The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

  ‘Well now—’ Marlena smiled wickedly and raised her glass ‘—they’ll deserve each other, then, won’t they?’

  The engines of the massive ship started and she began to shift slowly out of her berth. Two Zodiac cowboys nosed the port bow, outboard motors churning, keeping the Hercules from colliding with her neighbour. The behemoth turned in a tight circle and was soon steaming out to sea, leaving the old port to shrink in the distance.

  It wasn’t until the guests were getting ready for pre-lunch drinks that Stevie got Clémence alone.

  ‘Is Emile on board?’

  Clémence nodded. ‘Of course. He’s in his playroom with the tutor and the bodyguard. They’re watching The Little Mermaid.’

  The irony was unmissable—the little boy with the world at his fingertips, exploring the wonders of the sea via a cartoon on television while floating above the real thing.

  ‘There was another call last night.’ Clémence kept her voice low. ‘I was asleep. I think it was around eleven thirty. This time the caller said nothing—but it was him.’

  ‘Does anyone know, apart from your husband?’

  Clémence shook her head. ‘Probably Vaughan’s head of security— Megrahi. You haven’t met him yet, have you?’

  Stevie shook her head. She would remember a name like that.

  ‘He’s doggedly loyal, a Libyan, missing a thumb.’ Clémence glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘Gives me shivers.’

  ‘Clémence, did you invite the guests or were they your husband’s idea?’

  It seemed strange to Stevie that a man as security-aware as Vaughan Krok would have invited guests aboard if he suspected kidnappers were prowling. Surely every extra friend and crew member was an added security risk? They would all have to be carefully vetted.

  ‘It was my idea. Vaughan decided that from now on, we would only be safe aboard the Hercules. I’m not sure I could handle weeks at sea alone with him and his moods. I insisted we bring friends to . . . dilute.’ After a pause, she added, ‘I even invited the princesses, to keep him happy.’

  ‘And does Marlena know about the threats?’

  Clémence paused before answering. ‘I met my husband through my sister. They used to work together, once upon a time.’ She stopped again. ‘I prefer not to discuss him with her at all. I love her deeply but I’m not always sure I can trust her—if you can understand that.’ Clémence noticed the interest in Stevie’s eyes and clammed up. ‘If you want to know about Marlena, you’ll have to ask her yourself.’

  Their bond was strong, thought Stevie, despite the things that Clémence had said about her sister. They were twins, after all. She would do well to remember that.

  Lunch was served as they steamed towards La Maddalena. Stevie marvelled at how perfectly contained the superyachts were from their surroundings. They were floating on a swelling sea, shimmering with summer sunlight, and yet they would have been just as untouched by the environment if they had stayed indoors on land. Perhaps that was the attraction . . .

  Stevie preferred to feel the elements on her skin and to know where she stood on the planet.

  Lunch revealed the other guests invited along for the cruise. Seated around the table were Vaughan Krok, Clémence and little Emile (who was allowed above deck for lunch), Marlena, Dado and Elisabetta Falcone, the princesses Loli and Ludi-Brigitte in matching jumpsuits, and a young man named Stéphane from Liechtenstein with incredibly soft hands.

  Stevie had Stéphane on her right, but there were two chairs empty, one immediately on her left. Suddenly a large figure dressed in a lemon-yellow cardigan appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Apologies to all—my tardiness is unforgivable, but Indian politicians will keep you on the phone for an eternity.’

  Skorpios.

  He bowed to the assembled guests, then to Stevie alone, before sitting down, a smile on his bullfrog face. ‘Angelina sends her apologies,’ he announced to the table. ‘She is in her cabin with a migraine.’

  Stevie smiled, noticing that Marlena’s eyes had seemed to blaze at the mention of Angelina . . . or was it just Skorpios’s presence that had produced that reaction? Stevie hoped Angelina would remember her promise to say nothing about Stevie’s work, to keep her secret safe. She turned back to Stéphane, who was recounting a cycling holiday in Austria. Her mind teemed with Iris’ warnings; Skorpios seemed to be everywhere.

  She had dealt with many powerful and even dangerous men, but even so, something about Skorpios made her hesitate. She would have to tread very carefully. He was no fool.

