‘At least I am sensible enough not to marry my whores.’
There was a cry like that of a wounded animal. Angelina stood, sending her chair crashing to the ground. ‘Socrates!’ she screamed, then ran out of words. She turned and dashed for the door, flinging it open and launching herself into the night.
‘Angelina,’ roared Skorpios, shooting daggers at his son as he leapt to his feet to go after her.
Krok was laughing. ‘She’s as mad as Clem. Better go and stop her from throwing herself off the cliff.’
Skorpios ignored him, but he stopped at the door and turned back to his son. ‘You’re a fool, Aristo,’ he growled. ‘I would disinherit you, but you are my only son. If you don’t get rid of Marlena, I will.’ And then he too vanished into the night.
The room went suddenly very quiet; only Krok was still laughing. Stevie watched him as he leant back and lit a cigar with obvious satisfaction. The man derived a great deal of pleasure, she noticed, from other people’s discomfort—a great deal.
The conversation had only just resumed when the heavy wooden door opened once more and, like a highwayman from times of old, a figure was silhouetted against the night—a slender, billowing silhouette that swore in French and whose hips swayed when she walked.
Speak of the devil.
‘Bonsoir,’ cried Marlena. ‘Bonsoir, tout le monde.’ She circled the table, stopping only to kiss her sister. ‘Did I miss anything?’ As she looked around the room, the rubies in her ears caught the candlelight and glowed like blood. She went and sat down by her young lover, draping an arm, like a snake, casually over his shoulder.
The conversation exploded as everyone rushed to fill her in on the drama. Marlena smiled her curious smile but remained unmoved by the passion that she had incited, by Angelina’s distress. The local firewater was served in tiny glasses, the stone bottle left on the table. The party grew louder and merrier, but Skorpios and Angelina did not return. Stéphane suggested a walk on the clifftops by moonlight to feel the pirate ghosts come alive; a walk was deemed a good idea and the party set off.
As they left the restaurant, they passed an entrance to one of the narrow tunnels that ran from the base of the cliff and wound its way along the face and up to the top. ‘We’ll be out of the wind in here,’ Stéphane declared in his role as entertainment director. He did, after all, have to earn his keep.
‘Legend has it that Louis of Aragon’s troops built these secret tunnels in one night and so attacked the city unawares and took it. Probably, though, it was the monks who built them over the years to bring up water and supplies on windy days.’
The tunnels were dark and none of them had thought to bring a torch. The limestone of the walls had been worn smooth after years of footsteps, and out to sea a great yellow moon hung low over the rippling silver water. Stevie tried to imagine being on pirate watch, seeing the black outline of masts and sails on the horizon, heading for the port—the fear, the panic, the mad scramble to ready the defences. And it seemed the pirates were still at it.
As she turned to follow Stéphane in front of her, she felt a hand grab her by the upper arm and pull her back. For a moment, Stevie’s rather alcohol-addled mind imagined it was the hand of a skeleton and she jumped. Instead it was Clémence who hissed in her ear, ‘Wait for me when we exit. I need to talk to you.’
They came out at the very top of the precipice. Stevie stepped to one side and bent over her foot, as if dislodging a pebble from her shoe. The party passed her by; Clémence stepped next to her in the shadows.
‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered without preamble. ‘He’s gone too far this time.’
‘What is it?’ Stevie’s mind teemed with possibilities.
‘Vaughan’s having me admitted to a clinic when we get back.’ Stevie could hear the rising panic in her whisper. ‘A psychiatric hospital in Austria. If I go in, I know I will never come out again.’
‘So,’ Stevie said cautiously, ‘refuse to go.’
‘I can’t.’ Clémence fumbled for a cigarette in her little Fendi baguette. ‘He says if I don’t agree, he will start proceedings to have Emile taken away from his unfit mother. He can do that—he can do anything he wants. And then he will find a way to admit me against my will. Who knows what they will do to me in there?’ She turned hunted eyes on Stevie. ‘I’m trapped.’
As Clémence’s story sank in, Stevie was slowly gripped by the horror of it. Clémence’s child was being used as a weapon against her and she was powerless to protect herself or her son. Stevie now fully understood what she had meant that day when her hostess had first explained her situation.
