He went up the ladder to the bridge, and into the chartroom where Sergio and Hugo were drinking coffee.

"Not my fault, Mr. Lance," Sergio began defensively. "I am a gentleman I cannot refuse a lady."

"You'll dig your own grave with that spade of yours one day," Johnny warned him grimly, as he went to the chart table and hung over it.

"Now let's get cracking." Johnny's sense of dread lifted completely as he looked down at the large-scale Admiralty chart. The twin humps of Thunderbolt and Suicide were clearly marked. "Hugo, have you got the prospecting schedules?"

"There, on the table." Hugo and Sergio came to stand on each side of Johnny while he opened the bound file of typewritten sheets.

"The soundings we made differ from the Admiralty chart.

We'll put in our figures, before we plot the dredging pattern."

The three of them settled over the chart with dividers and parallels to begin marking in the path that Kingfisher would follow through the maze of reefs and gullies.

It was long after midnight before Johnny made his way wearily to the guest cabin below the bridge. He kicked off his shoes, lay on the bunk to rest a moment before undressing and fell into a deathlike sleep of exhaustion.

He was awakened by one of the crew with a mug of coffee and he pulled on a windbreaker before hurrying on to the bridge.

Kingfisher was just pa.s.sing out through the channel of Cartridge Bay into the open sea, and Sergio grinned at him from where he stood beside the helm.

Dawn was only a lemon-coloured promise over the desert behind them, and the sea was black as washed anthracite, kicked into a chop by the small morning wind. They stood on the darkened bridge and sipped steaming coffee, cupping their hands around the enamel mugs.

Then they turned and ran south, parallel to the desert which was now touched with hot orange and violet. The seabirds were up, a flight of malgas turned to glowing darts of fire by the early sun as they winged swiftly across the bows.

With a dramatic suddenness the sun came up over the horizon, and highlighted the chalk-white cliffs of Thunderbolt and Suicide far ahead so that they shone like beacons on the cold green sea. The curtains of spray that burst on the islands flashed and faded as they shot into the sky and fell again.

Wild Goose was waiting for them lying under the tee of the islands, but she came out to meet them, staggering and plunging theatrically over the short uneasy sea that hooked around the islands or boiled through the gap between them.

The radio telephone began crackling and squawking as the sighting reports from Johnny's watchtowers on the sh.o.r.e started coming in, cross-referencing to give Kingfisher her position over the ground.

There were short exchanges between Sergio and Hugo on Wild Goose as they came together, and the little trawler worked in close, ready to give a.s.sistance with the laying of the cables if she were needed.

But standing in the angle of the bridge, Sergio Caporetti had the situation under his control. The grubby marine cap pushed to the back of his head and a long black cheroot stuck in the side of his mouth, he stood balanced on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, his eyes darting from judging the set of the sea surf to the repeater of the computer which was feeding him his soundings and position - yet attentive to the RIT reports from sh.o.r.e and from Wild Goose.

Johnny was contented with his choice of man as he watched Sergio at work. Kingfisher crept slowly up into the lee of Suicide Island, half a mile from the pearly white cliffs, then she hung there a moment before Sergio punched one of the b.u.t.tons on her control panel.

From forward there was the harsh metallic roar of an anchor cable running out, and as Kingfisher backed away leaving a yellow-painted buoy the size of a barrage balloon bobbing under the cliffs of Suicide so one of the ma.s.sive deck winches began automatically paying out its six-inch steel cable.

Kingfisher backed and crept forward, drifted down on the current or b.u.t.ted up against it while she went through the laborious but delicate operation of laying her four anchors at each point of the compa.s.s. Chained above each anchor floated the huge yellow buoys, and from each buoy the steel cables led to the winches on Kingfisher's deck. On instructions from the computer the winches on each quarter would pay out or reel in the cable to hold Kingfisher steady over the ground while she worked.

It was midafternoon before Kingfisher was ready, pinned down like an insect to a board, and the computer reported that she was directly over the gully that Johnny had selected as the starting point. She had twenty-five fathoms of water under her - and then the thick bank of gravel.