  So Stevie said very little and left her ears wide open. However, it wasn’t long before Skorpios turned his toffee-coloured lenses on her: ‘You perch on your chair like a songbird that has lost its song. Have you?’

  ‘Lost my song?’ Stevie replied lightly. ‘I’m reluctant to shatter your image of me as a songbird, charming as it is, but I’m a terrible singer.’

  ‘Terrible, eh, Miss Duveen?’ He laughed.

  Stevie nodded and picked at her roll, studying his face from under lowered lids. Skorpios was not a handsome man—he was not tall enough, was too broad in the chest and arms—but Stevie could feel his magnetism. His eyes were dark and heavily lidded behind the glasses, giving him an air of sensuality and perpetual sleepiness. His mouth was wide and generous, and his nose stood like a monument in the centre of his face, proud and strong.

  Beside him, the men at the table could have been made of tissue paper. Stevie wondered how close Iris had been to Skorpios . . .

  Stevie felt a gaze on her and turned; Marlena was watching with her harlequin eyes. It was not a friendly gaze and Stevie hoped she hadn’t made an enemy of Clémence’s twin.

  ‘Socrates is a man of excess in everything, Stevie,’ she drawled in her curious accent, her voice now laced with bitterness. ‘Except the truth.’

  Skorpios glared back at her, his sudden silence resting heavily between them. Stevie wondered what their relationship was. Had they once been lovers, perhaps? There seemed to be thunderclouds thickening with every word spoken. Was Marlena jealous?

  To lighten the mood, Stevie raised a pointed eyebrow and said, ‘I’ve always been rather frugal in my appetites.’

  ‘What a pity.’ Skorpios leant imperceptibly closer. ‘Because I think you have a fire inside of you.’

  Stevie froze; she felt like a fly caught in the tacky strands of the spider’s web. She had to play this one very carefully. She had her cover—as well as her dignity—to think of.

  She waved a world-weary hand. ‘Is all this really necessary? I mean—’ and she flashed her tormentor a smile ‘—I’m charmed and all, but it’s only lunchtime. Such advances are a little . . . heavy for the daylight, don’t you think?’

  Skorpios smiled. ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle. It is a habit. Every woman is a potential mistress to me, and that is how I approach her.’

  ‘And Angelina?’ Stevie asked quickly.

  Skorpios smiled but said nothing.

  ‘I just hope you don’t make her unhappy,’ she added, softening her tone.

  A platter of lobsters arrived and the conversation broke up, drifted towards their route through the Mediterranean, gossip from Paris and London and New York, scandals and deaths and third marriages.

  Skorpios was not so easily distracted however. He stared at Stevie for a long moment before he spoke. ‘In a woman, unhappiness can be sexy.’

  Stevie started. ‘What an amazing thing to say. I can’t imagine you really believe that, Mr Skorpios.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for one thing,’ she replied quietly, ‘it’s cruel.’

  A waiter, passing with a bottle of wine, stopped to freshen Stevie’s glass. Skorpios took the bottle from him and filled Stevie’s glass himself. ‘A woman chooses to be happy or unhappy. It is not men who make her so. Women who think that ascribe too much influence to us.’

  ‘And men who take that point of view, in my experience, are often the worst misogynists. Why do you t
hink that is?’ Stevie put down her fork. ‘Maybe it gives them an excuse to behave badly.’

  Skorpios stared at her, then smiled slowly. ‘I think I was right about your passionate nature.’

  Stevie flushed and took a sip of her white wine. She had revealed too much. It had been a mistake. Now Skorpios would take an interest in her. The thought made her very uncomfortable.

  Fortunately, at that moment Vaughan Krok stood and announced that he had two planes circling O’Hare airport in Chicago and they were running low on fuel. He grabbed his drink and left the table. Emile jumped up and started after his father. Without a backward glance, Krok called out, ‘Sit.’

  Emile dropped quickly back into his chair, crushed.

  Marlena rose a moment later and disappeared through the same doorway.

  Stevie turned to Stéphane. ‘What on earth does he mean?’

