She shook the thought from her mind, now more glad than ever to be escaping the ship for the underwater world where she would feel safe, at home, and at peace.
She made a thumbs-down sign to the other divers and slowly sank below the surface chop. Immediately, the sound of the bubbles and her hollow breathing soothed her. Diving was like meditation. She drifted slowly towards the bottom, fifteen metres down, then looked up towards the shimmering surface. The others were descending slowly, feet first. Only Marlena swam downwards with purpose, the muscles on her lean legs standing out in the blue light.
The hull of the Hercules was clearly visible now, a great white mass shaped like a V. Stevie could see the bulge towards the stern and the faint outline of a portal of some kind. The submarine.
She saw the white hull of a launch hit the water on the other side of the ship. The propellers started—loud and high-pitched underwater—and after a moment it took off in the direction of Cavallo.
Stevie waited for the other divers then set off; one of the crew members was leading the dive. The sea floor was mainly massive granite boulders piled in stunning formations. Sea urchins clustered in the crevasses and large silvery fish swam about, matching the silvery rocks. It wasn’t a colourful dive, no corals or tropical fish, but there was a beauty in the aridity of the sandy floor, the massive boulders and the endless blue.
The water was clear but dark, almost dense, and the forms in the distance quickly melted into shadows. Stevie swam to one side of the group, hanging back enough to feel that she was alone; only Marlena swam behind her, slightly above. She had an underwater camera, Stevie noticed, and was peering carefully into every crevasse, hunting for something to photograph.
The little group swam deeper, down to a cave fringed with small anemones. Inside, the light was dim and the cave was filled with the black spines of sea urchins. A trapdoor of blue light beckoned at the bottom: an opening.
Marlena swam past Stevie and into the cave. She disappeared for a moment into the blackness, then Stevie caught sight of her fins slipping through the far opening. The others decided not to follow.
Stevie hesitated, but the lure of the quiet, dark cave, with the glint of blue at the end, beckoned and she swam in.
The cave was deeper than it had seemed. Stevie realised she had descended five metres; the water was colder and she had to take care not to catch the top of her tank on any rocky outcrops. She reached the opening and looked through it: a vista of the big blue, endless ocean, the colours of a sky at dusk—that little perfect moment just after the sun has set, but before the curtain of the night has fallen.
Stevie hung there for a moment, perfectly still, soaking in the charm of it, the wild, empty beauty. She suddenly felt dizzy and giggled, now slightly breathless. She held the rocky opening firmly and breathed long and deep.
A headache began to creep towards her temples, hints of nausea.
She glanced at her dive computer. She was deep and would have to ascend soon if she didn’t want to risk decompression sickness, but she still had time and air. Her head swam, her vision blurred a little. Now a feeling of fear began to seep into her guts, like a trickle of water into a mask.
Something’s wrong.
She held up a hand to her face, trying to focus her eyes. The beds of her fingernails were dark, dark brown. For a moment, her mind swam with confusion, then her heart began to pound.
Contaminated air.
One of the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning at depth was cherry-red nailbeds. Underwater, of course, red looked brown. She had to surface quickly, before she became more disorientated or lost consciousness altogether. With a massive effort, Stevie pushed herself through the small opening and out into the big blue. She looked about but none of the other divers were in sight.
Stevie began to swim upwards, putting all the strength she had left into kicking towards the surface. She glanced at her depth gauge to see how much further she had to go. To her horror, Stevie saw the numbers were ascending: she was moving in the wrong direction; she was swimming deeper.
Panic threatened; she was afraid to breathe too deeply, but it was unavoidable.
Watch your bubbles, Stevie.
Her dive instructor’s voice came back to her from a wreck dive they had done one dark night.
Watch your bubbles.
Stevie stopped swimming and breathed out. Her bubbles streamed out sideways and she realised she was lying horizontal in the water. She straightened up until her bubbles flew up overhead, then slowly began to fin in their direction, eyes on the bubbles, thinking of nothing but the bubbles, fighting the urge to vomit, to sleep.
