The Siren's Sting (16 page)

‘If a woman has substance, years will only improve her,' he responded. ‘It's the empty vessels that crack with age.'

Stevie grinned. Italians had some rather marvellous philosophical pronouncements when it came to the opposite sex.

‘
Senti
, Domenico, what's the word on the
Hercules
?' Stevie could see the huge ship still in port. ‘What are people saying?'

Domenico raised his palms. ‘
È un mostro
. We've never seen anything like it. There's even a
sommergibile
, a submarine, underneath. Pilù found out when he went to connect the power lines from the dock.'

Domenico had worked the port for over twenty years and had seen pretty much everything. The Zodiac cowboys were important to the superyacht owners because it was they who decided which berth went to which yacht. Many had been slipped generous tips to ensure that a particular yacht would take prime position on the dock, thereby cementing the aura of power and influence that the boat owner was keen to project and protect.

He frowned. ‘
Ma c'è qualcosa che non va
. . .' He made a sign to ward off the devil with his forefinger and pinky.

‘The crew?'

Domenico shrugged. ‘They are very arrogant in their little white hats. They won't let anyone near the boat except when we're guiding her into the berth—as if we haven't dealt with thousands of mega-yachts! Their security
è al massimo
, more even than Khashoggi or the Sultan of Brunei.'

‘Does the owner have a reason to be afraid, Domenico?'

Domenico stared at Stevie with his dark eyes for a long moment. ‘Why do you ask me this?'

Stevie could see she had offended him. ‘
Ti chiedo scusa
, Domenico, I didn't mean anything by it. I just know that you and your boys are always the first to hear the rumours—you're the most important people in the port, after all.' She smiled.

He returned the smile, all forgiven. ‘I haven't heard anything,
non un fischio
. But then, his troubles probably have followed him from home. These days, the problems are less and less local. These bigshots with their mega-boats, all trying to outdo each other, they are importing their own crime wave. It has nothing to do with the
banditi
of the
massiccio
.'

As Stevie walked back to her jeep she thought about what Domenico had said. Perhaps it was true—these men with their fast new billions from the oil fields of Russia or the conflicts of Africa or the contracts of the Middle East flew down in their private jets, trailing enemies behind them like a wake. These high-value targets (HVTs) would be less well protected on holiday, no matter how tight the security, and their guard would lower as they relaxed.

It was hard to believe anything bad could happen in a place like this. But every glittering scene has shadows and on the Costa Smeralda they were long ones, stretching back to the 1960s, when the slice of coast had first been established as a playground for the jet set.

The jet set was a much smaller, more exclusive group then: jet travel was new, and few people flew or took overseas summer holidays, and even fewer owned yachts. The jet set life was the preserve of a small number of glamorous people, often titled, or from big industrial families like the Guinnesses or the Olivettis, who all knew each other and met up in airport lounges and alpine villages or on wonderful beaches, instantly turning the place into a riotous cocktail party. Jetting about the world meant luxury, power and a permanent tan. There was no mass tourism, only stylish gangs in search of
divertissement,
who flitted from villa to cabana to yacht to chalet. It was rich and it was private. It was not a rapper throwing cases of Cristal off the jetty while plastic women lap-danced in bikinis for attention.

Sardinia had been a desperately poor island, with the local population retreating up into the mountains to farm their sheep and goats, leaving the valueless land—too salty to grow crops, too vulnerable to centuries of pirate attacks—to the women. So it had been the women who had done well when the Aga Khan and his partners had come in and bought a large swathe of land on the north-east coast of the island. The
bijou
people had come to relax in the land of the granite people, and the contrast as the two rubbed together was the cause of so much trouble to come.

There had been banditry from the beginning. The inland roads were not safe. Stevie's grandmother liked to tell the story of the time she and Camillo were driving inland and saw some peasants by the side of the road, sawing down a huge tree by hand. They thought nothing of it until they heard the next day that a bus full of tourists had been stopped at a roadblock made by a felled tree and robbed of all their valuables.

