The music from the orchestra stopped; Angelina seemed to be moving into herself, retreating from the party, gathering herself in readiness to sing. Stevie and Rice joined the guests at the windows and waited for the diva to begin. Stevie, from force of habit more than anything, scanned the crowd. She spotted Clémence and Stéphane, behind elaborate sequinned creations; Krok was nowhere to be seen. Then her eyes bounced off a familiar cut of shoulder, an old dinner jacket in midnight blue with the smallest moth hole, a familiar silk shirt the colour of milk . . . her heart gave a tiny leap. Henning. It gave another leap as she took in the willowy blonde on his arm. Even with a mask, Stevie could tell the woman was beautiful. She carried herself that way, and her shoulders were perfect. Stevie was surprised to find that a tiny flame of jealousy had ignited inside her and was threatening to blaze. She glanced quickly away and up at David. His eyes, too, were searching the room, but they did not seem interested in willowy blondes.
Rice’s gaze came to rest on a man who stood right at the front, to the side, in a velvet dinner jacket, his thick white hair standing out against his dark skin, and combed back on either side of a distinctive widow’s peak. He had, thought Stevie, the face of a hawk: sharp curved nose, thin lips, eyes hidden behind a red satin band—a predator. He wore his trousers an inch too short, showing his red socks and a pair of velvet slippers embroidered with a skull and crossbones. It could only be Sacheverel. The man certainly had a sense of theatre, Stevie deduced, and went to a deal of trouble to produce the right effect; he was a man who had the money and leisure to do it properly.
La Dracoulis breathed and raised her eyes; the crowd immediately fell silent. And she began to sing, low notes hovering in the warm air like an uncertain hummingbird, before gathering strength and conviction and soaring to celestial heights. Stevie felt the hairs on her arms raise as Angelina sang of Euridice and the price of love, here in this pirate’s lair on the canal. Stevie noticed the man in the purple mask again, close to the front; she saw the signet ring with the golden scorpion and realised why she knew him: Skorpios. Of course. Half-hidden behind another mask, all white, was Dado Falcone.
A tray of drinks passed by, held high by another powdered footman. Rice took a glass of champagne for Stevie but refused anything for himself. Then, without warning, Henning was upon them. He smiled at Stevie and kissed her cheeks before she could say anything, then he turned and shook Rice’s hand. Neither man hid his suspicion of the other. Stevie was introduced to the blonde—Anastasia— and was glad her mask hid her eyes. A smile was easier to fake than a gaze.
‘What are you doing here, Henning?’ Stevie asked lightly. ‘I thought you were going to Athens.’
Henning gestured towards the crowd and Stevie caught sight of Iris’ unmistakable silhouette. ‘My mother can be quite persuasive, as you know.’
Stevie did not reply.
Sacheverel was heading towards them and Henning, sensing he was not wanted, elegantly removed himself and his Anastasia. Stevie made a concerted effort not to turn and look after the sinuous blonde.
‘Rice,’ announced Sacheverel.
David nodded but the two men, Stevie noticed, did not shake hands. They were the same height and had a similar build, although Sacheverel had grown a small prosperous paunch that David had not. Rice did not introduce Stevie.
‘Drink?’ Sacheverel gestured towards a passing waiter carrying a tray of flutes.
‘Thanks,’ David replied curtly, ‘I’ll wait until I can get a whisky.’
Sacheverel nodded to the waiter who went off in search of a bottle.
‘So, what was so important you had to see me, Sacheverel?’
‘You know exactly what or you would not have come all the way down here.’
Both men spoke cautiously, verbally circling each other, wary as cobras. Stevie noticed Sacheverel wore a large signet ring with a red city seal, unusual in a man of his class. Rice glared. Stevie wondered that the other man did not quail in the face of it. But Sacheverel was no shrinking violet, she remembered; he had served as an admiral in the navy. He met Rice’s stare head on.
‘You may have the time and inclination for games, Sacheverel. I do not.’
Sacheverel gave a small smile. He was superior and he knew it: wealthy, titled, magnificently powerful, and in possession of a full head of hair. The man was untouchable. ‘Sell me Hazard, Rice, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘What for?’ The voice was cold, toneless.