"All is ready." Sergio turned to Johnny, who had stood by quietly all this time - not interfering in the task of positioning. "You will begin the programme now?"

"Yes."Johnny stirred himself.

"I would like to watch," Sergio suggested, and Johnny nodded.

"All right, come." Sergio handed over the bridge to the helmsman and they went down to the armoured door of the computer room.

Johnny opened the lock. There were only two keys to this compartment. Johnny had one and Benedict van der Byl had the other.

He had insisted on having the duplicate, and Johnny had reluctantly agreed not knowing that the key would be used in Las Palmas.

The heavy steel door swung back, and Johnny stepped over the coaming and seated himself before the console of the computer. Covered in cellophane and suspended on a clip above the keyboard of the computer were the cards containing the various programme codes.

Johnny selected the sheet headed: PRIMARY OPERATION: DREDGING AND RECOVERY, and began feeding the code into the computer, punching it on the keyboard.

"Beta, stroke, oh, oh, seven, alpha." And within the enamelled console, a change of sound heralded the beginning of the new programme, the hum of her reels and the click of the selectors, while on her control panel the lights blinked and flashed.

Now the computer's screen began to answer the instruction, spelling out her response like a typewriter.

"New programme."

"Primary Operation. Dredging and Recovery."

"Phase One."

"Initiate safety procedure:a) Report air pressure ... I b) Report air pressure ... 2" Johnny leaned back in the padded stool and watched the exhaustive check that the computer now made of Kingfisher's equipment, typing out the results on the screen.

"What she do now7 Sergio asked curiously, as though he had never spent ten days in this compartment a.s.sisting his j.a.panese friend.

Johnny explained the procedure briefly.

"How come you know this so good?" Sergio enquired.

"I spent a month at the Computer Company's head office in America last year while they designed this machines "You the only one in the Company who can work it?"

"Mr. Benedict van der Byl has done the course as well. Johnny told him, then he leaned forward again. "Now she is set." The screen on the computer reported itself satisfied.

"Phase One Completed.

Initiate Phase Two.

Lowering and siting of dredge head." Johnny stood up. "Okay, let's get upstairs." He locked the door of the computer room and followed Sergio up to the bridge.

Johnny went to stand beside the repeater screen on the bridge, which was relaying the computer's signals exactly as they were printed on the main screen in the compartment below. He could see out through the windows of the wheelhouse, and he watched the automatic response of the heavy equipment on the foredeck.

The gantry swung forward, and the steel arms picked the dredge head from its chocks, and lifted it with the armoured suction hose dangling behind it. Then the gantry swung back, and with a jerky mechanical movement lowered the head through the square opening in the deck. This well pierced the hull, and through it the hose began to snake a monstrous black python sliding into its hole. The huge reels that held the hose revolved smoothly, as the dredge was lowered to the sea bed.

"Head on bottom." The computer screen reported, and the hose reels stopped abruptly.

"Phase Two Completed, Initiate Phase Three.

Cyclone Revolutions 300.

Vent dredge pump." There was a rising high-pitched whine now, like the approach of a jet aircraft. The sound reached a peak, and steadied - and immediately another sound overlaid it. The dull roar of high-pressure air through water, a sound of such power and excitement that Johnny felt the hair on his forearms p.r.i.c.kle erect. He stood still as a statue, his expression rapt and his lips set in a small secret smile. That sound was the culmination of two years of planning and endeavour, the sweet reward of the driving dedication that had made a dream into reality.

Suddenly he wished that Tracey was with him to share this moment, and then he knew instinctively that she had deliberately left him alone to savour his moment of triumph.

He grinned then, as he watched the thick black hose engorge and pulse with internal life, like a great artery pumping, pumping, pumping.

In his imagination Johnny could see the rich porridgy mixture of sea water and mud and gravel that shot up the hose into the spinning cyclone, he could imagine the steel head on the sea bed below the hull surging rhythmically to stir the sand and pound loose any gravel that pressure had welded into a conglomerate.

