"A single wooden case."

"Of what size and weight?"

"I will show

you." Boussier went to the safe, turned his back to them and they heard

the tumblers whirr and click. While he waited Bruce realized suddenly

that Shermaine had not spoken since her initial greeting to Boussier.

He glanced at her now and she smiled at him. I like a woman who knows

when to keep her mouth shut.

Boussier swung the door of the safe open and carried a small wooden case

across to the desk.

"There," he said.

Bruce examined it. Eighteen inches long, nine deep and twelve

wide. He lifted it experimentally.

"About twenty pounds weight," he decided. "The lid is sealed."

"Yes," agreed Boussier, touching the four wax imprints.

"Good," Bruce nodded. "I don't want to draw unnecessary attention to it

by placing a guard upon it."

"No, I agree." Bruce studied the case a few seconds longer and then he

asked: "What is the value of these stones?" Boussier shrugged. "Possibly

five hundred million francs." And Bruce was impressed; half a million

sterling. Worth

stealing, worth killing for.

"I suggest, monsieur, that you secrete this case in your luggage.

In your blankets, say. I doubt there will be any danger of theft until

we reach Msapa Junction. A thief will have no avenue of escape. Once we

reach Msapa junction I will make other arrangements for its safety."

"Very well, Captain." Bruce stood up and glanced at his watch. "Seven

o'clock, as near as dammit. I will leave you and see to the guard on the

causeway. Please make sure that your people are ready to entrain before

dawn tomorrow morning."

"Of course." Bruce looked at Shermaine and she stood up quickly.

Bruce held the door open for her and was just about to follow her when a

thought struck him.

"That mission station - St. Augustine's, is it? I suppose it's deserted

now?"

"No, it's not." Boussier looked a little shamefaced.

"Father Ignatius is still there, and of course the patients at the

hospital."

"Thanks for telling me." Bruce was bitter.

"I'm sorry, Captain. It slipped my mind, there are so many things to

think of."

"Do you know the road out to the mission?" he snapped at

Shermaine. She should have told him.

"Yes, Bruce."

"Well, perhaps you'd be good enough to direct me."

"Of course." She also looked guilty.

Bruce slammed the door of Boussier's office and strode off towards the

hotel with Shermaine trotting to keep pace with him. You can't rely on

anyone, he thought, not anybody!

And then he saw Ruffy coming up from the station, looking like a big

bear in the dusk. With a few exceptions, Bruce corrected himself

"Sergeant Major."

"Hello, boss."

"This General Moses is closer to us than we reckoned.

He's reported two hundred kilometres north of here on the Senwati road."

Ruffy whistled through his teeth. "Are you going to take off now, Boss?"

"No, I want a machine-gun post on this end of the causeway.

If they come we can hold them there long enough to get away. I want you

to take command."

"I'll see to it now."

"I'm going out to the mission - there's a white priest there. Lieutenant

Haig is in command while I'm away."

"Okay, boss."

"I'm sorry, Bruce. I should have told you." Shermaine sat small and

repentant at her end of the Ranchero.

"Don't worry about it," said Bruce, not meaning it.

"We have tried to make Father Ignatius come in to town.

Martin has spoken to him many times, but he refuses to move."

Bruce did not answer. He took the car down on to the causeway, driving

carefully. There were shreds of mist lifting out of the swamp and

drifting across the concrete ramp.

Small insects, bright as tracer in the headlights, zoomed in to squash

against the windscreen. The froggy chorus from the swamp honked

and clinked and boomed deafeningly.

"I have apologized," she murmured.

"Yes, I heard you," said Bruce. "You don't have to do it again."

She was silent, and then: "Are you always so bad-tempered?" she asked in

English.

"Always," snapped Bruce, "is one of the words which should be eliminated

from the language."

"Since it has not been, I will continue to use it. You haven't answered

my question: are you always so bad-tempered?"

"I just don't like balls-ups."

"What is balls-up, please?"

"What has just happened: a mistake, a situation precipitated by

inefficiency, or by somebody not using his head."

"You never make balls-up, Bruce?"

"It is not a polite expression, Shermaine. Young ladies of your

refinement do not use it." Bruce changed into French.

"You never make mistakes?" she corrected herself Bruce did not answer.

That's quite funny, he thought - never make mistakes! Bruce

Curry, the original balls-up.

Shermaine held one hand across her middle and sat up straight.

"Bonaparte," she said. "Cold, silent, efficient."

"I didn't say that-" Bruce started to defend himself.

Then in the glow from the dash light he saw her impish expression and he

could not stop himself; he had to grin.

"All right, I'm acting like a child." "You would like a cigarette?" she

asked.

"Yes, please." She lit it and passed it to him.

"You do not like-" she hesitated, "mistakes. Is there anything you do

like?"

"Many things," said Bruce.

"Tell me some." They bumped off the end of the causeway and Bruce

accelerated up the far bank.

"I like being on a mountain when the wind blows, and the taste of the

sea. I like Sinatra, crayfish thertnidor, the weight and balance of a

Purdey Royal, and the sound of a little girl's laughter. I like the

first draw of a cigarette lit from a wood fire, the scent of jasmine,

the feel of silk; I also enjoy sleeping late in the morning, and the

thrill of forking a queen with my knight. Shadows on the floor of a

forest please me. And, of course, money. But especially I like women who

do not ask too many questions."

"Is that all?"

"No, but it's a start."

"And apart from - mistakes, what are the things you do not like."

"Women who ask too many questions," and he saw her smile.

"Selfishness except my own, turnip soup, politics, blond pubic hairs,

Scotch whisky, classical music and hangovers."

"I'm sure that is not

all."

"No, not nearly."

"You are very sensual. All these things are of the senses."

"Agreed."

"You do not mention other people. Why?"

"Is this the turn-off to the mission?"

"Yes, go slowly, the road is bad.

Why do you not mention your relationship to other people?"

"Why do you ask so many questions? Perhaps I'll tell you some day." She

was silent

a while and then softly: "And what do you want from life - just those

things you have spoken of? Is that all you want?"