Sacheverel took a sip of his champagne. ‘I plan to expand into maritime protection—think of the possibilities.’
‘For what?’
‘Do I need to spell it out?’ His voice, thought Stevie, was odd.
‘We servicemen are dense.’
Sacheverel sighed wearily, as if the weight of dealing with such small things weighed on his shoulders every day. A man put-upon. Stevie realised what it was—the man’s voice was faintly sibilant, with the hint of a snake’s hiss. It was most unusual. ‘The pirates are frightening everyone. Given Hazard’s reputation, well, why would anyone go anywhere else?’ He took a tidy sip of his champagne and continued, ‘It’s no concern of yours what happens once the company is mine . . . is it?’
Rice kept his voice even. ‘Some of us still believe in right and wrong, in duty, in honour.’ He laid particular emphasis on the last word. ‘I know what you are planning to do, Sacheverel. Jim Clarke came to see me before his . . . accident.’
Sacheverel hesitated, then said smoothly, ‘Jim Clarke, of course. A tragic collision in the tunnel. One can’t really trust a man who has survived cerebral malaria . . .’
Rice said nothing and Stevie was proud of him; she knew he was the greater man, but she also knew he had the greater heart and sometimes that was a weakness.
Sacheverel, after a long pause, was forced to go on. ‘If you won’t sell, then join us. Many vessels carry, shall we say, “friends” as part of the crew; sometimes even the captains are in on it. They give our men details of cargo and coordinates in exchange for a slice of the pie. Lately, however, the insurance companies have been getting het up. Ever since Lloyds declared the Gulf and the Malacca Straits “war zones” for insurance purposes—we’re rather proud of our role in that actually—the companies are now insisting their more heavily insured vessels take an escort. You know, ex-marines, that sort of thing—much like, in fact, the service your outfit provides. With you as a partner, we could make sure the insurance companies hired Hazard men to guard the ship. Your men would, naturally, be lightly aggressed—for authenticity—but nothing that could not easily be compensated for with cash.’ He took another sip of his champagne and went on, ‘Your men are “taken” by our pirates, and exchanged for ransom paid by the ship owners—or rather, their insurance companies—which we would naturally share with you. You would get, say, twenty per cent of the profits from the ship and cargo itself, and—’ his eyes narrowed ‘—total deniability. We take all the risk and provide all the hardware. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.’
Stevie stood as still as ice. So that was what David had found out: Sacheverel wanted to use Hazard as a Trojan horse for his pirates. No wonder he was angry.
‘Except the ship owners and insurance companies,’ she heard him reply, ‘and the sailors injured, killed or held captive for months.’
Sacheverel waved a hand in the air, as if to music. He did not give a damn. A silence that was thick enough to repel all sounds of merriment from the party around them.
‘I despise your offer, Sacheverel.’ Rice’s voice was frigid, venomous, quiet. ‘I despise you for making it. What kind of man are you—if we can call you a man at all?’ The colour was rising to Rice’s neck.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Sacheverel spat, his upper lip curling. ‘The only man who can prove anything is dead. Your outfit is being run into the ground. You have no choice.’
‘I know what Clarke told me and I will find other ways to prove it, mark my words. I will take you down.’
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Sacheverel laughed mirthlessly. ‘There’s no need to get all heated, Rice. It’s just a mad adventure. Think of us as a band of thieves . . . If you want no part in it, so be it. It is, frankly, your loss.’ He took a glass of whisky from a passing waiter.
‘It might have started as an adventure for you, Sacheverel, but you have crossed over to the dark side. And you actually seem to be enjoying it,’ Rice added.
Sacheverel smiled again and handed David the whisky. ‘The dark side . . . you sound like the Spanish Inquisition. Drink up and enjoy yourself. It’s a party. Oh, and Rice? May the best man win.’ And Sacheverel turned on the heel of his velvet slippers and walked away.
Stevie could sense Rice’s fury bubbling beneath the cool exterior of the dinner jacket.
‘Got to get back to London,’ he murmured to himself.
‘Perhaps you should stay and have a drink, David,’ she said mildly, suddenly concerned that her boss’s rage would boil over. She put a hand lightly on his arm and felt the muscles as tense as iron. Rice stared down at her, but Stevie could tell he was not really looking at her. Then he raised the glass and downed it in one gulp.