Suddenly it became too much. Stevie was gasping for breath, even though her regulator was in her mouth. She knew she was going up too fast, that she risked the bends, but she had no choice. She mustn’t pass out, but every cell in her brain wanted to succumb to the blackness.
Stevie took a breath of the poisoned air. She was about ten metres from the surface now; she could see the hull of the boat, the black fins of the other divers floating on the surface. But no one was looking down.
She released her regulator, put her finger in her mouth and bit as hard as she could.
The pain focused her mind for just long enough. Her buoyancy vest fully inflated, she began to swim like the devil for the surface, letting a small stream of bubbles escape from her lungs as she ascended, as she had been trained to do.
She felt that her lungs would burst. She mustn’t breathe in— the air in her lungs would expand as she ascended; she would make it.
The surface shimmered like a silver net, just too far away. Her vision was growing dark, as a if a storm cloud had covered the sun.
Suddenly her head broke the surface and she bobbed up with the power of the air in her vest. Stevie just managed to turn over onto her back before she lost consciousness.
When Stevie finally came to, she was in her cabin, breathing pure oxygen through a mask. The ship’s doctor was with her. The doctor, a neat man with blond hair clipped short and the physique of a battlefield soldier, put a large hand on her shoulder and told her not to stand.
‘You had carbon monoxide poisoning. The only treatment is rest and fresh air. I’ve supplemented your air with oxygen.’
Stevie nodded her thanks behind her mask.
There was a knock at the door and a steward entered carrying an enormous fruit platter. ‘Mrs Krok thought you might need some refreshment.’
The elaborate pineapple centrepiece swam in and out of focus.
‘Thank you,’ Stevie mumbled from behind the perspex.
‘Doctor . . .’ She turned her head. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s quite a common diving accident: the tanks are filled downwind of a generator exhaust or some other source of carbon monoxide. The contaminated air is compressed and then breathed at depth, concentrating the poisonous gas. You were very lucky to make it to the surface. Your poisoning was already quite severe by the time we got to you.’
Stevie coughed. Her lungs hurt and her throat felt raw. ‘So it was an accident?’
The doctor stared at her, his eyes a strange shade of swamp green. ‘It was an accident,’ he repeated quietly.
She wished she had said nothing.
‘An unfortunate instance of carelessness on the part of the diving staff,’ he continued. ‘They are to be given a refresher course on the correct procedures for filling tanks this evening, and all the remaining tanks are to be checked. Mr Krok is particularly concerned that this incident not be repeated.’
‘Of course.’ Stevie smiled wanly. ‘How kind.’
‘Lie down for another hour then see how you feel. Ring if you need anything, or if you feel worse.’
He turned to go, then stopped. ‘Oh and, Miss Duveen, Mr Krok is also most anxious that word of this unfortunate accident does not spread. You’ll be right as rain—no need to make a big fuss is there, hey?’ He glared down with his jungle eyes. ‘Be a good girl and you might even
make dinner.’
The door closed behind him and Stevie was alone. Her mind was whirling, somersaulting, clearing for patches, then fogging up again. Gradually the dive pieced itself back together—she remembered everything up until the cave, swimming in. After that . . .
Her finger was throbbing and she saw deep bite marks, a little blood. Someone had painted them in iodine. Were they hers? She measured her teeth against the bite: a perfect match.
How mysterious.
More mysterious than unexplained bite marks, however, was the contaminated air. It was something that could and did happen, especially when filling tanks in small, enclosed spaces, such as on a ship. But Stevie couldn’t help wondering . . . She recalled Megrahi’s stare as she floated in the sea, ready to go down. Had it really been an accident?
What a simple way to get rid of a nosy guest—an unfortunate diving accident, the body never found, deepest regrets. Stevie knew she could easily have ended up lost to the big blue.
But surely she was imagining things. Why would Megrahi want to kill her? She was nothing to him. Unless it was on Krok’s orders . . .
Krok was a man who killed for nothing, a voice reminded her, and her nosiness might be enough. Had she really rung Krok when she had dialled the number of the anonymous caller? She couldn’t be sure, but given the location Josie had confirmed it was hard to deny the strong possibility. And someone had noticed her interest in the nautical charts . . .