From the waste pipe over Kingfisher's stern poured a solid steam of dirty yellow water mixed with the sand and gravel that had been rejected and spun out of the cyclone. It stained the green sea with a cloudy fecal discharge, like the effluent from a sewage outlet.

or three days and two nights Kingfisher's pumps roared, and she inched forward along the marine gully like a fussy housewife vacuuming every speck of dust from her floor. As the third evening spread its dark cloak over her, Johnny Lance sat on the padded seat in front of the computer console. He sat forward on the stool with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands for a full hour. He sat like that in the att.i.tude of despair.

When he lifted his head, his face was haggard and the lines of defeat were clearly cut into his features with the cold chisel of failure.

From the meagre recovery of small diamonds that Kingfisher had made in the last three days it was clear beyond reasonable doubt that despite all the indications the Thunderbolt and Suicide field would not support the running costs of the vessel, let alone cover the overheads, or the interest charges and capital repayments on the loan account.

Van Der Byl Diamond Company was finished - and Johnny Lance was financially ruined beyond any possibility of ever finding redemption.

It remained only for the jackals to a.s.semble and squabble over the carca.s.s.

Sergio Caporetti leaned over the railing of the bridge, blowing long streamers of blue cheroot smoke from mouth and nostrils to help foul a morning which was already thick and grey with sea-fret. The islands of Thunderbolt and Suicide were blanketed by the mist, but the surf broke against their hidden cliffs like distant artillery and the seabirds" voices were plaintive and small lost souls in the void.

Wild Goose came bustling up out of the mist, swinging in under Kingfisher's side to hover there under power with two of her crew fending off.

Hugo Kramer stuck his white blond head out of the wheelhouse window, and shouted up at the deck.

"Okay, boss. Come on!" Sergio watched the tall figure on Kingfisher's deck rouse and look around like a man waking from sleep.

Johnny Lance lifted his head and looked up at the bridge, and Sergio noticed that he was unshaven, a new beard darkened his jaw and emphasized its prominence. He looked as though he had not slept, and he hunched into the wind breaker with the collar turned up against the mist. He did not smile, but lifted one hand in farewell salute to Sergio who noticed incongruously that the index finger was missing from the hand. Somehow, that pathetic little detail struck Sergio. He was sorry, truly sorry. But there is always a loser in every game, and twenty-five thousand pounds is a lot of money.

"Good luck, Johnny."Thanks, Sergio." Johnny went to the rail lugging his briefcase and swung over it; he dropped swiftly down the steel rungs set in Kingfisher's hull and jumped the narrow gap of surging water to Wild Goose's deck.

The trawler's engine bellowed, and she pulled away, rounding on to a course for Cartridge Bay. Johnny Lance stood on her open deck looking back at Kingfisher.

"He's a good guy." Sergio shook his head with regret.

"He's a boss," the helmsman grunted. "No boss is any good."

"Hey, you! I am also a boss," Sergio challenged him.

"Like I said." The helmsman suppressed a grin.

"I kiss your mother," Sergio insulted him with dignity, then changed the subject. "I go below now, take over." Sergio opened the door to the control room with the duplicate key. He closed the door behind him, seated himself at the console and took from his pocket a sheet of paper headed: KAMINIKOTO SECONDARY RECOVERY PROGRAMME.

Ten minutes later he came out of the control room and locked the door.

"Kammy, I love you," he chuckled as he closed off the watertight doors that isolated this deck from the one above.

He wound the locking bars into position to ensure that he was not interrupted by one of his own crew.

From the tool cupboard on the bulkhead he selected a pair of set spanners and went through into the conveyor room It took him twenty minutes to unscrew the heavy, deeply threaded bolts that secured the hatch. It had been designed to resist easy entry - a deterrent to casual investigation, but at last Sergio could lift the steel plate off its seating.

He eyed the small square opening with distaste, and reflexively sucked in his pendulous belly. The hatch had not been designed to afford pa.s.sage to a man of his dimensions.

He took off his cap and jacket and hung them on the c.o.c.k of one of the pipes, then he ground out his cheroot under his heel and brushed back the hair from his forehead with both hands, checked that his flashlight was in his pocket, and committed himself to the hatch.