‘Can’t you run?’ Stevie asked, knowing already what the answer would be.
Clémence didn’t even bother to reply. They both knew that Krok would find her anywhere, no matter how far she ran. Stevie did not know what to say.
They were interrupted by Krok’s bellow. ‘Clem, you mad broad, where are you? I don’t trust her around these cliffs.’ Clémence pressed her lips hard together and stared at Stevie a moment before turning and tripping up the cobbles. ‘Here, darling.’
Stevie wondered that she did not choke on the endearment. It was, she supposed, a better plan to remain seemingly acquiescent and happy for the time being. It might put Krok off his guard . . .
The man was never off his guard, Stevie reminded herself. He probably slept with one eye open.
She could not face the group just yet. She needed a moment to let Clémence’s predicament settle in her mind. The wind was fierce up on the high cliffs, almost enough to lift you off your feet. Stevie went to stand at a low wall, jutting out over the sea far below. She needed the wind to blow through her, to scour her clean of the evil that surrounded her, that was dragging her soul under. She stretched her arms out behind her and breathed in the salt air. She found she could lean slightly forward, so strong were the gusts, and the wind would hold her. She cleared her mind of all but the feel of the wind and the sound of the waves, and closed her eyes. It was almost like flying; the possibility of beauty returned slowly to the world.
In her trance, it seemed the wind reached out the softest hand to the small of her back and puffed. Stevie’s eyes flew open as she felt her balance go. Her centre of gravity was already too far forward, her arms began windmilling and her head arched back in a desperate attempt to reverse her momentum. The sea was chopped silver below—too far down for her to hope to survive a fall that no one would see.
For the longest second of her life she teetered on the edge of the Corsican cliff, suddenly feeling that she very much wanted to live. Then she fell.
It was not the graceful dive into nothingness that she had imagined in her terror; she hit rock and gravel almost straight away, and a sharp steel bar dug painfully into her thigh, but she had stopped falling. Stevie lay as still as she ever had. Not since that awful day in the back of her parents’ jeep had she felt like her entire life hung on not making the slightest movement, not making the slightest sound. She was too afraid to turn her head and see what had caught her, lest the movement disturb some fragile equilibrium and send her tumbling to finish the rest of her death fall.
She closed her eyes and began to mentally feel every inch of her body beginning with her toes. This calmed her and when she finally mustered the courage to open her eyes, she realised what had happened. Unseen below her had been the remnants of an old balcony that had succumbed to gravity and fallen into the sea. Its remains had stopped Stevie’s fall but only just. She lay on the tiniest shelf, held in place by a steel construction bar, rusted over and deadly sharp. Had she fallen differently, she might have been impaled on it.
She reached gingerly forward to touch her hands to the cliff wall. It felt solid enough. A bracket of concrete . . . she opened her eyes. The bright moon showed her the top of the cliff—was there something fluttering up there? No, a trick of the light . . .
She inched closer to the wall and took a hand-hold, then another. She did not turn around o
r look down. She began to climb the cliff like a spider, slowly, inch by inch. Her foot slipped on some loose limestone shale and her heart leapt into her mouth, almost chocking her with fear. The adrenaline was everything. She clung with her nails, feeling them tear, but not the pain of it, not caring for anything but the top of the cliff, and life.
Finally she reached her upper hand as far as she could and grasped the clean hard edge of the wall. She hauled herself up and over, and lay, panting and shaking, against it.
She was not sure how long she lay there but when she did finally rise to her feet, she was exhausted. The adrenaline had worn off and she could hardly walk down the steep cobbled streets towards the port. A dark suspicion had begun to creep across her mind: was it really the wind that had pushed her, or had someone been standing behind her? It was hard to be sure. The push, if human, had been so gentle. And the shape she had seen at the top of the cliff when she was lying on the ledge—had she imagined that? Someone had tried to kill her on the dive; it was possible that they had tried again tonight. Stevie trembled, this time from fear.
