The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

  Stevie frowned. She didn’t like to think she lacked courage.

  ‘And I mean on both sides, Stevie. My son isn’t always as forthcoming with his feelings as his mother. It’s because I am part American and part Iranian. You can only imagine the internal conflict, darling.’ She laughed and, raising a hand to the waiter, ordered two more drinks.

  ‘Garçon, deux more, por favor.’

  Iris slid the magnificent bracelet back on, hiding the dragon. ‘I think you should both just relax and not worry, if I can be nosy and offer advice. Just let things be. Emotions can’t always wear name tags and live in neat boxes, and if it’s meant to be, well, let it be. Take a chance!’ She paused and glanced out to sea. ‘You only ever regret the things you don’t do—take it from an old lady.’

  A stocky man in a white linen shirt and large tortoiseshell sunglasses appeared with a retinue of four in tow. With a start, Stevie realised it was Skorpios. He waved a large hand at Iris and approached. He kissed the lady’s hand, holding it like a silk glove in his heavy paw.

  ‘La bella Iris,’ he said in his Greek accent. Iris did not let her hand linger too long in his. She turned to introduce Stevie.

  Stevie, now wondering how and why Henning’s mother knew Skorpios, quickly extended her hand and said, ‘We know each other.’

  Skorpios smiled, eyes searching Stevie from behind the toffee-coloured lenses. He was possibly as surprised as she was to find Stevie popping up wherever he went.

  ‘We lived an adventure together,’ explained Stevie to Iris, not wanting her to imagine unimaginable things.

  ‘Oh?’ Iris’ tone was surprised, cautious.

  Skorpios smiled charmingly. ‘She saved La Dracoulis—my glorious Angelina—from Somali pirates.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Iris mildly, her eyes on Stevie again. ‘ Did you want to join us, Socrates?’ Iris made a languid gesture that conveyed that the request, however sincere, had no real energy behind it.

  ‘Thank you, but perhaps we would disturb.’

  ‘Well, another time, then,’ said Iris, neatly shutting the door on the prospect.

  When the man had been seated at his table, Iris adjusted the brim of her hat to shadow her face. ‘The trouble with having been married so many times, Stevie, is that one picks up all sorts of friends that are very difficult to lose. Once you know someone, it is very hard to unknow them. Believe me, I’ve tried, and it’s always the ones you most wish to lose that are the stickiest. In the end, I decided it was easier to submit to their acquaintance—and to wear a large hat.’

  ‘So, Skorpios was a friend of your husband?’

  ‘First husband, Henning’s father, many years ago. The dear man died in a plane crash and no one has ever lived up to him since, not really.’ The waiter arrived with fresh drinks and a bowl of olives, and whisked the empty glasses off the table.

  Iris continued once he was out of earshot. ‘Skorpios is in shipping, so was Timo. They knew each other, although Timo never particularly trusted Skorpios. He told me Skorpios used to run fleets of rust buckets that were overdue for the wrecker’s yard, all nicely painted and reregistered, but he lost ships, and many crew went down with them. Timo thought his carelessness with human lives was gross.’ She gave Stevie an appraising look. ‘I have to say I was surprised that you knew him.’

  ‘And not entirely approving?’ Stevie smiled. ‘In my line of work, I too meet a good many people I wouldn’t wish to know privately. It’s a hazard but, unlike you, I’m more easily forgotten.’ She twisted her glass on the table, wondering how much she should be saying to Iris. ‘Skorpios was at a lunch party I was at yesterday,’ she added. ‘It’s funny—we seem to be on the same orbit.’

  Iris gave her a long look. ‘You don’t want to be on the same orbit as that man. He attracts misfortune, Stevie, dear. I can look after myself; I am powerful in my own way. I’ve had sixty—well, fifty-five perhaps—years of dealing with men like him. But Henning has implied that you are a magnet for trouble, and Skorpios’s world is not one you want to be drawn into.’

  On leaving the yacht club, Stevie decided to walk through the marina and clear her thoughts. The intrigue of Iris—their conversation about Henning—and the chance meeting with Skorpios, mixed with the two gin and tonics, whirled about in her head.

