The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

‘Thank you,’ Stevie said, ‘I might do that.’

  Osip excused himself, saying he had a windsurfing appointment with a friend in Baia Sardinia. He kissed Stevie on both cheeks and left the party.

  Stevie stood and walked about. She didn’t feel like dancing; she wanted to learn more about Krok and his world. Three men in pale linen trousers and light summer jackets were seated at the far end of the pergola. They were deep in discussion, their eyes hidden by sunglasses, although the sun had far passed its brightest point and the light under the bougainvillea was dim. One of them was Dado Falcone, the other was Skorpios.

  Stevie’s instincts told her these were the men whose conversation would be most useful, but she could hardly just sidle up, yawn, and lie down under their lounge chair, no matter how innocent she looked.

  Then she had a thought.

  Many of the houses on the Costa Smeralda, having been built by the same handful of architects, had similar features. One of them, as was the case at Lu Nibaru, was sunken bathrooms with low windows opening up at terrace-floor level. Many a conversation had been accidentally overheard because of this unlikely design. It was possible that the Falcones’ villa might have such a bathroom. There was a window not too far from one of the men’s feet.

  Stevie slipped into the house and followed the cool terracotta steps down. The bathroom was on her left and she opened the door with great caution. Sure enough, through the window high above the toilet, she could see a tan loafer, a silk sock in pale pink. She twisted the handle on the window to open it, silent as a hummingbird, then lowered the cistern lid and sat.

  Anyone peeking in would be embarrassed to find a young lady engaged in private business.

  Fortunately for Stevie, the men spoke Italian, rather than a regional dialect that she would have found impossible to understand.

  Dado dropped a lit match and she smelt cigar smoke. ‘When times are economically uncertain, it’s unwise to offend one of your best customers. The man may be a vulgarian, but he buys more of my systems than Germany or France. It is the relationship, not the man, that I nurture.’

  ‘But, Dado, you have no idea where he on-sells your systems to, nor to whom. He’s a mercenary, not a registered arms trader. I can only imagine he sells to places where others won’t.’ Stevie craned her neck to get a better view. Dado’s confederate was a man with thick white hair—a shock of snow above his tanned face. ‘I’ve heard he runs barges off the coast of West Africa—floating gun supermarkets for anyone who wants them. Think about the customers: from Sierra Leone, Nigeria, the Congo. The picture is not a pretty one.’

  ‘Someone will always sell to a pariah,’ a third man’s voice broke in. Although Stevie couldn’t see his face from where she was sitting, she recognised Skorpios’ Greek-accented Italian.

  ‘You Swiss,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ll worry yourself white, Aldo.

  Business is business and money makes the rules. As I have more money than both of you put together, I say Krok is sound. Our syndicate finds him useful and until he is not useful, he stays.’

  The man with the white hair—Aldo the Swiss—began to protest. ‘He is not a man we can control. This new venture smacks of madness. I don’t—’

  ‘We don’t need to control him,’ Skorpios said. ‘We only need to profit from his activities. If anything goes wrong, we deny all association.’ He shrugged his giant shoulders. ‘Of course, let me remind you this is not our first time, friends; we are hardly a gathering of virgins on their wedding night.’

  There was a pause, then Dado spoke. ‘But I do agree with Aldo that the man seems to be growing less predictable. That destabilises the relationship.’

  ‘Does he still buy from you?’ Skorpios asked. ‘Does he still find customers when no one on the open market seems to be buying? Does he allow you to keep your hands perfectly clean?’

  Dado nodded.

  The Greek turned to Aldo. ‘And does he still run his money through your banks?’

  Aldo raised both hands in a gesture of resignation.

  ‘Does he still make me a fortune?’ Here Skorpios laughed.

  The three men stopped talking as a waiter brought a fresh round of espressos and a plate of colourful marzipan fruit.

  Stevie recognised Skorpios’ hand—the signet ring—take a plump sugared peach.

  ‘Besides,’ he went on, ‘the man has the best connections this side of the Pillars of Hercules. Totally clean, totally professional— even we don’t know who he is. If we did . . . well, Krok might be less useful. But I’ve seen what his men can do and it is . . . impressive.’

