The Diamond Hunters

by Wilbur Smith

  Kingfisher’s steel plating.

  Wild Goose swung away, and with her diesels bellowing went bucking off into the wind.

  With puddles of sea water forming around her feet from her sodden clothing, Tracey stood in the Tcentre of Kingfisher’s guest cabin. Her dark hair was plastered down her face and neck, and she was shivering so violently from shock and the icy water that she could not talk. Her teeth chattered together, and her lips were blue with cold.

  Desperately she was trying to form words, her eyes never leaving

  Johnny’s face.

  Quickly he stripped off her clothing and throwing one towel round her shoulders he began roughly to chafe warmth back into her with another.

  “You little idiot,” he berated her. “Are you stark staring bloody mad?”

  “Johnny,” she gasped through her chattering teeth.

  “Christ - that was so close,” he snarled at her as he knelt to rub her legs.

  “Johnny, listen.”

  “Shut up and dry your hair.” Humbly she obeyed him, her shivers became controllable as he crossed to the locker and found a thick jersey which he pulled over her head. It hung almost to her knees.

  “Now,” he said, taking her roughly by the shoulders.

  “What the hell is this all about?” And she told him in a rush of words that poured out like water from a broken dam. Then she burst into tears and stood there forlornly in the voluminous jersey with her damp hair dangling about her shoulders, sobbing as though her heart was breaking.

  Johnny took her in his arms.

  For a long minute Tracey revelled in his warmth and strength, but she was the first to pull away.

  “Do something, Johnny,” she implored him, her voice still thick with tears. “Stop them. You mustn’t let them get away with it.” He went back to the locker, and while he ransacked it for clothing that might fit her, Johnny’s mind was racing over the story she had told him.

  He watched her pull on a pair of blue serge trousers and tie them at the waist with a length of cord. She folded back the cuffs and tucked them into thick woollen socks, before thrusting her feet into a pair of sea-boots that were only a few sizes too large for her.

  “Where do we start?” she asked, and he remembered the sheet of paper. He fished it out of his pocket and flattened it on the table beside the blink. Quickly he ran his eyes over the columns of figures.

  His first guess was right - it was a computer programme.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Tracey.

  “No.” Her response was immediate, and he grinned.

  “Listen, I’m just going up on to the bridge to keep them busy there. I’ll come back for you, I promise. You won’t miss anything.”

  How is she, boss?” Sergio Caporetti’s concern was genuine. Johnny realized that he must be worrying himself into a frenzy trying to guess the reason for Tracey’s arrival.

  “She is pretty shaken up,“Johnny answered.

  “What she want - that was big chance she takes. Nearly fish food.” “I don’t know,” Johnny said. “I want you to take over up here.

  Keep Kingfisher working. I’m going to get her to bed - I’ll let you know what it’s all about as soon as I find out.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  “Oh, and

  Sergio - keep an eye on those rocks. Don’t let her drift down any closer.” Johnny chose a powerful incentive to keep Sergio up on the bridge.

  Johnny left him and went below, stopping only at the guest cabin.

  “Come on.” Tracey followed him, lurching unsteadily with

  Kingfisher’s antics in the high sea.

  Two decks down they reached the computer control room and Johnny unlocked the heavy steel door, then locked it again behind them.

  Tracey wedged herself against the bulkhead and watched as Johnny seated himself at the console and clipped the rumpled sheet into the board.

  Reading from the sheet he typed the first line of figures on the keyboard. Immediately the computer registered a protest.

  “Operator error,” it typed back. Johnny ignored its denial and typed the second line. This time it was more emphatic.

  “No procedure. Operator error.” And Johnny typed the next line of figures. He guessed that whoever had stored this programme in the computer’s memory would have placed a series of blocks to prevent accidental discovery. Again the denial flashed back at him.

  “Operator error.” And Johnny muttered, “Thrice before the cock crows,” striking an incongruously biblical note in the tense atmosphere of the control room.

  He typed the last line of figures and the denial faded from the screen. The console clicked like a monstrous crab, then suddenly it started to print again.

  KAMINIKOTO SECONDARY RECOVERY PROGRAMME.

  INSTALLED OCTOBER 1969. AT LAS PALMAS BY HIDEKI KAMINIKOTO.

  DOCTOR OF SCIENCE.

  TOKYO UNIVERSITY.” The little Japanese had been unable to resist autographing his masterpiece. Tracey and Johnny crouched over the screen, staring at it with awful fascination as the computer began spelling out its report. It began with the number of hours worked, and the weight of gravel processed during that time. Next it reported the weight of concentrates recovered from the cyclone and finally, in a series of columns, it printed out the weights and sizes of all the diamonds won from the sea. The big Blue showed up in the place of honour, and wordlessly Tracey touched the figure 320 with a forefinger.