  There was a lot of activity on the dock—the first of the yacht races would start in a week and most of the boats had been brought over and the crews flown out, and everyone was getting ready for the Sardinia season. The Ferragamo brothers were there, Prince Frederik of Denmark, Ernesto Bertarelli . . .

  It was past noon and most of the boats that were planning to go out that day had left so the Zodiac cowboys had little to do but refill their fuel tanks and buzz about catching the breeze. Stevie spotted Domenico, one of the most experienced cowboys, by a Wally chase boat painted a sleek dolphin grey.

  ‘Salve.’ Domenico smiled up at Stevie, his teeth gleaming in his tanned face. Stevie had never seen anyone more tanned. ‘Did you want a lift across to the porto vecchio?’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘I was having a drink at the yacht club.’

  Domenico raised his eyebrows. The yacht club was not one of Stevie’s usual haunts.

  ‘Not a boyfriend, Domenico,’ Stevie laughed; the whole of Italy seemed to put love first. ‘An older woman—a most remarkable woman, actually.’

  ‘If a woman has substance, years will only improve her,’ he responded. ‘It’s the empty vessels that crack with age.’

  Stevie grinned. Italians had some rather marvellous philosophical pronouncements when it came to the opposite sex.

  ‘Senti, Domenico, what’s the word on the Hercules?’ Stevie could see the huge ship still in port. ‘What are people saying?’

  Domenico raised his palms. ‘È un mostro. We’ve never seen anything like it. There’s even a sommergibile, a submarine, underneath. Pilù found out when he went to connect the power lines from the dock.’

  Domenico had worked the port for over twenty years and had seen pretty much everything. The Zodiac cowboys were important to the superyacht owners because it was they who decided which berth went to which yacht. Many had been slipped generous tips to ensure that a particular yacht would take prime position on the dock, thereby cementing the aura of power and influence that the boat owner was keen to project and protect.

  He frowned. ‘Ma c’è qualcosa che non va . . .’ He made a sign to ward off the devil with his forefinger and pinky.

  ‘The crew?’

  Domenico shrugged. ‘They are very arrogant in their little white hats. They won’t let anyone near the boat except when we’re guiding her into the berth—as if we haven’t dealt with thousands of mega-yachts! Their security è al massimo, more even than Khashoggi or the Sultan of Brunei.’

  ‘Does the owner have a reason to be afraid, Domenico?’

  Domenico stared at Stevie with his dark eyes for a long moment. ‘Why do you ask me this?’

  Stevie could see she had offended him. ‘Ti chiedo scusa, Domenico, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just know that you and your boys are always the first to hear the rumours—you’re the most important people in the port, after all.’ She smiled.

  He returned the smile, all forgiven. ‘I haven’t heard anything, non un fischio. But then, his troubles probably have followed him from home. These days, the problems are less and less local. These bigshots with their mega-boats, all trying to outdo each other, they are importing their own crime wave. It has nothing to do with the banditi of the massiccio.’

  As Stevie walked back to her jeep she thought about what Domenico had said. Perhaps it was true—these men with their fast new billions from the oil fields of Russia or the conflicts of Africa or the contracts of the Middle East flew down in their private jets, trailing enemies behind them like a wake. These high-value targets (HVTs) would be less well protected on holiday, no matter how tight the security, and their guard would lower as they relaxed.

  It was har
d to believe anything bad could happen in a place like this. But every glittering scene has shadows and on the Costa Smeralda they were long ones, stretching back to the 1960s, when the slice of coast had first been established as a playground for the jet set.

  The jet set was a much smaller, more exclusive group then: jet travel was new, and few people flew or took overseas summer holidays, and even fewer owned yachts. The jet set life was the preserve of a small number of glamorous people, often titled, or from big industrial families like the Guinnesses or the Olivettis, who all knew each other and met up in airport lounges and alpine villages or on wonderful beaches, instantly turning the place into a riotous cocktail party. Jetting about the world meant luxury, power and a permanent tan. There was no mass tourism, only stylish gangs in search of divertissement, who flitted from villa to cabana to yacht to chalet. It was rich and it was private. It was not a rapper throwing cases of Cristal off the jetty while plastic women lap-danced in bikinis for attention.

