The Siren's Sting (19 page)

‘And he made no demands?'

Clémence shook her head again. ‘I'm so frightened.'

Stevie paused and collected her thoughts. ‘I think that seems to be the whole point. But why go to all the trouble? What would someone gain by frightening you and your husband? It's malicious, certainly, but it also seems a little senseless.'

‘I don't want Emile—anyone—to know.' Clémence glanced back at the table.

Stevie smiled gaily. ‘Of course not.' Then louder, so the table could hear, ‘Oh, she'll get over it, Clémence. She just has very bad taste in men. Always has.' A thought struck her. ‘Quick. Give me the phone—I'll talk to her. You go back to your guests.'

Stevie looked up the call register to find the number of the last call received and was surprised to find it wasn't a private number but a local one, an Italian mobile. That was strange. She selected the number and called it. The caller would almost certainly have turned the phone off or changed the SIM card, she reminded herself, but it was worth a try . . .

Stevie froze as from the hatch, came the opening bars of Wagner's ‘Ride of the Valkyries'. Abruptly it was cut off.

Krok's phone.

Stevie felt the icy claw of fear on her neck.

Impossible
.

Stevie sat back down at the table, pocketing the phone, just as Krok appeared in the doorway.

Under the table, Stevie opened her own phone and copied the number from Clémence's call register to Josie Wang at Hazard HQ with a text message that read:

Can you trace location? VVVIP Stevie.

She smiled brightly, took a large sip of wine and helped herself to a scampi, her insides burning with anticipation.

It had to be a coincidence. Krok's phone virtually never stopped ringing.

Josie would type the number into her StarSat programme; that would run a GPS trace, based on repeater triangulation. It should give the location with a pretty high degree of accuracy.

Josie seemed to be taking an awfully long time with the trace. Finally the reply came:

Latitude 41°12'55.548"N–Longitude 9°24'36.792"E
.

Stevie memorised the coordinates and looked out to sea. They were just passing the port on the island of Maddalena, with its Romanesque villas in yellows and pinks and oranges, its rows of neat palm trees and block stone seafront.

To the far right was the American naval base, home of the warships and submarines that prowled the Mediterranean, relics of the Cold War.

Stevie couldn't wait for the lunch to be over. She felt Marlena's eyes on her every moment; Clémence was having a low, agonised conversation with her husband, who was intent on demolishing the pile of scampi on his plate, carcasses piling up in front of him, like some demented Roman emperor. His expression gave nothing away.

The other guests chatted on, oblivious—but then, they were probably used to the strange dynamic of Mr and Mrs Krok's relationship. Several had, after all, all been present at the lunch party when Krok had exploded at his wife . . .

Then finally, mercifully, it was over and most of the guests retired to their cabins for a siesta. Stevie yawned and got up, thanking Clémence for lunch. She made her way sleepily into the saloon and paused by one of the charts pinned to the wall. It showed most of the Mediterranean Sea.

The saloon was dark and deserted, the teal blue carpet muffling all sound. Stevie peered casually at the chart.

Latitude 41°12'55.548"N–Longitude 9°24'36.792"E.

Stevie traced the coordinates lightly with a finger and came to a stop on the small circle that marked the port of Maddalena.

It was close enough. They had been sailing past the port at the time of the call. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence that the person behind the threatening phone calls should be on the island itself . . . No. The much more logical conclusion—and the more frightening one—was that the caller was aboard the
Hercules.

Stevie spun around: someone was watching her, she could feel it. But there was no one there, no sound, not even the hum of the engines. The yacht was too well insulated for that.

Feeling desperately uneasy, Stevie made her way back to her cabin along the deserted hallway.

Examining charts was an innocent thing to do when out sailing, wasn't it? And yet it was not really something likely to interest a party girl. It could look suspicious to the wrong eyes. Well, there was nothing she could do about it now. She would have to be more careful from now on.

She saw a flicker of movement to her left and stopped. A pair of large brown eyes peered out from behind an ornamental table. It was Emile.

