The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

  The first Olivetti house now belonged to a British fashion designer and his wife; the second remained empty. Years ago, one of the Olivettis had been kidnapped and held for months in a cave not that far away. When he had finally been returned, the coast had lost its magic for his family and they sold their pair of small, curved, stone and glass houses.

  Stevie slid into the water and swam briskly out to the farthest buoy. She clung to the rubber ring on the top and looked back up the valley. The shutters were open at the Villa Goliath and there were giardinieri in green moving on the terrace. Stevie remembered that Clémence had said her husband liked to rise early.

  A man in his line of work would certainly attract enemies—most likely rivals, and unsavoury ones at that—but it took a lot of energy and risk to go after a man as well-protected and connected as Krok. It didn’t make much sense. Surely he had confidence in his own systems, his own security? Was Clémence right about the paranoia? Or was Krok deliberately keeping his wife imprisoned in fear?

  Stevie shivered. The water felt cold now that she was no longer moving. It didn’t seem to her that Clémence had any intention of crossing her husband, nor of fleeing. Clémence had mentioned Emile and her concern for him. Perhaps they had clashed over the boy and Krok was punishing her? It was an unpleasant thought for such a beautiful morning.

  Stevie dived underwater, then struck out for the shore.

  She couldn’t risk breakfast at home so she threw on her old denim shorts, a worn shirt that had belonged to her father, a pair of white plimsols, pearls, Rolex and Ray-Bans, and set off for Bar Spinnaker, which was frequented mainly by locals and the yachties off the sailing boats in the marina. There you could buy newspapers in six languages at the tiny newsagent next door and the coffee was good. In the evening, a little restaurant opened in the courtyard and they served salt-crusted fish and squid-ink pasta. Stevie wanted a word with Sauro, the owner of Spinnaker and a tremendous source of local gossip, but it was still reasonably quiet and he didn’t seem to be about.

  Stevie stood at the bar and ordered a black coffee and chose a cornetto, still piping hot from the café’s oven and filled with apricot jam, then went and sat at one of the small marble-topped tables.

  The papers brought news of an earthquake in China, people killed because local developers had skimped on the proper foundations, not believing that the laws of nature applied to their buildings—or possibly not caring.

  The colour supplement blew open at the social pages—a party given in Venice two weeks ago at the Palazzo Guggenheim. There was a photo of Clémence looking rather serpentine in silver lamé, Krok close beside her scowling, stocky and pink.

  A convoy of black Range Rovers with mirror-tinted windows roared past at high speed.

  Krok’s men.

  The numberplates were even personalised: storm.

  Stevie frowned behind her dark glasses. Vaughan Krok was a man who ought to know better. The most effective way to avoid unwanted attention was to preserve as much privacy and anonymity as possible. This meant simple things such as unlisted phone numbers and addresses, avoiding flashy watches, jewellery, clothing and luggage; it meant getting rid of personalised numberplates and very noticeable vehicles. It also meant entertaining more modestly and staying out of the social pages.

  While Krok was certainly not the flashiest billionaire Stevie had come across—not by a long shot—he seemed to take a certain pleasure in doing things very much his own way and this attracted notice. Hercules was the talk of the boating world; Clémence’s jewels inspired equivalent chat among a certain set of women. There were the STORM cars tearing about, the parties, the highly visible security detail in their set-designed uniforms . . . such ostentation was not the mark of a man who was afraid.

  ‘Hai visto?’ Sauro flicked his chin at the passing motorcade and pulled out a chair at Stevie’s table. He was a good-looking man, tall, with a mop of dark hair and kind brown eyes. ‘Every morning is the same.’

  He kissed Stevie fondly on both cheeks, pinched one of them. ‘You look a bit thin.’

  ‘I missed dinner last night.’

  Sauro spread his hands wide. ‘You should come up here. My sisters are visiting from Bologna and the food is especially good this summer. They are making their own ravioli, all the pasta . . .’

  The barman brought Sauro a caffè corretto—espresso with a shot of grappa.

  ‘Is your nonna here? It’s been so long since I saw her.’

  Stevie shook her head.

