The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

  A single crystal drop fell from the chandelier into Clémence’s balloon glass of cognac. A smoking hole was left, round and perfect, in the panelled timber ceiling above her head. The glass in Clémence’s hands began to shake. Stevie saw Marlena reach over and take it out of her sister’s hands, place it on the side table. The twins exchanged a glance that, to Stevie, was unreadable.

  Stéphane leant towards Clémence. ‘Are you alright?’ he whispered.

  Clémence forced a tight little laugh, ‘Of course. It’s just the gun . . . I hate guns—hate the noise, the smell, can’t bear to touch them.’ She reached for her glass and took a sip. ‘No doubt why Vaughan insists on firing them for party tricks,’ she added, and smiled at the room in general.

  Krok was laughing now. ‘It’s much more fun with other people’s lives,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’ Then, his eyes on Stéphane and Clémence, he added, ‘Don’t look so shocked. My wife will tell you I’m only joking.’ He smiled like a crocodile. ‘What shall we play first? I have every game you can think of and lots you can’t. Battleships, quinze, poker, boules, backgammon, pai gow, roulette, craps, Monopoly, World Domination . . .’ His eyes were ablaze with genuine enthusiasm. This mad love of games was a trait that might have humanised someone else, could maybe have made them more endearing. It only made Krok creepier.

  Stevie was not the only person who felt this, it seemed. In the saloon full of people, not a peep could be heard. Men leant back and lit cigarettes, women sipped daintily at their drinks and smiled in their jewels, but no one said a word. Not even Stéphane, dependable lubricator of every social situation.

  Krok’s talent for cruelty now displayed itself, his antennae obviously subtle and sensitive despite the boorish impression he had crafted. He homed in on Stevie.

  ‘You. Pick a game.’

  Stevie felt the familiar flush of terror—hot then cold all over. She straightened up, breathed, and raised her chin. Bullies were more dangerous if you cowered.

  She only remembered the rules to two games: Charades and Snap. She glanced over at Skorpios’ huge brown paw resting on the table nearby, the heavy signet ring, and she recoiled. ‘Charades,’ she said in a clear voice, her skin prickling with self-consciousness as the room turned its face to her. ‘Let’s play Charades.’

  The silence deepened. Stevie continued to hold her chin high, backing her suggestion with a confidence she did not feel in the slightest.

  Krok stared at her. Finally, just as her neck was about to crick painfully in its unnaturally assertive position, he smiled and barked: ‘You heard the bird. Charades.’

  The game was to be played in two teams, with each person choosing the title of a movie, a book, a song or a play, writing it on a slip of paper and popping it into a silver bowl on the table. The titles on the slips of paper were kept secret from those in the other team. It took a while to form the teams. It seemed people could not decide whether it was better to be on Krok’s team, or playing against him; the matter was finally decided by the steward.

  At one point, Stevie did wonder whether there wasn’t something to Krok’s theory—that you could tell a man by the way he played a game. She was on the opposing team to Krok, with Angelina, Stéphane, Dado, Princess Loli, Lamia, Professor White, Aristo and Clémence. Megrahi and the right hand were nowhere to be seen.

  Angelina, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her wound bandaged, chose Ophelia—which technically was a personage and not a play or a movie or a book, but it suited her idea of herself: tragic, gorgeous love suicide. Stevie wondered for a moment how she would pull off such an unlikely casting . . . However, Angelina was not La Dracoulis for nothing. With a gesture, the swelling Greek womanhood disappeared and in its place appeared the lovesick girl. Without moving from her spot by the grand piano, she conveyed Ophelia’s madness, her fragility, her devastated heart, her wretched death by drowning.

  The other team was busy guessing, spirits and voices buoyed by the cognac and the miracle of talent before them. Then a voice louder than all the others called out: ‘My wife.’

  Patchy laughter.

  Krok continued, ‘Ask her where she got that scar on her wrist.’ He barked out his laugh. This time only Marlena joined in, although she seemed to be laughing for a different reason, her gaze on Krok and not her sister. Several pairs of eyes drifted to Clémence’s wrists. Stevie’s followed; Krok’s wife did indeed have a vertical scar on her left wrist . . .