  ‘His connections are extraordinary.’ Dado neatly tapped the ash from his cigar into a silver pocket-ashtray.

  ‘He is linked to every villainous head of state and warlord on the planet.’ Aldo shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, profit is one thing and I don’t deny I have a love of money, but what about conscience? Things are going too far. This is completely unethical and immoral. Our profits so far have been excellent. Let’s close this door before Krok blows the building down with us in it.’

  Skorpios laughed again. ‘What an imagination you have, Aldo. I didn’t think the Swiss had it in them.’ Then he leant forward, his deep voice almost a whisper. ‘You can never have enough money, Aldo. Money is power. Conscience is an unnecessary mental obstacle to greatness; it troubles mere mortals. Morality, ethics, laws—what are these to people who can make their own? These things do not touch men like us.’

  Stevie, sitting as still as a stone in the bathroom, remembered their conversation in the jet above the Rub’ al Khali desert.

  Aldo set his espresso cup down, his hand trembling slightly. ‘I’m afraid I cannot include myself in your select group, Socrates. Your greed will be your undoing. As a Greek, you should well understand the concept of hubris.’

  This time there was no chuckle from the Greek, merely a dangerous silence that none of the men seemed inclined to break.

  Aldo rose. ‘There are other banks, other bankers, willing to lend a hand. My withdrawal will not affect the syndicate. I am content with my profit share so far and require no more. Please do not contact me ever again. You can rely on my absolute discretion. I know my life depends on it and the years I have left are of great value to me.’ He gave a little bow and walked away.

  Stevie, shivering in the cool dark of the bathroom, didn’t dare breathe. She had definitely overheard too much. If she got up and flushed, the men would become aware of someone nearby. She would have to stay put until they moved.

  But the two men seemed to have little intention of going anywhere.

  Skorpios lit his own cigar—a fat, stinking affair—with a delicate gold lighter that looked like a toy in his large palm.

  Dado was the first to speak. ‘Aldo has a wife, grandchildren. I think we can trust him.’

  Skorpios simply lifted his great bullfrog throat and laughed.

  9

  When Stevie awoke, the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the dark wooden shutters was already hot. Her mind was still spinning a little from her experience at the Villa Giardiniera and she needed coffee desperately. She could hear Simone in the bathroom blow-drying her hair. Possibly now was a good time to get the kitchen to herself . . .

  The shutters in the little kitchen were still closed. Stevie flung them open to the hot pink and orange bougainvillea that grew over the kitchen window, so ancient and so large that it threatened, every year, to come crashing down. She spooned coffee into the metal coffee pot then lit the gas, singeing her finger with the match.

  She could think only of Skorpios and the conversation she had overheard from the bathroom. She felt shaken—but did it really have anything to do with her assignment for Clémence? She had managed to establish that others too—even his associates—thought Krok volatile and unpredictable and dangerous. He seemed to have some new venture or deal afoot that all but the Swiss banker wanted in on.

  Clémence hadn’t returned her call and Stevie hoped she was— But
before she could finish the thought, Simone entered the kitchen, already in full make-up and high heels. Stevie looked up brightly, hiding her dismay.

  ‘Good morning, Simone. Did you sleep well?’

  Simone scratched a carefully waxed brown arm. ‘That room you’ve got us in, it’s full of bugs. I can’t sleep—I’m exhausted. And I’ve got this huge bite on my arm this morning. It’s disgusting.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  The coffee pot boiled over impatiently as Stevie found two old blue cups. She held the pot aloft. ‘I’ve just made coffee. Will you have some?’

  Simone wrinkled her nose, shook her head and opened the fridge. ‘Does nobody in this country eat, like, pancakes for breakfast? We tried to get brunch yesterday and it was impossible. I thought Italy was supposed to have this amazing food, but you can’t even get poached eggs for breakfast.’

  Stevie made a sympathetic face. ‘I don’t think Italians are big breakfast people. They generally just do coffee, maybe a biscuit or a pastry. Eggs aren’t breakfast food here.’

  Simone stared at Stevie as though she had just explained that earthworms were considered a most sophisticated aperitivo in Sardinia.