  Sardinia had been a desperately poor island, with the local population retreating up into the mountains to farm their sheep and goats, leaving the valueless land—too salty to grow crops, too vulnerable to centuries of pirate attacks—to the women. So it had been the women who had done well when the Aga Khan and his partners had come in and bought a large swathe of land on the north-east coast of the island. The bijou people had come to relax in the land of the granite people, and the contrast as the two rubbed together was the cause of so much trouble to come.

  There had been banditry from the beginning. The inland roads were not safe. Stevie’s grandmother liked to tell the story of the time she and Camillo were driving inland and saw some peasants by the side of the road, sawing down a huge tree by hand. They thought nothing of it until they heard the next day that a bus full of tourists had been stopped at a roadblock made by a felled tree and robbed of all their valuables.

  Kidnappings had been rife, with victims being snatched and held in caves in the mountains, completely protected by the steep granite and thorny scrub, and the wall of silence that the local people built around themselves. There was no hope of finding the victims; the only choice for the family was negotiation.

  But those times had passed. Things had calmed down—or had they?

  Stevie’s phone rang just as she was starting her jeep. It was Clémence and her voice was quiet and as brittle as tin.

  ‘Stevie, I need to talk to you privately, without the guards. It’s very important. How can we meet?’

  Stevie’s mind raced, picturing the Villa Goliath, its myriad cameras and ever-present soldiers. Then she had an idea. ‘Go down to the beach in front of the villa at three,’ she instructed. ‘Swim out to the buoy directly in front. It’s a big orange ball not far from the end of the stone jetty. I’ll meet you there. It should be safe enough.’

  ‘But, Stevie, I never swim. What will Vaughan think?’

  ‘If he asks, just complain that you’ve put on a few pounds and feel fat, and that you’ve heard swimming is the new boxercise. I doubt he’ll question it.’

  Stevie stopped off at Spinnaker for a panino and a glass of fresh orange juice. Sauro was reading the paper in the corner and Stevie sat down with him.

  ‘Tell me, Sauro, the man you see drive by in the convoy every morning, the one staying at Brown’s villa . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Brown.’ Stevie made a face, willing Sauro to remember.

  He smiled. ‘Ah, si, Brown . . .’

  ‘Do you think this man is afraid of the local banditi?’

  Sauro shrugged. ‘Everyone with a lot of money is at least a little nervous. The security has improved things a lot but still, this is Sardegna, and its heart is still as wild as it ever was.’ He stared at Stevie a moment. ‘But if this man is friends with Brown, and has so many guns . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lupo non mangia lupo.’

  A wolf doesn’t eat a wolf.

  ‘Unless the wolf has a personal grudge against the other wolf,’ Stevie suggested wryly.

  ‘Carina, why are you so interested in wolves? You should be full of sunshine and flowers and my sisters’ cooking.’

  Stevie smiled. ‘Well, I’m here, aren’t I?’

  At ten to three, Stevie put on her swimsuit and a black bathing cap. The cap would make her less recognisable and lend credibility to her cover persona if spotted: a rather precious signorina out swimming laps. She swam breaststroke (less splashing) to the buoy opposite the Villa Goliath and reached up, clinging to the blue ring on top. She was careful to keep the buoy between herself and the beach; it was big enough to hide her completely.

  After a few minutes she saw Clémence walk down the beach and enter the water slowly, her hands fanning out with reluctance. She too wore a bathing cap, but it was white and emblazoned with the Chanel Cs, and matched her white swimsuit. She looked very glamorous and Stevie hoped she would make it as far as the buoy; aboard the Hercules, Clémence had mentioned how rarely she swam. An emergency water rescue would hardly be a stealth move for either of them.

  Once in, Stevie realised Clémence was actually an excellent swimmer: neat, swift overarm strokes, her shoulders parallel to the water. She reached the buoy quickly, not even a little out of breath.

  ‘I thought you hardly ever swam.’ Stevie spoke in a low voice that wouldn’t carry.

  ‘Just because I don’t doesn’t mean I can’t,’ Clémence whispered back. ‘I swam the English Channel with my sister when we were sixteen. Vaughan doesn’t know, of course. He’s not a strong swimmer. It would only create problems.’