  ‘Did you see what is happening in Liscia? That Russian—’ ‘Sauro, don’t say his name.’ Stevie lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘I know who you mean. Let’s call him Brown.’

  Sauro laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘Ah, bellina.’

  ‘Trust me, Sauro, you never know who is listening.’

  Something in Stevie’s eyes must have convinced him she was serious, for he continued, ‘So, this Brown . . .’ He downed his espresso in a single gulp. ‘He has bought all the houses in the valley, one after the other. Has he come to you yet?’

  Stevie shook her head again. ‘I don’t think Lu Nibaru is what Brown’s after. How did he convince these people to sell? Some of them have been here since the beginning. Like Bettina—she wouldn’t have sold just for the money.’

  Sauro made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger and pressed it hard to Stevie’s temple. For a split second, Stevie’s nerves registered metal—her heart leapt in fright, the memory of another gun at her head, a snowy night in the Alps . . . She shook herself.

  Fool.

  ‘Really, Sauro?’

  He only shrugged. ‘You never know who is listening, carina.’

  He gave her a wink and ruffled her hair again. Sauro always made her feel like she was seven or ten, a kid sister. Stevie didn’t mind. It had been forever since she had felt like that.

  Sauro got up and went inside the café, leaving Stevie to sit and watch Issa Farmishan wheeling a cartload of milk from the supermarket to his little three-wheeled truck. He ran the pensione on the point next door to Brown’s compound. The Pietra Niedda was a lovely soft pink house with a series of little bungalows dotted about under pergolas of bougainvillea. Issa had come to the Costa Smeralda decades before. His hotel was one of the first to have been built and many guests stayed there while they finished building their own villas. Having had the pick of locations in the bay, he had chosen well. Several times people had tried to persuade him to sell his promontory but, even though Issa was not a rich man, the Pietra Niedda was his heart and home and he wouldn’t think of selling.

  After what Sauro had told her, Stevie was relieved to see him on what seemed to be an emergency milk run.

  He caught sight of Stevie and waved. ‘Ciao, Stevie,’ he called. ‘We had another blackout—the fridge went out and all the milk is off!’ He grinned. ‘My guests want their breakfast.’ Stevie couldn’t remember ever seeing Issa without a smile.

  His little son Farouk waved at her from the van and Stevie walked over to him.

  ‘Farouk!’ She opened her mouth wide in mock surprise. ‘You’re so big now—how old are you?’

  ‘Six and three quarters exactly.’ The tiny boy was proud as punch at having earned himself such high numbers. He was a beautiful little thing with a basin cut of dark hair and huge, limpid eyes.

  ‘I go to school,’ he said, beaming.

  ‘Only very grown-up boys go to school. Your papa must be very proud of you.’

  Issa shut the van doors and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘He is my sunshine, Stevie.’ He reached over and put his arm around the little man’s shoulders, grinning from ear to ear. ‘When are you going to have one?’

  Stevie shrugged, a little embarrassed.

  Issa grinned. ‘Things take their own time. Insha’Allah, when it is right, you will be blessed.’ He gave a honk of his horn and roared off; Farouk stuck his little hand out the window and waved enthusiastically at Stevie until they were out of sight.

&nb
sp; Stevie had just wandered back to her car when her tiny phone rang. It was Rice, calling from London. Stevie sat in her jeep and took the call.

  ‘You had lunch with Clémence?’

  I’m very well, thank you, David, and how are you?

  ‘Aboard the Hercules. It’s the most unusual yacht I’ve ever seen. It’s— ’

  ‘I’ve seen the photos, Stevie,’ he broke in. ‘What did you find out?’

  His voice was taut and strained. Stevie exhaled silently. Rice was in a mood.

  ‘Clémence thinks her husband is paranoid and growing more so every day. She says he tells her their family is in great danger but won’t specify what kind. His men are everywhere and neither she nor Emile, their son, can move without close personal protection.’

  ‘So, you think Clémence is right?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. Krok is a vain man but not the type that needs extremely visible security to feel important. And he is a man who would conceivably have many powerful enemies—especially if he is that close to Brown . . .’

