The Siren's Sting

by Miranda Darling

  ‘Oooh,’ said Stevie. ‘How exciting, Stéph.’ That was not what she really wanted to say.

  Krok’s villa was the modestly named Palacio de las Maravillas (the palace of wonders), a white marble extravaganza overlooking Malaga and the sea. The convoy of cars drove through huge wrought-iron gates set in a wall three metres high. Stevie lowered her window a few inches and breathed in the atmosphere. Inside the compound, the lush grounds and water sprinklers turned the air cool and moist. As they passed the guard house, Stevie counted three mastiffs on patrol, massive creatures with jaws as big as her head, and shuddered. Clémence had invited her to stay at the house for the duration of the festivities; the woman now saw Stevie as the agent of her freedom and was keen to keep her close by. But, as the iron gates swung closed, Stevie couldn’t help feeling like the doors of a cage were shutting behind her.

  Cocktails were waiting by a pool shaped like a four-leaf clover and tiled with a picture of a gold AK-47 that shimmered every time a finger of wind stroked the surface of the water. A butler in uniform was handing around cigars. ‘They’re hand-rolled Cubans,’ Stevie heard Krok bark over the chatter of the crowd as she and Stéphane joined the festivities. She turned and found her host, massive in a lemon polo shirt, a flesh-coloured bandage covering most of the right side of his face. A white eye-patch hid his right eye and the right hand too was bandaged. Apart from these obvious signs of violence, Krok appeared unharmed. Possibly the changes were an improvement on the original . . .

  The butler approached and offered Stéphane a cigar; as he took one, Stevie noticed that the band on them read krok, and was decorated with a tiny photo of Emile.

  Stevie fixed a large smile on her face and drifted towards what she could see of Clémence: a large white hat. She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and used the moment to look around, her keen eyes hidden behind large sunglasses purchased especially for the occasion.

  The guests were a mixed bunch. The women all heavily bejewelled; most of the men wore pale suits and sunglasses, though there were a few Africans in their national dress, a few Arabs in dishdasha and a small moon-faced man who looked a lot like Kim Jong Il. Stevie’s gaze stopped, startled. A man with shoulder-length black hair, silver aviator sunglasses and full military dress uniform with medals stood a little apart from the main group. If she didn’t know better, she might have mistaken him for Michael Jackson, but Colonel Muammar Gaddafi of Libya was a very different sort of man. He was surrounded by his infamous female bodyguard, a phalanx of twelve Amazons, all stunning to behold. Stevie allowed herself to stare at the famous grouping a moment longer, then cautiously continued her examination of the party.

  She noticed Dado and Lisa Falcone, both as elegant as ever, and Skorpios, his immaculately cut, shark-grey suit, tortoiseshell glasses and powerful head noticeable among the others. Angelina, somewhat incongruously dressed in black, stood beside him, listening intently to the compliments of a small tanned man in cream velvet slippers. Al-Nassar was there with Lamia and his right hand. Marlena was already in place, the life of the party in purple palazzo pyjamas that would have been impossible on anyone else but on Marlena looked spectacular. Aristo was at her side, magnetic in his dark glasses, his brooding frown. Marlena glanced at Stevie and then away. The Pirate Queen had never paid Stevie much attention, and she would not start now. Everything was riding on Marlena’s poise.

  Stevie felt a cold claw on her arm; Clémence’s red lips were mouthing words of welcome. Stevie automatically kissed her cheeks and smiled in return, murmuring, ‘Darling, lovely party, oh, but the heat . . .’

  The party moved inside as the heat of the day grew fiercer. A huge marble staircase descended to the middle of the foyer; the guests milled at its foot. Stevie was standing with Clémence; Marlena and Krok were nearby. She heard Marlena’s ceramic tones reply to Krok’s question: ‘We’re ready when you are, Vaughan. Everyone is on stand-by.’ She was holding a large satellite phone that did not go with her delicate silk costume and fuchsia nails.