  Had Clémence been lying to her?

  Clémence must have seen Stevie’s hesitation. Her own face was brittle and pale, and showed nothing. ‘A bicycle accident, Stevie,’ she said stiffly. ‘When I was a child.’

  Marlena lit a cigarillo and threw back her head, exposing her pale, slender neck—so vulnerable to slitting or strangling, thought Stevie. She caught a whiff of Marlena’s perfume, violets and something . . . Unusual and slightly bitter, it suited her. Marlena blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it ascend. ‘O for Ophelia,’ she announced lazily, drawing Krok’s attention away from his wife. ‘Am I right?’ She knew she was, Stevie thought; Marlena was a master of charades.

  The sound of outboard motors interrupted the game. Krok lifted his bull head from the bowl of his glass and almost smiled. He got up and left the saloon without a word. A few of the guests followed, including Stevie.

  Out on deck, the noise was louder—it sounded like several dinghies close by . . . Krok stood, ham hands resting heavily on the rail, gazing out to the black sea. There were no lights visible, no boats. Nothing.

  Al-Nassar said something over his shoulder and his right hand appeared. The man stepped up to the rail, closer to Krok. The sound of engines was growing louder—deafening almost—but still there was nothing to see. More guests had gathered on deck by now, drawn by the vibration of the motors.

  A shout from the darkness, sudden synchronised silence, a feather-bump on the hull of the Hercules.

  Krok held a hand aloft—then dropped it like a flag. A floodlight exploded the sea, the deck, and the glittering guests with light.

  Below them in the water bobbed a monster the likes of which Stevie had never seen before: a single Zodiac inflatable, about twelve metres long, painted white-pointer grey, and powered by eight three-hundred-horsepower Evinrude engines. It had been custom-fitted with massive fuel tanks and was designed to have a low profile in the water. Stevie understood straight away what it was: a high-speed, uncatchable smugglers’ craft.

  ‘It’s light, it’s fast, it’s unsinkable. We’ve had similar inflatables running across the English Channel three times a week—just a blur on the coastguard radar. Not one caught yet.’ Krok spoke directly to Al-Nassar. ‘The beauty is you can beach these, run them right up. Takes the hassle out of offloading your cargo. And they’ll catch anything they chase.’ Krok’s eyes glinted in the reflected light. ‘I call them “Medusas”.’

  ‘How much?’ It was the first time Al-Nassar had spoken outside the cocktail-social context.

  Krok hooded his eyes, looked a little bored, contemptuous about talking money. ‘In US dollars, about seven hundred thousand. How many does your client want?’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘We might even do a little discount for orders over a certain number.’

  The right hand said something to his boss in a low voice; Al-Nassar replied in the same hushed tone. It was the right hand who spoke. ‘Impressive, Mr Krok, indeed. And yet we have not seen them in action. What can they do? We feel our clients would need to be . . . convinced before they would confide their operations to vessels such as these. Fibreglass craft have done just as well so far.’

  Krok snorted. ‘Fibreglass is too visible, too vulnerable. Fine for the Caribbean rum runners, but this is a step into another league.’ He puffed on his cigar. ‘I will blow their towel-head minds with this.’ The right hand visibly stiffened, then relaxed at a soft gesture from one of Al-Nassar’s perfect little hands.

  ‘Prove it,’ the arms dealer said softly.

  Krok stared at him
, each assessing the other’s intent. The right hand’s phone rang, breaking the deadlock.

  He answered in abrupt Arabic. As he listened, his eyes grew dark with displeasure. He said a few harsh words that Stevie could not understand, then relayed something to his boss in softer tones.

  Al-Nassar pursed his lips and gave a wave of his hand. ‘Dump them,’ he said in English.

  Krok turned to the guests still marvelling at the monster below. ‘The show’s over, folks, as they say. Champagne and dessert in the saloon.’ Krok’s guests took the hint and began drifting back into the saloon. Only Stevie remained, hidden in the shadows.

  ‘The ship that is transporting the SAMs for our African client has been spotted,’ Stevie heard Al-Nassar explain quietly. ‘The Corsican coastguard is following it.’