Stevie was not a naturally brave person but she did try, when circumstances presented themselves, to do what was right. Sometimes this resulted in brave acts, but for Stevie, bravery was only ever something that she recognised, in retrospect, as an act of necessity rather than choice. Right now, she did not feel at all brave. She wanted to go home to her flat in Zurich and run in the woods and swim in the ice-cold lake and drink apfelmust on her balcony in the evening, surrounded by the scent of apple trees.
The Hercules appeared below in the port, lights ablaze as always, the gangplank still extended and a man standing guard. Stevie stopped. Could she, should she, get back on board? The killer had to be someone on the ship. The risk was not worth contemplating. Suddenly she heard her name being called: a search party had obviously been sent out to find her. It would be a good chance to disappear, she thought, and ducked behind the wall of the old fort.
Let them look forever.
It was Henning who found her, asleep near the church, curled up like an alley cat. He insisted it had been purely by chance: ‘A party of us came ashore at Bonifacio, and my mother and I were the only two energetic enough to make the climb to the Old Town. Mother has a thing for churches, so we stopped. It was actually she who found you. I believe her exact words were, “Henning, darling, have you lost something?” I was a little confused, but Mother can be enigmatic at times, then she said, “I’ve found something that I think belongs to you.”’
Stevie blushed fiercely and rather angrily—much to Henning’s obvious amusement. She did not belong to anybody. But the irritation faded quickly in the light of the gratitude she felt for having been discovered by friends.
‘I must have passed out,’ she mumbled. ‘I was quite exhausted.’
‘Yes.’ Henning stared hard at her, concern in his eyes. ‘I don’t wonder. When I saw your hands . . . I knew you mustn’t return to that ship. I called Clémence and told her I’d found you asleep on the bench of the scenic lookout and that your hangover was so bad you refused to walk. I told her I would take care of you. She is having your things packed and sent over to the Petrina.’
‘They’re all off to Venice for the Biennale,’ Stevie croaked, her throat still bone dry from shock.
‘Yes, they mentioned that. I think a few of our lot are lobbying for Venice too; they’re a bit sick of the ship. They plan to check into the Danieli and drink hot chocolate for breakfast and buy crystal chandeliers for their chalets.’
They were sitting at the prow of a tender to the Petrina, looking back towards the massive cliffs, monstrous jaws now, receding behind them.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be in a hurry to visit Bonifacio again.’ Stevie smiled, but the terror had not quite left her eyes.
Henning rested a tanned hand on her knee. He understood. He always did. ‘So, will you finish your holiday in Sardinia?’ He hesitated, then added, ‘You’re very welcome to come with me to Athens, you know.’
Stevie shot him a look. ‘I was almost arrested the last time I was in Athens. I’m not in a hurry to go back there either.’
‘What on earth for?’
Stevie shook her head. ‘You don’t want to know.’
Henning grinned. ‘It sounds like the world is getting too small for you, Stevie Duveen, little as you are—all these places where you seem to be persona non grata.’ He said these words softly, lightly, taking out the sting. ‘Where to next for you, then?’
Her telephone beeped; there was a message from David Rice. Headed Venice. Your mission terminated as of now. Get ashore where you can. See you in London. D.
Stevie stared out at the horizon, eyes searching eternity for a different answer to the one she already knew she would give. She turned back to Henning, her short blonde hair ruffling in the wind like feathers. ‘Why, Venice, of course.’
14
The late summer storms hung in the sky like a hem of black lace, shedding water over a city already sinking. The lagoon had turned pewter in the half-light, and the vaporetti, their lights glowing in the gloom, bucked the wind as they ferried back and forth. Stevie leant into the red leather seat of her water taxi and looked out at La Serenissima through the downpour. The raindrops dragged down the earthy colours of the palazzi, the Moorish window frames, the hidden gardens, heavy as chain mail, into the canals. In this weather, the floating city seemed sad, awash, doomed.