  ‘Stevie, I wish you’d quit using your ridiculous codenames.’

  Stevie decided to ignore him. His shortness was beginning to irritate her. She was doing him a favour, after all.

  ‘. . . which would justify the security,’ she continued. ‘But he doesn’t behave like a man who is truly afraid.’

  Stevie told Rice what she had observed of Krok’s outfit so far.

  ‘Does he suspect Clémence will leave him, then,’ Rice asked, ‘or have an affair?’

  ‘Certainly I don’t think she has given him any reason to; she seems totally dedicated to making him happy for the long term—or at least that was her plan until he started acting wild.’

  There was a long silence on the phone. Stevie wondered if Rice was jealous of Krok.

  Serves him right.

  ‘Josie was supposed to get me the full report on the Kroks,’ Stevie added. ‘But I don’t think she approves of my mission.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn who approves of what. It’s an order and she’ll do it. You’ll have the report by this afternoon.’

  Rice was not a man to throw his weight about like this. He had the utmost respect for the members of his team. Stevie’s irritation faded and was replaced by concern.

  ‘David, are you alright?’

  There was a silence, then, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ And the line went dead.

  Stevie put her phone down on the seat next to her. She felt empty. Rice sounded terrible, his voice as thin as tissue paper, and she was worried. He was strong and fit, but he was no longer young. Things were obviously not getting better.

  She picked up her tiny phone—the smaller the better because she hated the things—and scrolled through her numbers.

  Henning.

  This was the second time in two days she had thought of him. She missed him. Missed his romantic view of life; missed his way of knowing exactly what she was thinking, all the time; missed the strength of his arms when he held her, the crush of his lips on hers. Actually, if she were honest, she thought about him most days, if only briefly. Had she done the right thing in pushing him away? Had the risk to her heart really been that high?

  She shook herself. Henning was a tall, dashing man who disappeared at a moment’s notice, who left too many things unsaid, who reeked of mystery and Turkish tobacco; Stevie would not have been surprised if there were women in the background, and her heart couldn’t take that uncertainty—she needed to feel safe. They would be friends, and it would end there. Just friends.

  So there was no reason why she shouldn’t call . . .

  ‘Stevie.’ The pleasure in his voice warmed her after her chilly call with Rice.

  ‘Where are you, Henning? It sounds like a Turkish bazaar.’ Tinny, Middle Eastern music was blaring in the background.

  ‘I’m in Persepolis—some Persian poetry books, aeons old, have come to light. Fascinating stuff. Did you know that the paisley pattern was originally Persian? And that the motif is actually a flame—or some argue, a cypress—the symbol of life and eternity, the essence of Zoroastrianism? They call it buteh. It was used as a decorative motif in the Sassanid dynasty.’

  ‘That is interesting.’ Stevie smiled into the phone. ‘I’ll never look at paisley the same way again.’

  ‘Precisely. I’ve picked up some incredible examples of the stuff—Samarkand is wonderful for that sort of thing.’ There was the briefest of pauses. ‘I’ll give you some if you like—very useful for pyjamas and robes and whatnot . . .’

  ‘How lovely.’ Stevie suppressed a giggle, rather fancying the idea of paisley pyjamas. ‘I couldn’t be further from Persepolis.’ Here she felt a pang of disappointment. ‘I’m on the Costa Smeralda.’

  ‘Need rescuing, do you?’ She could tell from his voice that he was smiling.

  ‘Not at all—why do you say that? I’m on holiday, my grandmother’s place.’

  Henning laughed. ‘It sounds charming, I wish I wasn’t so far away, but . . . I’ve just remembered—my mother’s in Porto Cervo. How perfect.’ The sound of a rooster crowing in great alarm in the background. ‘I’d better go, darling; I think Alidod might need a hand with the shopping. I’ll arrange for her to have tea with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh no, Henning. Really. I’m sure your mother’s lovely but I—’ Henning laughed. ‘She’s not what you’re thinking, or I wouldn’t send you. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

  Stevie groaned inwardly. That was the last time she would give in to impulses to call Henning.

