stepped towards him threateningly.
“Keep calling until you get her.” Wild Goose staggered and wallowed through the entrance to Cartridge Bay, then way into the sanctuary of the channel.
Hugo relaxed perceptibly. It had been a long hard run back from
Thunderbolt and Suicide. Yet there was an uneasy feeling that still persisted. He hoped that the girl was able to handle Lance. He was a tough cookie that Lance, he wished that he had been able to go along with her and make sure of the business. Fifteen years was one hell of a long time - he would be almost fifty years old at the end of it.
Hugo followed the channel markers that appeared like milestones out of the dust clouds, until ahead he made out the loom of the jetty and the depot buildings.
There was a figure on the jetty, crouched beside the mountain of dieseline drums. With a prickle of alarm, Hugo strained his eyes in the bad visibility.
“Who the hell is it?” he puzzled aloud. The figure straightened and came forward to stand on the edge of the jetty. Bareheaded, dressed in rumpled dark business suit, the man carried a shotgun in one hand - and it was