  A manicured hand extracted the milk carton from the fridge. ‘And that’s the other thing—the use-by date on the milk here is so close. It’s practically off.’ Simone’s large diamond gleamed in the sunlight. ‘Actually, I will have coffee.’

  As Stevie filled Simone’s cup, she wondered at her house guest’s lack of grace. Simone had had every material advantage: two loving parents, a university education, every luxury she could think of, and yet she had managed to slide through life without picking up any manners.

  Stevie stood on one leg, resting the other on her knee, and cocked her head in thought. Perhaps it was because Simone came from a slave culture, having grown up with housemaids and drivers and porters that her parents never taught her to respect; perhaps it was this attitude that Simone was unfortunately exporting from her home town into the wider world.

  ‘What are you and Mark doing today?’ asked Stevie, praying they were planning an excursion of some hours’ duration.

  Simone began fanning herself exaggeratedly with her hands. ‘Bloody Mark, he’s a lazy shit.’ She plopped heavily onto the kitchen stool. ‘It’s too hot here, I can’t move, let alone leave the house. I can’t believe you don’t have—’

  ‘Perhaps you should try the hammock. It’s quite cooling.’ And with that Stevie refilled her own coffee cup and fled to the roof terrace, where she could contemplate the bay in peace.

  The sounds of gay laughter drifted over from the Barone’s. On the roof terrace, three young women in brightly coloured bikinis were sunning themselves on raffia mats: Nicolette, Marie-Thérèse, and Severine—straight out of a Slim Aarons photograph. Stevie admired the fact that the crasser aspects of modernity had not touched the French women next door. They lived suspended in a universe of elegance and beauty and utter self-containment.

  A yelp of pain, followed by several curses, disturbed her thoughts. It had come from the terrace below. Stevie peeked over. Simone was headed for the hammock and, waddling on her heels to keep her freshly painted toenails out of the dirt, she had stepped on a thorn.

  Stevie watched her reverse her backside awkwardly up to the hammock then raise one leg unsteadily into the cloth sling. She lay back gingerly and lifted her other foot carefully off the ground . . . Suddenly, balance lost, the hammock twisted violently, trapping Simone. She now lay upside down like a candy in a wrapper, with only her painted feet sticking out. Her cries, muffled by the thick cloth, were barely audible, and struggle was pointless.

  Stevie took a small sip of her coffee and allowed herself a moment of silent delight, then she crept her wicked way back to the kitchen.

  A message from Henning was waiting on her phone: tea at eleven at the the Yacht Club Costa Smeralda. Stevie’s reluctance to meet Henning’s mother had faded somewhat in light of her pressing need leave the house and its guests.

  What should she wear? she wondered. Nothing too outrageous; Henning’s mother was quite possibly old and frail. She decided on a raw silk shift dress the colour of raspberry sorbet and some flat snakeskin sandals.

  At the appointed time, she pulled up outside the yacht club, a sleek affair in granite, all sharp, clean lines, limestone floors and large canvas umbrellas. The yacht club had been founded in 1967 by His Highness the Aga Khan and sailing was taken very seriously here; the Rolex Cup, the Swan Cup, the Loro Piana Superyacht Regatta and many other prestigious international yacht races were held there every year.

  Stevie, feeling unaccountably nervous about meeting Henning’s mother, made her way slowly to the terrace.

  A waiter appeared.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ Stevie greeted him. ‘I’m meeting . . .’ Henning had forgotten to mention his mother’s name. She cast about wildly.

  ‘Henning’s mother, darling.’ A tall, slender woman stood and waved from a corner table. ‘I’m over here.’

  It was hard to get an impression of Henning’s mother as she was mostly covered by a giant yellow sunhat of supreme elegance.

  ‘Stevie.’ She held out both hands and smiled.

  Up close, Stevie noticed the razor-sharp profile, the high swelling of the cheekbones, the fine, painted mouth. Henning’s mother was a Beauty in the true, old-fashioned sense of the word.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She returned the smile. ‘Henning quite forgot to mention—’

  ‘My name is Iris,’ said Henning’s mother. ‘But call me I. Everyone does.’