Stevie’s phone beeped. A message from Rice: Caffè Florian at 1800. She tossed the phone back into her bag. David had been rather cross when he had heard she was in Venice, but she had explained that she was now aboard the Petrina and could not get ashore until Venice. It was, she suggested, a happy coincidence that he too would be in Venice and they ought to meet. He had been suspicious, but reluctantly agreed. A message had arrived not long after their discussion, this time from Josie. Stevie and Rice would be attending the party at Lord Sacheverel’s palazzo—a ballo mascherato. ‘Bring mask’ had been the instruction from her colleague in London. It seemed like a very long time since Stevie had seen David, and his reassuring figure was just the thing she needed to dispel the last of the fright she had had in Corsica. He would make her feel invincible again; she could always count on that.
The gondolas in their blue rain jackets bobbed and strained at their moorings as the water taxi pulled up to the dock of her hotel. Stevie took the captain’s hand and leapt ashore. The grey-green water from the lagoon was sloshing up into the streets, and the cobbled calle felt like it too was rocking and tossing underfoot. Too many boats, thought Stevie. I need some dry land. Venice did not count. It was a halfway point between water and earth, a miracle creation built on wooden poles sunk in mud, a city of shifting surfaces.
She was shown to her room, a small golden chamber with red velvet curtains overlooking a busy canal. She opened the windows and leant out, listening to the city. The sound of the rain beating down on the opal waters of the canal, the traffic noise of the police launches, the fire-fighting boats, the boats delivering laundry, cooking oil—everything—mingled with the voices of the people hurrying through the deep alleys.
The palazzo just opposite was painted a deep rust red, with green shutters and green and white striped poles marking its water door. Although it was only afternoon, the light was dim because of the rain and cloud. The lighted windows on the piano nobile looked out onto the canal, a small balcony jutting out over the water. Stevie wondered how it must feel to live on the water, surrounded by water, in an ancient building that would have seen so much. What would it be like to have king tides flood your sitting room, to go to work in a speedboat, to live in one of the greatest stage sets the world had ever seen?
Stevie turned her back on the view and went into the bathroom. She drew a steaming hot bath and slid in with a sigh. She soaked her hands and tried to remove the last of the dried blood. The right hand didn’t look too bad; the left was still a bit of a mess. Could she get away with a glo
ve? she wondered. Stevie had been surprised to learn that David was flying in for the ball—there had to be more behind it than a simple desire for amusement. The group from the Hercules cruising party would be there, along with a few from the Petrina. Stevie was not looking forward to seeing some of the familiar faces.
Still, a masked ball with David sounded rather delightful, despite the tempest outside, and the monsters to encounter. Stevie’s boss looked particularly handsome in black tie. She would have to buy a mask at one of the many tiny shops that sold them to tourists. As for a ballgown, well that was unfortunately not possible given she had packed for a cruise. However, the full-length black and silver Missoni kaftan in silk might just do . . .
When she had dried and dressed she rang for housekeeping to have the kaftan pressed and went out into the wet streets. She was ravenous and it was absolutely necessary that she eat. She found a small restaurant half hidden down a narrow calle where there was no English language menu, nor any photographs of the dishes displayed outside. Stevie thought this might be a good sign. She ordered squid cooked in their ink and ate everything on her plate. The waiter brought her a glass of contraband fragolino wine that tasted of strawberries, and her spirits began to rise. All in all, she had emerged from her mission relatively unscathed, her debt to Rice discharged, her job done.
All that remained was to tell her boss everything she knew about Clémence’s situation, and what she had discovered about Krok along the way. She listed the points to herself: 1) He ran mercenaries all over the world with a lucrative side trade in weapons and military ordnance that mined the back channels, the people no legal arms manufacturer was allowed to trade with. 2) He ran this trade with partners: Socrates Skorpios, Dado Falcone and the late Aldo Meienfeldt. 3) Krok was somehow involved in the plague of pirate attacks off Somalia and Cape Horn, possibly Nigeria—a well-connected accomplice handled the ransoms, name as yet unknown. 4) He also sold ‘invisible’ speedboats for smuggling contraband and, the thought occurred to Stevie, possibly for use in future pirate attacks. 5) Krok was arrogant, vain, unpredictable, ruthless and cruel—a very dangerous combination. Altogether, Stevie reflected, it was a very unlovely picture; the man was practically a psychopath.
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