15
It was the moment that Stevie would replay over and over in the terrible days that followed. After Rice’s collapse, an ambulance boat had been called. Stevie had leapt upon the prone figure of her hero and checked for vitals. He had stopped breathing, the pulse was so faint. Without a second’s hesitation, she tilted his great head back, pinched his nose shut and began artificial respiration. She could smell the whisky still. Was it poisoned? The thought crossed her mind as she lowered her mouth to cover his; what if it got her too? But she didn’t care. She had to save this man. Nothing mattered except the rhythm of her breathing and the inflation of his chest.
She stopped her breathing a moment to check again for a pulse. Nothing. The adrenaline in her blood was cold; she felt no fear, no shock, saw none of the people standing in a ring around her. She knew what she had to do. She began CPR, her arms pumping his chest with all her strength, almost superhuman now, not caring if she fractured a rib, just willing that damn heart to start beating again.
Henning bolted towards them, tearing off his mask, the paramedics close behind. He had to physically pull Stevie off Rice’s body. Tears were pouring down her face as the paramedics leant over her boss.
They tore open David’s shirt and charged the defibrillator. Someone—Henning?—put a shawl around Stevie’s shoulders, but she shook it off. They held a glass of brandy and sugar to Stevie’s lips. The heat of the drink woke her from her trance. Rice had been loaded onto a stretcher and was being carried down the vast marble staircase by the paramedics.
‘Salvatelo!’ she cried, when she was finally able to speak. ‘Dovete salvarlo!’ Her whole body was trembling wildly after her efforts, the adrenaline pumping with nowhere to go. She got to her feet and tore down the stairs after him, her world resting on the shoulders of the men in the ambulance uniforms. Arms held her back as he was loaded onto an ambulance boat. The doors closed in the rain and Rice was ferried away; in her agony, Stevie read the name of the boat: Charon.
And now David lay dying in a hospital in Zurich. His heart had been successfully restarted by the Venetian medics and his condition had been stabilised. But the doctors had warned Stevie that the danger was far from over. Her boss was dying and needed very specific equipment that they did not have. Perhaps Rome . . .
Perhaps not, Stevie had decided. Henning had taken the matter in hand and called Rega, the Swiss medivac service. Stevie was a member, and they had sent a small plane the same day and flown him to the special hospital by the lake where David could receive the care he needed. Stevie spent hours by his bedside, holding his hand. He remained in a medically induced coma to protect his brain from further danger. The doctors gravely explained that there was no way of knowing yet if the brain or other organs had been permanently damaged. Only once he awoke—if he awoke—could anything be determined for certain.
No one could tell any more than that it had been a massive heart attack. Stevie was sure there had been foul play and insisted as much to the doctors. They had told her there was no way to tell what had caused the attack, but Stevie remained convinced that someone had poisoned her boss. The doctors tried to persuade her to go for long walks by the lake, to get out, to go home, to sleep; Henning seemed to float in and out, talking to the doctors in his precise German, bringing her food she barely touched. For two days Stevie did not leave David’s bedside, her mind churning.
On the morning of the third day, Henning appeared in the room and put a gentle hand on Stevie’s shoulder. ‘I’ve called your grandmother. She’s coming to see you.’
Stevie looked at him through a blanket of sorrow. ‘I know how he did it—Sacheverel.’
Henning’s expression of concern infuriated her. ‘I’m not crazy, Henning. I’m angry and sorry and desperately worried. Don’t look at me as if I’m mad.’
‘I’m sorry, little bird. I’m feeling much the same at the moment.’
She relented and gave him a tiny flicker of a smile that vanished like a wax match in the rain.
‘It was Sacheverel.’ Stevie’s eyes glazed over as she watched the scene replay in her mind. ‘He offered us champagne but David said he would wait for a whisky. Sacheverel put his heinous offer to David, then he took a glass of whisky from a waiter.’ Stevie’s eyes were focused on the heart monitor, but her mind was back in Venice. ‘David was so angry. We were both distracted. That’s when Sacheverel poisoned the whisky.’ Stevie looked up at Henning. ‘I remember he was wearing this massive ring on his pinkie. I thought it was a European affectation, but now I know what it was: a poison ring.’