Had it been Emile watching her in the saloon?

Stevie stopped and crouched down. ‘Hi,' she said softly. Emile darted back under the table. ‘What are you doing?' she asked.

There was no answer. Then she heard a muffled crash from behind the door to the stateroom. Krok's voice shouting, furious, came to her through the heavy maple doors. Clémence's reply was barely audible. Emile didn't need to hear the words to know that his parents were fighting. His large, dark eyes told the story. She held out her hand to the frightened boy. He stared at it for a moment then crawled out and took it. Stevie stood and led him slowly away from the door.

11

The island of Cavallo sat
like a flat French rock as far into Italian territory as it dared go, surrounded by treacherous reefs and hidden rocks. The waters were practically unnavigable without detailed charts, good local knowledge and calm seas. Even then, the island could really only be safely approached by tender.

The entire island was private property. There was no public port or jetty, in fact, no public access at all. Even mooring close by was forbidden. This suited the über-VIPs who frequented the island, among them British royals, famous actors and Vittorio Emanuele di Savoia, the exiled pretender to the throne of Italy; Cavallo was as close to his home country as he could get without actually setting foot on Italian soil.

Stevie was surprised when the
Hercules
steamed straight for the island and anchored not far off. The captain must know the waters well, she thought; he'd done this before.

Stevie went out on the aft deck and looked about. The crew were pulling out diving gear and stacking it neatly on one of the retractable platforms.

Marlena was stalking about in a cheetah-print swimsuit, examining the masks and giving orders to the crew. She looked up and saw Stevie.

‘You'll dive, won't you, Stevie.' It was an order rather than a question but Stevie was more than happy to get into the water. Plus, she was dying to get a better look at the underside of
Hercules
—perhaps even catch sight of the submarine Domenico had mentioned.

Stéphane and the princess sisters were also coming on the dive. The girls wore matching yellow wetsuits. Stevie struggled into a small steamer—she knew that the water would be cold after a few minutes, despite the heat of the sun above the surface.

Marlena swung her tank onto her back with no effort. She wore only fins, no wetsuit, and a diving knife strapped to her calf. Stevie noticed she was still wearing her red lipstick. Clémence's sister pointed at one of the smaller tanks. ‘The crew filled that one for you, Stevie. You don't look like you use much air.'

Stevie did as she was told. She had done over a thousand dives and several underwater-rescue training courses, but she thought it best not to let any of that show. She pretended to struggle a little with the buoyancy control device, deliberately stumbled.

Mask on, vest inflated, she was ready to leap in. The sea was calm and clear—it ought to be a pleasant dive. One of the crew gave a quick briefing: some underwater currents to watch out for—nothing too strong; good visibility all round.

Something made Stevie turn and glance back up to the deck of the monstrous yacht. A squat, dark-haired man in whites was standing at the railing, staring down at her. One of the crew? she wondered. She gave him a light-hearted wave; after a beat he lifted a hand in reply. Stevie saw it was missing a thumb. Her heart suddenly felt heavier than her weight belt. Had it been Megrahi, Krok's head of security, watching her in the saloon?

She shook the thought from her mind, now more glad than ever to be escaping the ship for the underwater world where she would feel safe, at home, and at peace.

She made a thumbs-down sign to the other divers and slowly sank below the surface chop. Immediately, the sound of the bubbles and her hollow breathing soothed her. Diving was like meditation. She drifted slowly towards the bottom, fifteen metres down, then looked up towards the shimmering surface. The others were descending slowly, feet first. Only Marlena swam downwards with purpose, the muscles on her lean legs standing out in the blue light.

The hull of the
Hercules
was clearly visible now, a great white mass shaped like a V. Stevie could see the bulge towards the stern and the faint outline of a portal of some kind. The submarine.

She saw the white hull of a launch hit the water on the other side of the ship. The propellers started—loud and high-pitched underwater—and after a moment it took off in the direction of Cavallo.