  ‘Get everyone inside,’ Krok barked at her. Guests were gently herded through the house and into a ballroom that quite took Stevie’s breath away. It was dazzling white, with elaborately carved cornices in gold. Panels of mother-of-pearl made the walls shimmer, and an enormous white crystal chandelier hung above them from the domed ceiling. It was, Stevie reflected, an unlikely room for such a collection of guests. Possibly she could have imagined the glorious Dame Barbara Cartland, or Imelda Marcos, or even Liberace . . . Last to enter the room, walking by Krok’s side, was Colonel Gaddafi.

  A fresh glass of champagne appeared before her, hovering under Henning’s charming, grinning face. How did he do that— just appear? He had a magician’s lightness of movement. The other thing, thought Stevie as she accepted the offering, was that he always seemed to manifest at loci where the tension was strongest, where the magnet had drawn the dark forces and collected them, where things were about to happen. She wondered whether it was subconscious . . . There were still so many things that remained unexplained about Henning but, as he stood there with the sky in his eyes, she decided that she might quite enjoy finding out the answers. She was not the sort of woman who could bear a mystery for long; the unknown was risk. However, she did like that he almost never wore sunglasses.

  Her thoughts were interrupted: ‘How is Rice?’ Henning still couldn’t say the name without a certain hardness creeping into his voice, but the concern was genuine.

  ‘Out of the coma, thankfully,’ said Stevie with a smile, though her heart still worried for her boss. ‘And he is speaking, which is a great relief. They think there might be some paralysis in his bad leg but it’s a bit early to tell.’ She took a quick sip of champagne to stop the faintest prick of a tear in its tracks. She felt her nose turn pink and knew Henning would notice. She was not a woman who cried prettily. ‘He was lucky,’ she said simply.

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Henning’s voice was tender, his eyes on her face, missing nothing of her distress.

  Stevie was suddenly and violently so sure of her love that it startled her. She pulled back. ‘I suppose you should flirt with me,’ she said lightly, ‘for the benefit of the party guests.’

  ‘Of course.’ Henning nodded, amused. ‘For the benefit of the guests.’

  Alas for Stevie, before he could begin his work, metal shutters slid soundlessly down the long windows, shutting off the outside light. As one the guests turned and looked about. Most were not at ease with surprises, or the sudden blocking of potential exits. Krok stepped smiling onto the bandstand—not unaware of the frisson that had run through the crowd—and addressed his guests.

  ‘Welcome to the Palacio de las Maravillas. We are here because we are all men of blood.’ Krok paused an instant too long after the word blood, and Stevie’s heart leapt into her mouth.

  Steady on, Stevie.

  ‘Valued customers,’ he went on, ‘and loyal friends. First, I want to announce a piece of news that gladdens my heart.’ That pause again, the joyless voice at odds with the words. ‘Marlena and Aristotle Skorpios are getting married.’ He grinned rather cruelly and Stevie saw his gaze seek Socrates’. The father of the groom didn’t move; his face showed no emotion but his skin changed colour, became darker, his rage palpable despite the dark glasses as applause burst forth around him.

  ‘But there is something more important to announce here today,’ Krok went on. ‘Someone tried to kill me a month ago. Obviously, I am immortal.’ There was some appreciative laughter but Krok ignored it. It occurred to Stevie that he probably believed he was. ‘What you will see tonight, ladies and gentlemen, will excite and reassure you of the capabilities of STORM to deliver anything, anywhere, no matter the odds stacked against us.’

  The lights in the ballroom dimmed and there was a shudder of excitement in the vast room. A massive screen lowered from the ceiling. The STORM logo, a lightning bolt splitting the earth in two, spun into view then disappeared, leaving in its place the image of an
ocean at sunset, a huge cargo ship carving white foam through it.

  ‘This is the Molotov Rostok, a heavily armed nuclear-waste carrier. For those of you who are interested, she’s two thousand, six hundred deadweight tonnage, length seventy-eight point six metres, breadth fifteen point eight, with a cruising speed of twelve knots. She’s carrying a thousand drums of high-level radioactive waste. It is guarded by the UEAC troops—some of you will know them from personal experience—’ and here Krok smirked ‘—reputed to be some of the toughest in the world.’

  There was a murmur in the crowd again. Stevie tried to find Gaddafi in the dim light but instead caught the eyes of a female bodyguard, shining like a fox’s, and quickly turned away. The Colonel was smart to use them; the girls missed nothing.

