“What are they?” she asked anxiously.
“They are airs of insufficient velocity to move a boat with any rapidity through the water. In short, if things get much worse we could be sitting here watching on some very wet sidelines while Fowler does what he pleases.”
Tammy put one of her hands into the water and watched the surface break around it.
“We’re still moving,” she said.
“About half as fast as we were before you jinxed the wind,” he retorted.
The sail became slacker. It had carried them less than half the distance to the island when Tammy tested the relative motion of the water again. There wasn’t any.
“We’ve stopped,” she said meekly.
The sail hung from the mast with dejected limpness. The erstwhile waves had become oily swells.
“I told you we should have had something with an engine,” she said.
“We’ve got something better: we’ve got martinis,” said the Saint cheerfully. “Since we can’t anchor out here, this seems a good time to have lunch. There must be a certain amount of current from the flow of the river, so we still ought to be drifting in the right direction. Fowler isn’t supposed to make his pick-up till late in the afternoon, and this calm won’t last forever unless you do some more reckless wishing.”
Without the wind, the sun was warm enough for the Saint to enjoy taking off his shirt, and for Tammy to peel off her jeans and sit in the short shorts which she had providently worn underneath. The martinis, lunch, and cold beer made a happy interlude that was only incongruous when either of them had a recollection of the mission that had brought them out there, of what had preceded it and what grim climax could be waiting at the end of the day. But Simon Templar could enjoy any pleasurable intermission for itself alone, and for him there was unalloyed pleasure in contemplating the sunlight on Tammy’s shapely legs, and the spontaneous expressions that chased over her impish face.
They were far enough north of the main navigation channels to be untroubled by the regular passage of lighters, freighters, tankers, and an occasional passenger steamship bound in and out of the Port of London. A few small sailboats, to the north, attempted to offer canvas to the unseasonable lull, but most of their potential masters and crew seemed to be less hardy souls who were already trending towards their regular autumnal retreat. A speedboat of two creamed ostentatiously over the inshore mud flats... And after many long lulls, Tammy suddenly cried “Look!”
She was gesturing towards a new silvery point in the water. Simon had missed seeing it before because he had not been urgently looking for it, and in any case the sail had been in his way. He let his craft come about into the weakly reviving wind while he focused his binoculars on the object. It was near the eastern horizon, and he half expected it to be another boat. But a combination of tide and current must have carried them farther than he would have estimated. What he was looking at was distinctly not a boat, even though it bobbed so much in his field of view because of his own motion that he could not make out any details.
“That must be it,” he said after consulting his chart again. “Now all we have to do is get there.”
He looked at the position of the sun as he got the boat under control again. There would still be plenty more daylight. It now seemed possible — if the wind did not give out again — that he could reach the fort before Fowler did, or at least before he left with his cargo. Assuming that Shortwave was right when he said that Fowler would not make his coastal landing before dark. But there were still plenty of dicey unknowns in the equation: one was that Fowler might already be there, and the other was that he might arrive by fast boat while the Sunny Hours was manoeuvring for a landing.
“Do you know how to sail?” Simon asked Tammy.
“I can do anything,” Tammy said. “Why? Are you tired?”
“No, but I was thinking that no matter when we get to Fowler’s halfway house you’re going to have to take over. If I’d come alone I’d just have set the boat adrift when I got to the fort and either tracked it down later or lost my hundred and fifty pounds. But now you can take it over when we get there and then move off to a safe distance while I become a one-man boarding party.”
“I don’t think I like that idea very much.”
“Would you rather assume Fowler is so shortsighted that he won’t see a sailboat tied up to his own hideout?”
“I’d rather come with you.”
“We’ll see when we get there,” he said. “Meanwhile, you may be the greatest female sailor in the world, but it probably wouldn’t hurt you to freshen up your technique.”
He handed over the tiller and sheet, and it was only after she had turned the boat completely around twice without making head way in any direction that he intervened.
“I thought you said you could do anything,” he said blandly. “It’s a good thing there isn’t much wind or you’d have swamped us.”
“I meant I could learn to do anything,” she said. “I didn’t say I knew how already.”
“We’d better have some lessons then. Just try to stay directly between the sun and the fort. In case somebody’s out there with binoculars or a telescope the glare will keep him from making out too many details.”
The slowly rising breeze was fitful but still powerful enough to fill the sails, and for an hour Tammy learned the rudiments of handling a small boat on a very big body of water. Her studies were cut shorter than they might have been when the Saint caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye which was not the slowly growing fort on the horizon. He turned quickly and saw that it was a small speedboat racing towards them from the west. Without wasting time to explain, he took the tiller and sail away from Tammy and turned the bow of the Sunny Hours away from the fort, and also away from the approaching speedboat.
“What have I done now?” she demanded angrily. “I was just getting the idea.”
“You see that boat? Take a look at it through the binoculars and tell me all about it.”
“You don’t think it’s somebody after us?” she asked in alarm.
“There’s no harm in finding out before they get here,” Simon replied. “Take a look.”
The boat was a mile or more away, and Tammy had to look for some time, adjusting the focus, before she felt certain enough of anything to start giving a report.
“It’s not a very big boat but it’s moving fast,” she said. “It’s open. No roof. I think there’s... one man. Just one.” She brought the eyepieces of the binoculars away from her eyes and looked at the Saint. “Do you think it’s Fowler?”
“You tell me. I’m busy making like an agonised amateur trying to sail around the world backwards.”
The girl squinted through the glasses again.
“Oh no,” she breathed.
“Fowler?”
“No. I can’t really make out his face, but I’ve got a strong feeling... I’m sure it is: Kalki!”
“Ah, the Flying Hindu,” Simon said. “And he’s alone?”
At the same time, he was quietly taking his automatic out of an inner pocket of his discarded windbreaker, and double-checking its load and readiness for action.
“There’s nobody with him,” Tammy said. “That’s something anyway. Perhaps Fowler’s already on the fort — or coming out later.”
“Isn’t he headed for us?” Simon asked, turning to look for himself.
“No. I don’t think so. He’s curving around in the direction of the fort.”
“That’s good news.” He tucked his gun back under the folded jacket. “But now we can’t risk getting too near the fort in full daylight. I’ll make a long sweep around and come up on it towards sunset from the southwest, when the sun will be right in their eyes.” He was talking as much to himself as to Tammy. “I seem to have thought of everything except bringing a couple of false beards for us to disguise ourselves if anyone starts watching us with a good pair of glasses.”