  Stevie looked back. Two bodyguards in white berets stood at ease on the sand. They looked hot and bored. ‘What’s happened?’

  Clémence looked at Stevie for a moment, her face quite naked with her hair under the tight cap. She seemed a little older, a little more tired than usual, despite the perfect red lips. Stevie had seen the look before.

  ‘It’s Emile,’ she said softly.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but this morning after breakfast Vaughan received a phone call on the house land line. Someone threatened Emile. They said he would be kidnapped.’

  Clémence’s eyes filled with tears and Stevie’s heart went out to the woman.

  ‘What exactly did they say?’ she asked firmly but gently.

  Clémence shook her head. ‘Vaughan wouldn’t tell me—he said I didn’t need to know. Only that it was an anonymous call and that the man—I assume it was a man—had threatened to kidnap Emile.’

  Stevie thought for a moment. ‘Did the caller ask for anything? Make any terms?’

  Clémence shook her head and looked away, fighting tears. ‘I don’t think so. It was a short conversation—my husband took the call on the balcony.’

  The indigo sea felt like it was cooling around them and Stevie began to shiver. ‘Why would someone warn you that they intended to kidnap your son? It doesn’t make sense unless they set terms. Why let you know? Why not just go ahead and do it?’

  They bobbed in silence for a minute, both grasping the orange buoy.

  ‘I’m afraid, Stevie,’ Clémence said finally. ‘I’m afraid of my husband’s enemies, I’m afraid of his friends, I’m afraid of my husband, and I’m desperately afraid for Emile.’

  ‘What does your husband think you should do?’

  ‘Well, I suggested the police, even though I knew he would laugh in my face. And he did. But I told him we had to do something. He suggested a cruise. He thinks the Hercules is impregnable and we will be safe there. Perhaps he’s right . . . It’s a warship after all.’ She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the guards on the beach. They were growing restless, beginning to pace.

  ‘We leave tomorrow for Corsica. I want you to come too, Stevie.’ Before Stevie could object, she hurried on, ‘You can’t refuse me this. David promised me you would help and I need you with me.

  I can’t think or see straight. I need you to be my eyes and e
ars and make sense of all this. Anyway, I’ve already told Vaughan. A few of the others are joining us—you’ll fit in perfectly.’

  One of the bodyguards was becoming curious. Stevie saw him pull out a pair of binoculars. She let go of the buoy.

  ‘Be at the porto vecchio by nine tomorrow,’ Clémence hissed as Stevie took a breath and dived under.

  She swam as far and as fast as she could underwater, away from Clémence and the buoy and the dark shadows lurking under the surface, then rose nonchalantly for air and resumed her gentle breaststroke.

  As she made her way up the path, the black stones burning under her bare feet, Stevie caught Simone’s voice drifting down from the roof. Her heart sank a little further. Mark was with her, and a plump woman in a pastel pink suit and sunglasses. She was Italian, struggling with the English terms, but Stevie understood right away: ‘The value . . . it is high, very high. Here is expensive, molto expensive area . . .’ The newest intruder was an estate agent. Rage boiled in Stevie. Simone and Mark were getting a valuation of Didi’s house. It was all Stevie could do to stop herself from running up to the roof and pushing all three off it.

  Then she remembered Osip. She was not usually one for accepting invitations but Stevie felt she could not face Simone and Mark; she wanted to be cocooned in the Barone’s world, even if it was just for an afternoon. She snuck into her bedroom and threw on a white cotton tunic dress she had once bought in Bali. She glanced in the mirror. The swimming cap had flattened her hair so she grabbed the Hermès scarf David had sent and tied it, turban-style, backwards. Then she lined her eyes with kohl and slipped back out through the garden, up the fig tree and over the stone wall, into the grounds of the Barone’s villa.

  From somewhere beyond the olive grove, voices drifted about, chattering in Italian, French, Spanish. The air was warm off the granite, and fragrant with cistus and curry bush and wild fig. A bougainvillea had exploded in hot pink and orange on one whitewashed wall of the house. Stevie felt a little shy, but the thought of Mark and Simone drove her forward where she may have otherwise hesitated and turned back.