  ‘Vaughan is addicted to Flight Simulator—the computer game. He never lets business or pleasure interrupt his obsession.’

  Stéphane took a sip of his wine and dabbed his lip with a napkin. ‘I don’t understand it myself. The man has several airfields and private planes—why not just fly for real?’

  Halfway through lunch, Clémence’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and went pale, stood and took the call by the railing. Even from a distance Stevie could sense the tension in the slim shoulders. Stevie stood and went to her. She turned, her face a ghastly white, her red lipstick jumping out like a gash of fear.

  ‘The threats?’ Stevie whispered.

  Clémence nodded. ‘They called my phone this time—it was a man. He just asked me if I loved my little boy and said that if I did I had better be very careful.’ Her manicured hands were trembling. Stevie glanced quickly at the table. No one was paying them any attention. Then Marlena reappeared at the door. Her eyes focused on Stevie and her sister, but Stevie couldn’t worry about her now.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about his voice?’ she asked gently.

  ‘There was nothing really unusual—a man’s voice.’ Clémence was struggling for control. ‘He spoke quite slowly and very softly— not much more than a whisper. Maybe he had a little bit of an accent, but it was very hard to tell.’

  ‘And he made no demands?’

  Clémence shook her head again. ‘I’m so frightened.’

  Stevie paused and collected her thoughts. ‘I think that seems to be the whole point. But why go to all the trouble? What would someone gain by frightening you and your husband? It’s malicious, certainly, but it also seems a little senseless.’

  ‘I don’t want Emile—anyone—to know.’ Clémence glanced back at the table.

  Stevie smiled gaily. ‘Of course not.’ Then louder, so the table could hear, ‘Oh, she’ll get over it, Clémence. She just has very bad taste in men. Always has.’ A thought struck her. ‘Quick. Give me the phone—I’ll talk to her. You go back to your guests.’

  Stevie looked up the call register to find the number of the last call received and was surprised to find it wasn’t a private number but a local one, an Italian mobile. That was strange. She selected the number and called it. The caller would almost certainly have turned the phone off or changed the SIM card, she reminded herself, but it was worth a try . . .

  Stevie froze as from the hatch, came the opening bars of Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Abruptly it was cut off.

  Krok’s phone.

  Stevie felt the icy claw of fear on her neck.

  Impossible.

  Stevie sat back down at the table, pocketing the phone, just as Krok appeared in the doorway.

  Under the table, Stevie opened her own phone and copied the number from Clémence’s call register to Josie Wang at Hazard HQ with a text message that read:

  Can you trace location? VVVIP Stevie.

  She smiled brightly, took a large sip of wine and helped herself to a scampi, her insides burning with anticipation.

  It had to be a coincidence. Krok’s phone virtually never stopped ringing.

  Josie would type the number into her StarSat programme; that would run a GPS trace, based on repeater triangulation. It should give the location with a pretty high degree of accuracy.

  Josie seemed to be taking an awfully long time with the trace. Finally the reply came:

  Latitude 41°12'55.548"N–Longitude 9°24'36.792"E.

  Stevie memorised the coordinates and looked out to sea. They were just passing the port on the island of Maddalena, with its Romanesque villas in yellows and pinks and oranges, its rows of neat palm trees and block stone seafront.

  To the far right was the American naval base, home of the warships and submarines that prowled the Mediterranean, relics of the Cold War.

  Stevie couldn’t wait for the lunch to be over. She felt Marlena’s eyes on her every moment; Clémence was having a low, agonised conversation with her husband, who was intent on demolishing the pile of scampi on his plate, carcasses piling up in front of him, like some demented Roman emperor. His expression gave nothing away.

  The other guests chatted on, oblivious—but then, they were probably used to the strange dynamic of Mr and Mrs Krok’s relationship. Several had, after all, all been present at the lunch party when Krok had exploded at his wife . . .

  Then finally, mercifully, it was over and most of the guests retired to their cabins for a siesta. Stevie yawned and got up, thanking Clémence for lunch. She made her way sleepily into the saloon and paused by one of the charts pinned to the wall. It showed most of the Mediterranean Sea.