  ‘Does that ever get confusing?’ asked Stevie as they sat.

  ‘Only for people who don’t know their own mind.’ Iris smiled again. ‘Will you have a drink?’

  By now, Stevie felt sufficiently awed by this woman to long for something stronger than tea. But she could hardly—

  ‘Due gin and tonics por favor, garçon, and charges-les,’ Iris called out to the hovering waiter.

  Stevie wondered for a moment if Iris had Henning’s uncanny ability to guess her thoughts, and sincerely hoped not.

  ‘So, Henning is in Atlantis or Constantinople or Alexandria or somewhere else impossible—as usual—and I suppose he must have thought I was the next best thing to his company. Poor Stevie. I’ll bet you didn’t feel like having tea with an old lady when you got up this morning.’

  Oh dear.

  ‘I absolutely did, I.’

  ‘Well, I’ll try to be interesting.’ Iris grinned under her sunhat.

  Stevie stared at the bracelet circling Iris’ left wrist. It was made of gleaming jet and studded not with jewels, but with seashells of all sizes and shapes. The effect was wild—half gladiator, half Neptune’s nymph.

  ‘It’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?’ Iris glanced at her arm. ‘I had it made especially. Jewels can sometimes feel ordinary, don’t you think? And when you’re by the sea, it feels quite appropriate to wear shells.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Stevie agreed. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’

  ‘Of course, it has a pourquoi.’ She slipped off the bracelet to reveal a tattoo of a Japanese dragon in fiery red, yellow and blue, circling her wrist where the bracelet had been. ‘Sometimes I like to show him, sometimes I like to keep him under wraps.’ She smiled at Stevie, looking at her closely.

  Their drinks arrived and Iris raised her glass. ‘I am happy you came for tea, Stevie. Henning talks about you, you know. I wanted to meet the girl who takes up so much of his attention.’

  Stevie felt Iris’ gaze hot on her and couldn’t help blushing.

  ‘We went through quite an adventure together. I think it brings you closer.’

  ‘But not close enough, it seems.’ Iris’ eyes were still on her.

  Stevie took a very large sip of her gin and tonic, then another. ‘I adore Henning. He is a remarkable man.’

  Iris said nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry if that sounded trite, I. To be honest,’ Stevie co
ntinued, ‘I’m still quite confused about what happened. We get on desperately well, and yet . . .’ She trailed off, then tried again. ‘I feel so close to him, and yet I also feel I know nothing about him. It makes me nervous.’

  Possibly the gin was making her say more than she should, and yet Stevie felt comfortable with Iris and she hadn’t talked to anyone about Henning. It was almost a relief.

  ‘Even I don’t always understand Henning, and he’s my son.’

  Iris laughed. ‘Henning is my youngest. His two older brothers run the shipping company we inherited from Timo, their father, and they’re rather good at it—serious boys, dedicated to the family business. Henning is different.’ Iris took a small sip of her drink. ‘He’s always marched to his own beat, that boy. Of course, he has the money to do anything he wants in the world, but he loves his musty old books and manuscripts with a passion. Every now and then, we dust him off, pop him in a smart suit and send him round to talk to our clients. He’s a wonderful figurehead for the family and the most charming of my boys. He smooths feathers and launches ships and generally spreads the family presence around the globe.’

  ‘Sounds like a good job . . . I had no idea.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you anything?’ Iris was surprised.

  Stevie shook her head. ‘I didn’t even know he had brothers, or that his father died . . . ’ Stevie’s voice trailed off as she thought of her own parents. She turned back to the conversation. ‘There was one thing he would never tell me about: the tattoo he has of the owl.’ Stevie saw it in her mind’s eye, the bird on his finely muscled forearm.

  Iris smiled. ‘Yes. He has what you might call a real fellow-feeling with the creatures. He says they symbolise the ability to see things that are hidden. They represent freedom, insight and swiftness, but also stealth, secrets and deception. They say owls see without seeing, and can hear what is unspoken.’

  Stevie smiled. ‘That sounds exactly like Henning.’

  ‘So maybe you know him better than you think.’ Iris placed her glass on the table and sat back. ‘Is it a matter of courage?’