  Krok’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘This, ladies and gentlemen, is happening in real time. Right now, the Molotov is transiting Yemeni waters and is on full pirate alert.’

  Stevie could guess what was coming but it did not stop the feeling of horror flush up her spine when she saw them: three speedboats zooming out from the left-hand side of the screen, travelling at a furious pace. Even from this distance, Stevie could see that they were Medusas, monster Zodiacs, like the one she herself had driven. The Molotov did not stand a chance of outrunning them. The cargo ship noticed the vessels and began to zigzag, a classic anti-piracy manoeuvre that Stevie knew—and so did the men on board probably— was going to be useless.

  The guests in the ballroom stood expectantly and watched, drinking champagne, as the men on the Molotov prepared to fight— possibly for their lives. Stevie’s mouth went dry and she felt weak.

  There was something so horribly wrong in all of this and she suddenly wanted to be very, very far away. She was only grateful Rice wasn’t here to watch it with her. She forced herself to focus on the screen: the image there grew suddenly close—a zoom.

  ‘We have a satellite drone filming this,’ went on Krok. ‘Marlena calls it in.’

  The sun was setting out on that dangerous ocean, glowing a deep red, as if in preparation for the violence to come. The boats fell neatly into line along the port side of the Molotov; a figure on the prow of the first boat raised a rocket-propelled grenade and fired into the bridge. There was an explosion, smoke pouring out. The Molotov slowed. The vessels zipped in and attached, as quick and light as water skimmers.

  Water was pouring furiously from fire hoses, crew rushing about, but in the Palacio de las Maravillas, there was no sound. Stevie remembered the fear she had felt during her own experience with the pirates and pitied the crew. She had been right to assume it had only been a practice run, a warning. Back on the screen, the jets of water seemed to have little effect: the men in the Zodiacs, fitted with masks and amphibious apparatus, rappelled up the vertical walls of the massive ship with suction cups. There was a murmur of appreciation from the crowd. Indeed it was quite something to see.

  ‘We have been training men in maritime assaults and we are providing this as a new service,’ Krok intoned. ‘The grenades you see on their belts are filled with CS gas—tear gas. Our men, of course, will retain the rebreathers they are wearing. We provide weaponry like the SAM you just saw—also very good for disabling helicopters—and the gas grenades, also available as small bombs, or with sarin.’ This caused a stir in the crowd. Chemical weapons were in total contravention to the laws of conventional warfare.

  If that didn’t implicate the man . . .

  ‘I have also developed something I like to call “Greek Fire” . . .’ Here he paused, making sure he had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. ‘Greek Fire is a chemical spray that can be diffused on water in the case of pursuit by other craft. It has the benefit of burning on water and clinging to anything that comes into contact with it. It’s a kind of napalm of the sea. The early trials have been very promising.’

  There was a muted round of applause.

  ‘The Medusa speedboats,’ Krok continued, ‘are a new addition which some of you have already seen in action. Marlena will be taking orders today.’ The crowd shifted—probably reaching for their cheque books, thought Stevie. In fact, how did one pay for things like SAMs and Medusas? She looked up at Henning; his eyes were fixed on the screen. He would probably know.

  By the podium, Marlena’s phone rang. She answered, listened for a moment, then: ‘I will relay that.’ She whispered to Krok, who announced in his ugly booming voice: ‘The Molotov Rostok has been taken.’

  Stevie’s heart jumped into her mouth. There were some congratulatory noises for the skill of Krok’s assault team, a smattering of applause that sounded to Stevie like so many birds trapped against glass.

  Krok clapped his great paws together. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen . . . the auction of the Molotov Rostok.’

  The idea of a room full of warlords and criminals and dictators and privateers—any of them—getting their hands on a shipload of nuclear waste and a full crew was appalling.

  ‘What do they want with nuclear waste?’ Henning whispered, his eyes narrowed. ‘They can’t make bombs with it can they?’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘Not nuclear bombs. But they can make dirty bombs, contaminate the area, food and water supplies, terrify the population—like the ones the Chechens threatened to set off in Moscow a few years back.’