  She turned her mind to work. Perhaps solving this little puzzle for David would help him, take some of the pressure off, even if it was only a tiny bit. To that end, she needed to do more scouting, get a feel for the dynamic between Krok and his wife; Rice had promised that Krok’s full dossier would be in her hands by the afternoon, so that left the reading for later.

  Stevie rang Clémence’s phone. It was answered by her husband.

  8

  The Villa Giardiniera was a long, low pebble-stone house built on a headland jutting into the sea. It was set into a hillside garden covered with the greenest, most perfect lawn imaginable, the grass growing over the top of the back half of the house, and over the courtyard that linked the back to the front. From here, you looked south to Cala di Volpe, or north towards Porto Cervo, the void creating a window right through the headland.

  The house belonged to a Milanese industrialist called Dado Falcone, according to Clémence, a sometime business associate of Krok’s who manufactured guidance systems for missiles. When Stevie arrived with Clémence and Krok by Riva, the lunch party was already in full swing.

  A small grey man in a beige suit and large black glasses was dancing slowly with a Nordic goddess well over six feet tall, luminous in an emerald silk dress and high gold wedges. Nestled in her most wonderful bosom was the largest emerald Stevie had ever seen, all set about with diamonds, and so heavy it pulled the already-revealing cleavage of the dress down to new glories.

  As he shuffled to the music, the grey man stared straight ahead in rapture, his eyes perfectly level with the jewel.

  Three young girls in white crocheted bikinis and white high-heeled espadrilles stood smoking, huge sunglasses hiding their faces, printed silk scarves tied around their hair.

  When a white-jacketed waiter offered champagne, neither Clémence nor Stevie refused.

  A lithe blonde in a red lycra jumpsuit, a thin white belt circling the waist, sashayed past giggling to another blonde in a white sundress. ‘Don’t you love Italian men?’ she whispered in accented English.

  ‘That’s Princess Loli Hanau-Schaumberg and her sister, Princess Ludi-Brigitte von Anhalt. Vaughan’s mad about them.’ Clémence’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Fortunately they barely speak a word of English between them.’

  ‘But I just heard her—’ began Stevie.

  ‘Well, not a lot of English, anyway,’ Clémence replied quickly. She reached for another glass of champagne. �
�I suppose the whole Euro-royal thing might be interesting for a moment,’ she continued, ‘but I’ve told Vaughan I’ll never give him a divorce. And really, their titles mean little these days and most are as poor as church mice—relatively speaking.’ She gave the pair one last, appraising look. ‘They are young, though—mid-twenties. That’s an asset. Most of the time.’ She turned back to Stevie. ‘Then again, experience has its own allure . . .’

  Clémence could definitely hold her own, thought Stevie. Certainly she would not go quietly if Krok ever tried to end their marriage. Did this constitute a motive for keeping her under lock and key? Stevie did not know much about these matters but she imagined that a transgressing wife would be more useful to a man contemplating a separation than a devoted one . . .

  Clémence shimmered in a silk coral dress with tulip sleeves, and gold sandals. Diamond bracelets rippled on her wrists whenever she moved her fine brown hands, and her ears sparkled with large pink diamonds. Stevie caught the other guests glancing her way, dazzled by the jewels. Clémence Krok’s reputation preceded both her and her husband, and there would be no doubt anywhere in the room that the giant rocks were real.

  Clémence and Stevie wandered over to the windows where Krok was standing. Dado Falcone was moving towards them, wearing a pale apricot linen suit and a light blue shirt, a combination that suited him and his party to perfection. He kissed Clémence’s hand then stood back to admire her.

  ‘Stupenda—una favola, a fairytale.’

  Clémence, her laugh and her bracelets tinkling, took Vaughan’s big, freckled forearm.

  ‘How much did this place set you back, Dado?’ Krok barked by way of a greeting.

  Falcone smiled broadly. ‘It was built by my father, it passed to me. What is money when sentiment . . .?’ He raised his hands.

  ‘Only people who haven’t made their own money talk like that.’ Krok’s eyes were watery and pink. ‘I’m self-made, and I’ll tell you something—money . . .’ he pointed a large freckled sausage finger at Dado’s chest, ‘is back.’