  ‘Someone must have tipped them off . . .’ The right hand’s voice was bitter. Al-Nassar made a tiny movement with his hand and his man stepped back.

  ‘Our client will be very . . . disappointed, I am afraid.’

  ‘You have a transportation issue. I am in the transportation business.’ Krok narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you want me to fix this problem?’

  ‘In exchange for a direct line to him, I presume.’

  ‘Of course. An introduction and a recommendation he source through STORM exclusively.’

  Al-Nassar nodded minutely. ‘It is done.’

  Krok smiled, called out for Marlena. She appeared at Krok’s side almost immediately and he spoke to her in a low voice, his words inaudible to Stevie. Then he addressed the right hand. ‘Tell Muammar to check his Christmas stocking tomorrow evening.’ He smirked, triumphant.

  Stevie, invisible to all, watched from the shadows as Marlena stripped off her cashmere shawl and, in her tight black jeans and shimmering midnight-blue blouse, leapt down into the boat. The driver—a figure in black—stepped aside deferentially. She tied an Hermès scarf tightly around her head and fired up the engines as if she had done this before. Many times.

  Moorings were cast off and the engines roared into life, deafening the spectators. The Zodiac peeled off at high speed, a wall of wake leaping up behind, then racing towards the Hercules and coming to crash like surf against the hull. Then Marlena and the monster were gone.

  ‘Someone must have tipped them off,’ the right hand said again, out of earshot of Al-Nassar, his laser gaze directed at Krok. Krok merely laughed in his face, threw the cigar stub overboard and went back inside.

  That night Stevie slept fitfully, her slumber filled with vivid dreams that made her cry out in terror. When she woke around three, the moon was shining in her porthole and her face was wet with tears. There were demons at work inside her that she had never faced, never managed to quell, and when she was tired or tense or otherwise vulnerable they came to her: the memories of her parents, of their murder, of all the blood she had seen in Russia, of the heartaches, people lost, loves lost . . . When the pink of dawn came it was a relief and Stevie swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She took a cool shower, clearing her head of the night’s turmoil. The sea outside was as still and perfect as a lake, mirroring the pale pinky-blue of the sky. Remembering Marlena’s departure the night before, Stevie decided to take a jet ski out to see what she could find. She doubted there would be anything to see, but she needed action to drive the shadows of the night from her mind, and it was as good a plan as she could think of that morning.

  All the jet skis aboard were gold. The man needed to be seen—she hadn’t realised that about Krok initially: he was vain as all hell. She took off fast and roared out onto the sea, heedless of the rocks which were clearly visible under the glassy surface; the jet ski’s draft was too shallow to be bothered by them. She let herself enjoy the speed and the warm air and the feeling that she was leaving everything behind, perhaps forever.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another craft. Following her? She turned up the throttle; Krok’s jet skis were fast. So was the one racing behind her. A prickle of fear—the memory of the near-fatal dive was fresh.

  She could outrun it, she thought, if she had to. But where to run to? Was the Hercules safe for her?

  Far out to sea, a dim blur grew into a boat. Stevie headed for it. Perhaps safety lay that way. As she drew nearer, she could see it was a white luxury motor cruiser, almost indistinguishable from so many other day boats in the Med. But it appeared to be drifting. There was no anchor chain—it was too deep anyway—and the engines were switched off. Stevie forgot the jet ski behind her and headed straight for the cruiser. Perhaps those aboard were in trouble.

  Circling the boat, she could see no sign of life. She drove up to the stern and cut the engine, drifting in. She called out but there was no reply. There was no ladder either, and the platform was up, making it difficult to board. She pushed her way along to the starboard side, now hidden from the direction she had come, fastened the jet ski, stood up on the seat and grabbed the lowest rail. She could just reach. She swung her tiny frame up and clambered successfully—if rather gracelessly—aboard. She could hear no movement, see no sign of people on board. Curious. Her skin prickled again. Something was wrong . . .

  The sound of another jet ski pulled her thoughts away from the mysterious ship. Her pursuer was approaching, heading straight for the boat. Her moored jet ski would be plainly visible to anyone circling the boat. Stevie crouched down out of sight and grasped the diving knife she wore strapped to her calf. She hoped it would not come to that. Her training was all very well, but she had yet to stab anyone for real. Although, she reminded herself, she had come very close that night in the Swiss sanatorium . . .