  The saloon was dark and deserted, the teal blue carpet muffling all sound. Stevie peered casually at the chart.

  Latitude 41°12'55.548"N–Longitude 9°24'36.792"E.

  Stevie traced the coordinates lightly with a finger and came to a stop on the small circle that marked the port of Maddalena.

  It was close enough. They had been sailing past the port at the time of the call. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that the person behind the threatening phone calls should be on the island itself . . . No. The much more logical conclusion—and the more frightening one—was that the caller was aboard the Hercules.

  Stevie spun around: someone was watching her, she could feel it. But there was no one there, no sound, not even the hum of the engines. The yacht was too well insulated for that.

  Feeling desperately uneasy, Stevie made her way back to her cabin along the deserted hallway.

  Examining charts was an innocent thing to do when out sailing, wasn’t it? And yet it was not really something likely to interest a party girl. It could look suspicious to the wrong eyes. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. She would have to be more careful from now on.

  She saw a flicker of movement to her left and stopped. A pair of large brown eyes peered out from behind an ornamental table. It was Emile.

  Had it been Emile watching her in the saloon?

  Stevie stopped and crouched down. ‘Hi,’ she said softly. Emile darted back under the table. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  There was no answer. Then she heard a muffled crash from behind the door to the stateroom. Krok’s voice shouting, furious, came to her through the heavy maple doors. Clémence’s reply was barely audible. Emile didn’t need to hear the words to know that his parents were fighting. His large, dark eyes told the story. She held out her hand to the frightened boy. He stared at it for a moment then crawled out and took it. Stevie stood and led him slowly away from the door.

  11

  The island of Cavallo sat like a flat French rock as far into Italian territory as it dared go, surrounded by treacherous reefs and hidden rocks. The waters were practically unnavigable without detailed charts, good local knowledge and calm seas. Even then, the island could really only be safely approached by tender.

  The entire island was private property. There was no public port or jetty, in fact, no public access at all. Even mooring close by was forbidden. This suited the über-VIPs who frequented the island, among them British
royals, famous actors and Vittorio Emanuele di Savoia, the exiled pretender to the throne of Italy; Cavallo was as close to his home country as he could get without actually setting foot on Italian soil.

  Stevie was surprised when the Hercules steamed straight for the island and anchored not far off. The captain must know the waters well, she thought; he’d done this before.

  Stevie went out on the aft deck and looked about. The crew were pulling out diving gear and stacking it neatly on one of the retractable platforms.

  Marlena was stalking about in a cheetah-print swimsuit, examining the masks and giving orders to the crew. She looked up and saw Stevie.

  ‘You’ll dive, won’t you, Stevie.’ It was an order rather than a question but Stevie was more than happy to get into the water. Plus, she was dying to get a better look at the underside of Hercules—perhaps even catch sight of the submarine Domenico had mentioned.

  Stéphane and the princess sisters were also coming on the dive. The girls wore matching yellow wetsuits. Stevie struggled into a small steamer—she knew that the water would be cold after a few minutes, despite the heat of the sun above the surface.

  Marlena swung her tank onto her back with no effort. She wore only fins, no wetsuit, and a diving knife strapped to her calf. Stevie noticed she was still wearing her red lipstick. Clémence’s sister pointed at one of the smaller tanks. ‘The crew filled that one for you, Stevie. You don’t look like you use much air.’

  Stevie did as she was told. She had done over a thousand dives and several underwater-rescue training courses, but she thought it best not to let any of that show. She pretended to struggle a little with the buoyancy control device, deliberately stumbled.

  Mask on, vest inflated, she was ready to leap in. The sea was calm and clear—it ought to be a pleasant dive. One of the crew gave a quick briefing: some underwater currents to watch out for—nothing too strong; good visibility all round.

  Something made Stevie turn and glance back up to the deck of the monstrous yacht. A squat, dark-haired man in whites was standing at the railing, staring down at her. One of the crew? she wondered. She gave him a light-hearted wave; after a beat he lifted a hand in reply. Stevie saw it was missing a thumb. Her heart suddenly felt heavier than her weight belt. Had it been Megrahi, Krok’s head of security, watching her in the saloon?