Kidnappings had been rife, with victims being snatched and held in caves in the mountains, completely protected by the steep granite and thorny scrub, and the wall of silence that the local people built around themselves. There was no hope of finding the victims; the only choice for the family was negotiation.

But those times had passed. Things had calmed down—or had they?

Stevie's phone rang just as she was starting her jeep. It was Clémence and her voice was quiet and as brittle as tin.

‘Stevie, I need to talk to you privately, without the guards. It's very important. How can we meet?'

Stevie's mind raced, picturing the Villa Goliath, its myriad cameras and ever-present soldiers. Then she had an idea. ‘Go down to the beach in front of the villa at three,' she instructed. ‘Swim out to the buoy directly in front. It's a big orange ball not far from the end of the stone jetty. I'll meet you there. It should be safe enough.'

‘But, Stevie, I never swim. What will Vaughan think?'

‘If he asks, just complain that you've put on a few pounds and feel fat, and that you've heard swimming is the new boxercise. I doubt he'll question it.'

Stevie stopped off at Spinnaker for a
panino
and a glass of fresh orange juice. Sauro was reading the paper in the corner and Stevie sat down with him.

‘Tell me, Sauro, the man you see drive by in the convoy every morning, the one staying at Brown's villa . . .'

‘Who?'

‘Brown.' Stevie made a face, willing Sauro to remember.

He smiled. ‘Ah,
si
, Brown . . .'

‘Do you think this man is afraid of the local
banditi
?'

Sauro shrugged. ‘Everyone with a lot of money is at least a little nervous. The security has improved things a lot but still, this is Sardegna, and its heart is still as wild as it ever was.' He stared at Stevie a moment. ‘But if this man is friends with Brown, and has so many guns . . .'

‘What?'

‘
Lupo non mangia lupo
.'

A wolf doesn't eat a wolf.

‘Unless the wolf has a personal grudge against the other wolf,' Stevie suggested wryly.

‘
Carina
, why are you so interested in wolves? You should be full of sunshine and flowers and my sisters' cooking.'

Stevie smiled. ‘Well, I'm here, aren't I?'

At ten to three, Stevie
put on her swimsuit and a black bathing cap. The cap would make her less recognisable and lend credibility to her cover persona if spotted: a rather precious
signorina
out swimming laps. She swam breaststroke (less splashing) to the buoy opposite the Villa Goliath and reached up, clinging to the blue ring on top. She was careful to keep the buoy between herself and the beach; it was big enough to hide her completely.

After a few minutes she saw Clémence walk down the beach and enter the water slowly, her hands fanning out with reluctance. She too wore a bathing cap, but it was white and emblazoned with the Chanel Cs, and matched her white swimsuit. She looked very glamorous and Stevie hoped she would make it as far as the buoy; aboard the
Hercules
, Clémence had mentioned how rarely she swam. An emergency water rescue would hardly be a stealth move for either of them.

Once in, Stevie realised Clémence was actually an excellent swimmer: neat, swift overarm strokes, her shoulders parallel to the water. She reached the buoy quickly, not even a little out of breath.

‘I thought you hardly ever swam.' Stevie spoke in a low voice that wouldn't carry.

‘Just because I don't doesn't mean I can't,' Clémence whispered back. ‘I swam the English Channel with my sister when we were sixteen. Vaughan doesn't know, of course. He's not a strong swimmer. It would only create problems.'

Stevie looked back. Two bodyguards in white berets stood at ease on the sand. They looked hot and bored. ‘What's happened?'

Clémence looked at Stevie for a moment, her face quite naked with her hair under the tight cap. She seemed a little older, a little more tired than usual, despite the perfect red lips. Stevie had seen the look before.

‘It's Emile,' she said softly.

‘What's happened?'

‘Nothing yet, but this morning after breakfast Vaughan received a phone call on the house land line. Someone threatened Emile. They said he would be kidnapped.'

Clémence's eyes filled with tears and Stevie's heart went out to the woman.

‘What exactly did they say?' she asked firmly but gently.

Clémence shook her head. ‘Vaughan wouldn't tell me—he said I didn't need to know. Only that it was an anonymous call and that the man—I assume it was a man—had threatened to kidnap Emile.'