  The sound of the engine was upon her. Steve peeped from a hole in the rail. The jet ski in pursuit was purple—not one of Krok’s. Who then?

  There was a soft bump against the hull, the cutting of the engine. The top of a man’s head and one shoulder appeared over the rail. Stevie’s heart jumped. She would recognise that shoulder anywhere.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She leapt over to Henning.

  Henning vaulted the rail in one quick move and grinned at her. ‘I knew what you would do—I had a hunch you’d head out to try and discover where Marlena went in that beast of a boat last night. Turns out I was right. I had planned to do the same thing myself. Too curious to stay away . . .’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here I suppose.’ Stevie bent to sheath her knife. ‘Although you gave me a scare. I thought someone was chasing me.’

  ‘Well,’ Henning winked, ‘someone is. But you know that already.’ He smiled again, eyes hard on her.

  Steve grew warm. She was unprepared for such a sally. Her knife was of no use in this situation. She looked into Henning’s ice blue eyes, gaze glancing down and off the two smooth brown shoulders, the finely muscled arms, the tattoo of an owl in full flight on his inside forearm. She swallowed hard: it wasn’t even seven am and she wanted him. There was no hiding from that. She wanted him with every cell in her body, here on this abandoned yacht, this ghost ship, with all its dangers and its menace.

  She moved imperceptibly closer to him and suddenly Henning’s arms were around her, holding her so tight it was hard to breathe.

  His breath was warm in her hair as he whispered, ‘My god, how I’ve missed you, little bird.’

  For a second, Stevie wanted to sink for eternity into this moment, to be held by Henning forever, the world be damned. Then she shook herself. Focus, Stevie. Open that door again and you may never be able to shut it. Not a second time. There is too much behind it. Things had almost got out of hand after Russia but she had managed to slam the hatch shut after a torrid few days—run away might be a better way to describe it. She could still remember him calling after her in the bahnhof as she bolted for the train, love in his voice, amusement: ‘Run, Stevie. But I will catch you. It is only a matter of time, my darling.’

  She had not seen him in the months before Sardinia. The fact that he had not insisted, that after a few phone calls that Stevie had not answ
ered he had stopped calling, had made it easier to get him out of her head. But seeing him again like this brought all her feelings flooding back. She was capable of anything out on this slate-smooth sea. It was a most extraordinarily dangerous position to be in and Henning must absolutely not guess any of it. If he did, he might try to persuade her to change her mind, to come back, and she might find herself unable to refuse.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Where is everyone?’ Her voice was husky. She coughed. Everything now depended on breaking this mad and unwelcome spell. Fortunately she was wearing her sunglasses; she hoped it would be enough to stifle Henning’s rather uncanny ability to read her mind. She turned away and headed for the gangway. Whatever dangers lay below were less, at that moment, than the ones that lay within.

  Henning put a hand on her arm. ‘Wait.’ He slipped past her, torso just brushing her shoulders. ‘I’ll go first.’ He crept nimbly down the stairs, moving surprisingly quickly, Stevie thought. But then, there was just so much about him that she still didn’t know.

  On the table in the cabin below were the remnants of someone’s dinner—two people; flat bread, some soft cheese, tabouleh.

  ‘It seems they left in a great hurry.’ Stevie sniffed an empty glass. ‘Arak,’ she said. ‘So they were Middle Eastern, maybe North African, at a guess.’

  ‘A good one.’ Henning nodded to the Mars Légères cigarette packet lying empty beside the ashtray. ‘I know they smoke those in Tunisia.’ He headed below to check the cabins but reappeared quickly. ‘Not a soul. But I did find piles of clothes lying about— men’s clothes.’

  Henning fired up a computer sitting in the corner. ‘Everything seems to have been wiped,’ he said finally.

  Henning and Stevie split up and combed the ship for clues, meeting up in the hold a few minutes later. It was empty save for a few old towels and some rope that had been recently cut. Stevie held up a small piece of straw. ‘Packing straw?’