  Johnny nodded grimly.

  The computer ended by giving the grand total of carats recovered, and Johnny spoke for the first time.

  “It’s true,” he said softly. “It doesn’t seem possible - but it is.” The click and hum of the computer ceased, and the screen went blank.

  Johnny straightened up in the chair.

  “Where would they put it?” he asked himself, as he ran quickly over the line of recovery. He stood up from the chair and peered through the leaded glass peephole into the X-ray room. “It must be this side of the cyclone, this side of the drier - ” He was speaking aloud. Between the drier and the X-ray room.” Then there bobbed to the surface of memory the modification in design which he had meant to query, but which he had forgotten.

  “The inspection plate on the conveyor tunnel!” He punched his fist into his palm. “They moved the inspection plate! That’s it! It’s in the conveyor tunnel.” His hands were frantic with haste as he unlocked the steel door of the control room.

  sergio, Caporetti paced his bridge like a captive bear, puffing so furiously on his cheroot that sparks flew from its tip. The wind howled hungrily around the wheelhouse, and the swells still marched in from the north.

  Suddenly he reached a decision and turned to the helmsman.

  “Watch those goddamn rocks - watch them good.” The helmsman nodded and Sergio shambled through the chartroom to his own cabin. He locked the door behind him, and crossed to his desk. Fumbling with his keys he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and reaching under the pile of cheroot packets he brought out the canvas bag.

  Weighing it thoughtfully in his hand, he looked about the cabin for a more secure hiding place. Through the canvas he could feel the nutty irregular shape of the stones.

  “That Johnny, he a clever bastard,” he muttered. “It better be good place.” Then he reached a decision. “Best place where I can watch them all a time.” He opened his jacket and stuffed the bag into his inside pocket. He buttoned the jacket and patted the bulge over his heart.

  “Fine!” he said. “Good!” And stood up from the desk. He hurried back, unlocking the door into the chartroom, and headed for the bridge.

  He stopped in the middle of the chartroom, and his head swung towards the repeater screen of the computer. The buzzer was going like a rattlesnake, and the red bulb that warned of a new procedure was blinking softly.

  Fearfully Sergio approached the screen and stooped over it. A

  single glance was enough, and he rushed from it to the chart table. He saw the cross-shaped tea
r in the chart.

  “Mary Mother!” He ripped back the thick crackling paper and searched under it. He stepped back from the table and hit himself across the chest.

  “Fool!” he said. “Idiot!” He spent ten seconds in selfcastigation, then he looked about for a weapon. The locking handle of the cabin was a twelve-inch steel bar with a heavy head. He pulled out the pin and worked it loose. He slipped it into the waistband of his trousers.

  “I’m going below,” he told the helmsman curtly, and clambered down the companionway. Swiftly he moved through the ship, balancing easily to her roll and pitch.

  When he reached the lowest deck he became more stealthy, creeping silently forward. Now he carried the steel bar in his right hand.

  Every few paces he stopped to listen, but Kingfisher’s hull was groaning and popping as she worked in the swells.

  He could hear no other sound. He crept up to the door of the control room and cautiously peered through the small armoured glass window. The control room was empty. He tried the handle, and found it locked.

  Then he heard voices - from the open doorway of the conveyor room behind him. Quickly he crossed to it and flattened himself against the jamb.

  Johnny’s voice came muffled and indistinct: “There’s another hatch in here. Get me a half-inch spanner from the tool cupboard.”

  “What’s a half-inch spanner look like?”

  “It’s a big one. The size is stamped on it.” Sergio glanced one-eyed around the door jamb. The cover was off the inspection hatch in the conveyor tunnel, and Tracey’s head was thrust into the opening.

  It was clear that Johnny Lance was in there, and that he had found the secret compartment.

  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 another few seconds before Hugo recognized him.

  “Christ! It’s the boss!” Hugo felt alarm flare in his stomach and chest, it tightened his breathing.

  Benedict van der Byl jumped down on to the deck of Wild Goose at the moment she touched the jetty.

  “What’s happened?” Benedict demanded as he barged into the wheelhouse.

  “I thought you were in hospital,” Hugo countered.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your sister.”

  “You’ve seen her? Where is she?”

  “I took her out to Kingfisher. Like you said. She went out to deal with Lance.”

  “Deal with Lance! She’s with him, you idiot, she’s not with us. She knows the whole deal. Everything!”

  “She told me-” Hugo was appalled. But Benedict cut him short.