He wriggled and kicked, and grunted and built up a heavy sweat for five minutes before he had squeezed through into the conveyor belt tunnel. He squatted on his haunches, panting heavily and flashed his torch along the tunnel.

Above his head the conveyor belt carrying the gravel ran smoothly, but the residual heat from the driers made it unbearably hot. He began to crawl rapidly to the end of the tunnel.

From the inside it was impossible to tell, without measuring, that the conveyor belt tunnel was shorter by twelve feet than the external length.

The end of the tunnel was false, and beyond it was a secret cubicle only just large enough to house Kaminikoto's equipment through which all the gravel pa.s.sed on its journey to the X-ray room.

The j.a.panese genius for miniaturization was demonstrated by the equipment in this secret cubicle. It was an almost exact copy of the sorting equipment in the main x-ray compartment - except that it had been scaled down to one tenth of the size without affecting its efficiency; in addition, this miniature plant could discriminate in the diamonds it selected. It would not allow a stone over four carats to pa.s.s through, and it screened out fixed percentages of the smaller stones - allowing only a proportion of the smaller and less valuable diamonds to proceed through into the main X-ray room.

It was an amazing piece of electronic engineering, but Sergio was unimpressed as he lay on his side in the cramped hot tunnel and began laboriously to unscrew another smaller plate in the false bulkhead.

At last it was open, and he reached through the opening; after a few seconds of fiddling and groping and heavy breathing he brought out a stainless steel cup with a capacity of about two pints. There were clamps on the cup to hold it in position below the chute under Kaminikoto's machine.

The metal cup was heavy, and Sergio placed it carefully on the deck beside him before propping himself on an elbow and shining the flashlight into the cup and took something out of it, stared at it a moment then dropped it back.

"By the blood of all the martyrs!" he gasped with shock, and then immediately contrite for his blasphemy he crossed himself awkwardly with the hand holding the flashlight.

Then again he shone the torch into the cup, and shook his head in disbelief. Quickly he pulled a canvas drawstring bag from his pocket, and lying on his side he carefully poured the contents of the cup into the bag, drew the string tight and stuffed it back into his pocket where it made a big hard bulge on his hip like a paper sack of rock-candy. He clamped the stainless steel cup back into position, screwed the coverplate over the opening, and backed away down the tunnel on hands and knees.

He very badly needed a cheroot.

Four hours later Hugo Kramer shinned up the ladder on to Kingfisher's deck while his helmsman took the trawler down to leeward to wait for him.

Sergio shouted down from the bridge.

"Johnny he has gone?" "Ja!" Hugo shouted back. "He should almost be in Cape Town by now. That Beechcraft is a fast plane."

"Good."

"How did it go with you?" Hugo countered.

"Come up - I'll show you." Sergio led him into his cabin behind the bridge and locked the door carefully. Then he went to each of the portholes and drew the curtains across them, before crossing to his desk and switching on the reading lamp.

"Sit down." Sergio indicated the chair opposite the desk.

"You want a drink, or something?"

"Come on," Hugo grated impatiently. "Stop mucking around, let's have a look."

"Ah!" Sergio looked at him sadly. "You Germans, you are always too much hurry. You cannot rest, enjoy life-"

"Cut the c.r.a.p!" Hugo's pate eyes were on his face, and Sergio was suddenly aware that this man was dangerous, like a tiger-shark. Coldly dangerous, without malice or pa.s.sion. Sergio was surprised he had not noticed it before. I must be careful with this one, he thought, and he unlocked the drawer of his desk and took out the canvas bag.

He loosened the drawstring and poured the diamonds on to the blotter. The smallest was the size of a match head - perhaps point one of a carat, and the poorest quality was black and granular-looking, ugly little industrial stones, for Kammy had been careful not to take out only the best and so distort the Kingfisher's recovery as to arouse suspicion. There were hundreds of these tiny crystals and chips which would fetch a few pounds in the industrial market; but there were other stones in the full range of quality and shapes and sizes - as big as green peas, or as marbles, and a few bigger than that. Some of them were perfect octahedron crystals, others water-worn, chipped or amorphous in shape.