‘You mean like the ancient Romans?’
‘Exactly. My grandmother has one in the display cabinet at her house. My grandfather bought it in Egypt in the 1920s. The stone flips up to reveal a hidden cavity. The Romans used to fill it with poison powder which they could then discreetly empty into an enemy’s glass.’
‘Do you really think so? That’s a very underhanded—’
‘That’s Sacheverel,’ Stevie snapped. ‘Who do you think we are dealing with here? A knight of the round table with definite notions of what is honourable and what is not?! The man thinks he is above us all, a law unto himself.’
Henning was quiet.
‘And the worst part is—’ Stevie’s voice broke ‘—I told David to drink it. He was so angry, I thought it might help. He downed it in one go, and I told him to do it.’
Henning said nothing for a long time.
‘It’s going to rain this afternoon,’ he said, looking out at the black clouds gathering at the far end of the lake. A summer thunderstorm.
Stevie turned to him, exasperated. ‘Did you hear anything I just said?’
Henning turned to her. ‘Yes, of course I did. But Rice’s poisoning is not your fault, Stevie, and you should be smart enough to see that. Your emotions are clouding your judgement.’
‘I’m not emotional,’ Stevie said coldly, furious. ‘Why don’t you leave me alone, Henning? I can take care of this myself. Thank you for your help but this is my concern now. I can’t think of you both. I don’t have the energy.’
‘Is that what you really want?’ Henning asked mildly.
‘Yes. Just leave. Go away. Stay away. Please.’
Henning turned away from the window. He stopped to rest a light hand on the back of Stevie’s bowed neck then headed for the door.
Stevie heard him greet someone in the doorway as he passed through it.
Stevie turned to see her grandmother. She wore her olive corduroys and a blue blouse, and came smelling of earth and apples. She hugged her granddaughter tight, saying nothing. Then Didi moved to the bed and took David’s hand.
‘You poor man,’ she said softly. ‘You poor, poor man.’
Stevie was so grateful to Didi that she felt tears well up in her eyes. That was exactly the sentiment she ha
d been looking for beneath her anger and her guilt. Didi had found it and shown her the way.
Stevie and her grandmother walked around the lake, the late summer air warm and heavy with the promise of a mountain storm. People cycled by the lake, sailed, rowed, some swam. The white and yellow striped awnings were up on the windows of the Baur au Lac, and window sills everywhere were bursting with red geraniums. Stevie told Didi everything that had happened, including her role in David Rice’s poisoning.
‘Stevie, that’s not your fault, and just as I have told David a million times that your parents’ death was not his fault, he won’t forgive himself for giving them the wrong advice. But—’ she stopped and put her arm around her granddaughter ‘—he is still alive, and where there is life, there is hope.’ Her face darkened. ‘What I am more concerned about,’ she continued quietly, ‘is what you told me about the diving accident, and the incident on the cliff top. I know you are not accident-prone. And you know it too.’
Stevie nodded. She had recounted both incidents, explaining them both away as accidents, but her grandmother was too sharp for that. She had worked in naval intelligence in the UK during the war and she didn’t believe in coincidences.
‘Do you think it was this Krok?’ the woman asked.
Stevie shook her head. ‘It makes some sense, but the accidents weren’t his style. He had so many other chances to get rid of me . . .’
‘Maybe a lackey acting on his orders?’
‘Again, I just don’t think I’d be walking here with you if Krok wanted me dead.’
The clouds had covered the sun and a gust of warm wind skimmed the lake, wrinkling the pewter-grey surface, stirring up a few early autumn leaves that had fallen to the ground. They passed the schwimmbad, renovated that winter. The swimmers and sunbathers were packing up their towels, pulling on shorts and summer dresses, glancing at the dark clouds. Time to get going.
As they passed the newsstand at the entrance, a headline caught Stevie’s eye and she stopped. ‘Didi, one moment.’ She ducked under the awning and bought a copy of the newspaper. There was a small headline on the bottom of the front page: ARMS DEALER HOIST WITH HIS OWN PETARD. She had a strange feeling, her instinct telling her who it was even before she read the article.
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