Once suspicions were aroused, how simple to find out that Stevie worked for a risk assessment agency. This meant nothing in itself, but it could be enough to tip the balance against Clémence’s new little friend.
A diving accident was a wonderfully deniable way to dispose of an irritation.
There was a knock at the door and Clémence came in. She was wearing a red wig.
‘Oh, darling Stevie. How simply awful. Are you alright? I hate diving—it’s just so dangerous. I don’t know why people insist on going under like that. It’s just as wet up top, and a lot safer. Are you feeling any better?’
Stevie nodded. The oxygen was helping and she was feeling much clearer and stronger.
‘Will you join us for cocktails? It’s almost six. I hate to think of you down here all alone and everyone’s so worried. We could prop you up on pillows in the corner and you can hold court. In any case, we’re having guests. We just had a radio message from the Petrina. Essam Al-Nassar wants to pop by for a drink. You must meet him. Extraordinary eyelashes.’
Clémence was looking paler than usual, drawn despite her lively chatter. Perhaps it was the effect of the red hair . . .
‘How is Emile?’ Stevie croaked.
Clémence stared up at the tiny porthole. ‘In the playroom watching Pirates of the Caribbean.’
‘Don’t you think he’d like to join us on deck?’ Stevie asked slowly. ‘Your husband has enough guards for a whole classroom of children. Does Mr Al-Nassar have any children? Perhaps one might come and play?’
Clémence looked at Stevie as though she were a little mad.
‘It might do Emile good,’ Stevie continued, thinking of the dark eyes, blank with worry, the pale face. ‘He seems to be with adults most of the time. We can’t be much fun for him.’
‘Vaughan doesn’t like other people’s children.’ Clémence sighed and got up, shimmering in a teal blue sheath dress, a blue chiffon scarf looped casually around her throat. ‘Sometimes I’m not even sure he likes his own.’
Everyone was indeed concerned for Stevie. She was propped up on large velvet cushions, like a small string of pearls in a display case. She accepted a glass of Krug from Clémence, for reinforcements— oligarchs and arms dealers always drank Krug, Stevie noted—and found herself perfectly positioned to watch the arrival of the guests. She had heard a lot about Essam El-Nassar, notorious Saudi arms dealer, and she was keen to see the man in person.
The Petrina was visible on the horizon, a floating palace. Soon three launches came zooming into view and docked nose to tail on the sheltered side of Hercules. Music could be heard, the quick, plaintive tones of the Middle East, and then a group of musicians appeared on the deck—maybe ten or twelve—all swathed in red and gold chiffon. Still playing their instruments, they formed a corridor of sorts. Down this phalanx danced a dark-haired medusa dressed all in gold, undulating her wondrous belly, an enormous sapphire lodged in her navel. She wore tiny cymbals on her fingers and the toes of her hennaed feet were adorned with golden rings. Then she tossed her head back and began to sing, her beautiful voice warm in the soft night air.
Two more dancers followed, tossing rose petals behind them as they swayed and swirled, perfuming the air with each spin, sandalwood and rosewater. Then Essam Al-Nassar and his wife Lamia appeared.
He was a small man, rotund, dressed in a dark suit, his feet neatly shod in patent leather. He looked more like a prosperous shopkeeper than the King of All He Surveyed, but there was no doubting the charm and energy that radiated from every pampered pore.
His wife Lamia was almost his physical opposite: a tall, buxom blonde with enormous hair and cool, blue, almond-shaped eyes. Her magnificent décolletage cradled a massive diamond, emerald and ruby necklace; she wore earrings to match, and a diamond wedding ring that covered the entire lower half of her ring finger.
She had been born Laura Donata in Milan and had met Al-Nassar at only seventeen. Like his first wife Petrina, she changed her name and became a Muslim when she married Al-Nassar.
Stevie was transfixed; despite the über-wealth she quite often found herself surrounded by, Lamia took things to the next level: there was not even a nod to modesty of any kind. More was definitely more.