Stevie thought for a moment. ‘Did the caller ask for anything? Make any terms?'

Clémence shook her head and looked away, fighting tears. ‘I don't think so. It was a short conversation—my husband took the call on the balcony.'

The indigo sea felt like it was cooling around them and Stevie began to shiver. ‘Why would someone warn you that they intended to kidnap your son? It doesn't make sense unless they set terms. Why let you know? Why not just go ahead and do it?'

They bobbed in silence for a minute, both grasping the orange buoy.

‘I'm afraid, Stevie,' Clémence said finally. ‘I'm afraid of my husband's enemies, I'm afraid of his friends, I'm afraid of my husband, and I'm desperately afraid for Emile.'

‘What does your husband think you should do?'

‘Well, I suggested the police, even though I knew he would laugh in my face. And he did. But I told him we had to do something. He suggested a cruise. He thinks the
Hercules
is impregnable and we will be safe there. Perhaps he's right . . . It's a warship after all.' She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the guards on the beach. They were growing restless, beginning to pace.

‘We leave tomorrow for Corsica. I want you to come too, Stevie.' Before Stevie could object, she hurried on, ‘You can't refuse me this. David promised me you would help and I need you with me.

I can't think or see straight. I need you to be my eyes and ears and make sense of all this. Anyway, I've already told Vaughan. A few of the others are joining us—you'll fit in perfectly.'

One of the bodyguards was becoming curious. Stevie saw him pull out a pair of binoculars. She let go of the buoy.

‘Be at the
porto vecchio
by nine tomorrow,' Clémence hissed as Stevie took a breath and dived under.

She swam as far and as fast as she could underwater, away from Clémence and the buoy and the dark shadows lurking under the surface, then rose nonchalantly for air and resumed her gentle breaststroke.

As she made her way
up the path, the black stones burning under her bare feet, Stevie caught Simone's voice drifting down from the roof. Her heart sank a little further. Mark was with her, and a plump woman in a pastel pink suit and sunglasses. She was Italian, struggling with the English terms, but Stevie understood right away: ‘The value . . . it is high, very high. Here is expensive,
molto
expensive area . . .' The newest intruder was an estate agent. Rage boiled in Stevie. Simone and Mark were getting a valuation of Didi's house. It was all Stevie could do to stop herself from running up to the roof and pushing all three off it.

Then she remembered Osip. She was not usually one for accepting invitations but Stevie felt she could not face Simone and Mark; she wanted to be cocooned in the
Barone
's world, even if it was just for an afternoon. She snuck into her bedroom and threw on a white cotton tunic dress she had once bought in Bali. She glanced in the mirror. The swimming cap had flattened her hair so she grabbed the Hermès scarf David had sent and tied it, turban-style, backwards. Then she lined her eyes with kohl and slipped back out through the garden, up the fig tree and over the stone wall, into the grounds of the
Barone
's villa.

From somewhere beyond the olive grove, voices drifted about, chattering in Italian, French, Spanish. The air was warm off the granite, and fragrant with cistus and curry bush and wild fig. A bougainvillea had exploded in hot pink and orange on one whitewashed wall of the house. Stevie felt a little shy, but the thought of Mark and Simone drove her forward where she may have otherwise hesitated and turned back.

She saw Osip first, more handsome than before, in white trousers and a linen shirt in faded blue, the first three buttons undone. He was mixing Bellinis, smiling and shaking his head as one of his sisters teased him about his mane of hair, wild from the salt and sun. The little group were gathered around the granite swimming pool, talking and laughing, some lounging on straw mattresses, others sitting in old cane chairs looking out towards the sea. Stevie took a deep, steadying breath and stepped out onto the terrace.

Osip looked up and beamed, then walked over and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Have you met my parents?'

A handsome older man with silver hair and a perfect tan rose from his cane chair to kiss Stevie. ‘You were very young, but I recognise you.' His wife had the same silvery hair and tan, and she wore amber jewellery and a pale purple kaftan. As she kissed Stevie she said, ‘Your mother and I were great friends, you know.' She stepped back. ‘You have her eyes.'