  Henning nodded. ‘I remember.’

  The bidding began. Thirty, fifty, seventy million dollars—the bids climbed hard and fast.

  Krok, obviously not satisfied with the millions yet, gave a nod. Sacheverel appeared, his shining white head standing out in the crowd. He climbed onto the podium and offered his services as a broker in the negotiations for the hostages, and for the waste—the same services, he reminded the audience, that served Krok so well. If Stevie’s stare could kill, the man would have dropped dead on the spot. It took all her self-control to keep calm.

  ‘One hundred million in ransoms alone last year,’ broke in Krok with a sly grin. Hands shot up around the room. Krok’s grin widened even further.

  Stevie prayed that Marlena’s device was catching everything, that she would keep her cool, that she would go through with it; that they would not get caught.

  In the end, the Molotov Rostok went to the moon-faced man for one hundred and seventy-five million dollars.

  ‘Do you think that’s Kim Jong Il?’ Stevie whispered.

  ‘He has many doubles,’ murmured Henning, casting a glance at the new owner of a nuclear-waste carrier, one thousand barrels of waste, and twenty-five hostages. He was beaming. ‘But it could be him,’ he said finally. ‘It’s the sort of thing I imagine he would be tempted to buy; the North Koreans are so desperate to be taken seriously and to build their own nuclear bomb. It is not a lovely idea.’

  No, thought Stevie to herself, the whole situation was terrifying. And even if they stopped Krok, the other men in this room—most of them—would continue their business as before. And as before, the world would be powerless to stop them.

  A feast had been organised—a celebration for the newly engaged couple and, of course, for the new owner of the tanker—to be followed, Krok announced, by a corrida. Long white tables covered in silver cutlery and crystal glasses were set out under a marquee along one side of the house. A band had struck up a rather improvised version of the wedding march—designed, Stevie knew in her bones, to provoke Skorpios—and the guests and their assorted protection drifted out to lunch. Henning sat on one side of her, Stéphane on the other. Stevie noted with admiration that Marlena had managed to seat herself between the Colonel and Krok. She was on the opposite side of the table, a few seats up from Stevie.

  It was too hot to eat; Stevie sipped water and champagne and looked languidly about as a prawn mousse was deposited by white gloves on the plate in front of her. It was served in a massive crystal goblet and looked like sorbet. She tinkled the goblet lightly with her spoon then set it down and turned to Stéphane. ‘Darling, what’s a corrida?’

  Stépha
ne turned to her, slightly annoyed at having been disturbed from a close examination of the jewels of the African warlord’s wife seated beside him. ‘A bullfight, Stevie, men in boleros, red capes. Lots of olé.’

  The warlord’s wife turned to him and in a slow deep voice asked, ‘Will there be blood?’

  Stéphane nodded vigorously. ‘Lots of it. Both man and beast’s, if it is a good fight.’

  This comment caught the attention of the men opposite and Stevie found herself drawn into conversation with Krok and the Korean guest. ‘Explain, please,’ he said, his eyes sharp and focused behind the tea-dark lenses of his large glasses.

  Stéphane glanced quickly at Krok to make sure he had permission to take the floor. ‘It is a supreme test of skill. The Spaniards are mad for it—it’s in their blood. The bulls are bred especially for the fights by families who have been doing it for generations. The matadors also usually come from a long line of bullfighters and they are passionate to the point of obsession about their bulls.’

  ‘A dynastic pursuit,’ observed the Korean with growing interest.

  Stéphane nodded deferentially. ‘Quite. The greater the skill of the matador, the more exciting the fight, the more dangerous it is. And then, of course, the kill must be perfect.’

  ‘The kill?’ boomed the warlord’s wife, licking her lips.

  Inside, Stevie shrank from her and those carnivorous lips that looked as if they might strip the very flesh from her bones.

  Stéphane nodded again. ‘The matador has a slim sword called an estoque. When the timing is right—and the corrida is all about timing—the matador must plunge the sword between the shoulder blades and through the heart, hoping for a clean, swift kill. It’s called estocada.’

  After a short pause, the Korean asked, ‘And is it ever the other way around? Does the bull ever kill the man, or is it all just for spectacle?’