The couple headed for Clémence, and Al-Nassar took his hostess’ hand in both of his. ‘I beg your forgiveness for this intrusion and hope you will accept a small token of my appreciation for your hospitality.’ He handed Clémence a long, slim box. She opened it and held up a massive ruby necklace.
Clémence smiled graciously and kissed Lamia on both cheeks. ‘Quite unnecessary, I assure you,’ she murmured, and swept her guests towards the most comfortable divan.
Stevie overheard Al-Nassar’s silken, rosewater voice continue the serenade of apology.
‘Our musicians and servants are here to allay any distress the intrusion of our party might have caused you, dear Clémence. You must sit by me and enjoy this magnificent Mediterranean evening.’
Al-Nassar had, of course, brought his own security men, who melted into the shadows. Stevie wondered if there was a vessel anywhere as well protected as Hercules at that moment.
Krok was standing by Clémence, deep in conversation with a tall, impeccably dressed young man who seemed to be Al-–Nassar’s right hand this evening. Clémence’s husband appeared quite relaxed for a change, even smiled at his companion. The two men were soon joined by Skorpios, dressed in a crisp white shirt and a double-breasted navy blazer; he and Al-Nassar’s man looked to be old friends.
Stevie’s unease returned. She wanted very much to hear their conversation. The smiles had gone and the men were obviously talking business. Al-Nassar sat discreetly to one side, within earshot, Stevie had no doubt, yet for all intents and purposes merely engaged in exchanging social niceties. Stevie was fascinated by the magnetic little man’s cunning, and the obvious adoration he engendered in those around him. Stevie caught Clémence’s eye, and she waved Stevie over. Angelina appeared beside their hostess, a vision in forest-green silk and a feathered headdress.
‘Darling, can you walk?’ called Clémence.
Stevie stood and swayed a little. One of the Hercules crew immediately appeared at her side and took her arm. Stevie actually felt fine, if a little weak, but she realised she could learn a lot from Clémence’s strategy, and decided it could be to her advantage at this point to appear more fragile than she really was. She kissed Angelina hello, willing the diva to remember her promise.
Clémence turned to Angelina, ‘You two know each other?’
‘Oh yes,’ replied the diva. ‘Stevie was the most wonderful travelling companion when I went on that dreadful cruise. She kept me sane.’ Angelina’s face betrayed nothing, not even the tiniest flicker, and Stevie knew her secret was safe.
Essam Al-Nassar really did have the most extraordinary eyelashes she had ever seen. And very polished manners. Stevie sat back in her chair, as wan and pale as a Regency heroine, and smiled at the room in general.
‘We almost lost poor little Stevie this afternoon—it was terrifying.’ Clémence made her sound like a small dog, or a pair of precious sunglasses.
‘I’m fine.’ Stevie placed a hand on her chest, her cherry-red nail beds and bright red lips giving her a slightly vampiric quality and heightening her frailty.
‘Yes, too terrible,’ Clémence continued. ‘One minute she was happily jumping into the water with all the others to go diving, the next she was bobbing around unconscious.’
Lamia covered her voluptuous mouth with a jewelled hand. ‘How dreadful. I could never go under the water. The fish frighten me.’
‘My wife has ichthyophobia, you see,’ Al-Nassar chimed in. ‘The unfortunate condition confines her to swimming pools.’
‘Oh, much safer,’ murmured Clémence, and she hastily summoned the chief steward and instructed him to ensure no fish was served at dinner. She glanced nervously up at her husband, but he appeared to be taking no notice of her.
With eyes half closed and ears pricked, Stevie strained to hear what Skorpios was saying to Krok and Al-Nassar’s man.
‘The cargo of helicopters that disappeared off Puntaland last week has been, shall we say, “found”, stingers and all.’
Krok took a swipe at his whisky. ‘Somalia. The place is filthy with pirates.’ He glared at Skorpios a moment, then turned back to the other man. ‘The Morning Star of Panama—one ship among over twenty hijacked in the last three months.’
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