Stevie waited for the other divers then set off; one of the crew members was leading the dive. The sea floor was mainly massive granite boulders piled in stunning formations. Sea urchins clustered in the crevasses and large silvery fish swam about, matching the silvery rocks. It wasn't a colourful dive, no corals or tropical fish, but there was a beauty in the aridity of the sandy floor, the massive boulders and the endless blue.

The water was clear but dark, almost dense, and the forms in the distance quickly melted into shadows. Stevie swam to one side of the group, hanging back enough to feel that she was alone; only Marlena swam behind her, slightly above. She had an underwater camera, Stevie noticed, and was peering carefully into every crevasse, hunting for something to photograph.

The little group swam deeper, down to a cave fringed with small anemones. Inside, the light was dim and the cave was filled with the black spines of sea urchins. A trapdoor of blue light beckoned at the bottom: an opening.

Marlena swam past Stevie and into the cave. She disappeared for a moment into the blackness, then Stevie caught sight of her fins slipping through the far opening. The others decided not to follow.

Stevie hesitated, but the lure of the quiet, dark cave, with the glint of blue at the end, beckoned and she swam in.

The cave was deeper than it had seemed. Stevie realised she had descended five metres; the water was colder and she had to take care not to catch the top of her tank on any rocky outcrops. She reached the opening and looked through it: a vista of the big blue, endless ocean, the colours of a sky at dusk—that little perfect moment just after the sun has set, but before the curtain of the night has fallen.

Stevie hung there for a moment, perfectly still, soaking in the charm of it, the wild, empty beauty. She suddenly felt dizzy and giggled, now slightly breathless. She held the rocky opening firmly and breathed long and deep.

A headache began to creep towards her temples, hints of nausea.

She glanced at her dive computer. She was deep and would have to ascend soon if she didn't want to risk decompression sickness, but she still had time and air. Her head swam, her vision blurred a little. Now a feeling of fear began to seep into her guts, like a trickle of water into a mask.

Something's wrong.

She held up a hand to her face, trying to focus her eyes. The beds of her fingernails were dark, dark brown. For a moment, her mind swam with confusion, then her heart began to pound.

Contaminated air.

One of the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning at depth was cherry-red nailbeds. Underwater, of course, red looked brown. She had to surface quickly, before she became more disorientated or lost consciousness altogether. With a massive effort, Stevie pushed herself through the small opening and out into the big blue. She looked about but none of the other divers were in sight.

Stevie began to swim upwards, putting all the strength she had left into kicking towards the surface. She glanced at her depth gauge to see how much further she had to go. To her horror, Stevie saw the numbers were ascending: she was moving in the wrong direction; she was swimming deeper.

Panic threatened; she was afraid to breathe too deeply, but it was unavoidable.

Watch your bubbles, Stevie.

Her dive instructor's voice came back to her from a wreck dive they had done one dark night.

Watch your bubbles.

Stevie stopped swimming and breathed out. Her bubbles streamed out sideways and she realised she was lying horizontal in the water. She straightened up until her bubbles flew up overhead, then slowly began to fin in their direction, eyes on the bubbles, thinking of nothing but the bubbles, fighting the urge to vomit, to sleep.

Suddenly it became too much. Stevie was gasping for breath, even though her regulator was in her mouth. She knew she was going up too fast, that she risked the bends, but she had no choice. She mustn't pass out, but every cell in her brain wanted to succumb to the blackness.

Stevie took a breath of the poisoned air. She was about ten metres from the surface now; she could see the hull of the boat, the black fins of the other divers floating on the surface. But no one was looking down.

She released her regulator, put her finger in her mouth and bit as hard as she could.

The pain focused her mind for just long enough. Her buoyancy vest fully inflated, she began to swim like the devil for the surface, letting a small stream of bubbles escape from her lungs as she ascended, as she had been trained to do.

She felt that her lungs would burst. She mustn't breathe in— the air in her lungs would expand as she ascended; she would make it.

The surface shimmered like a silver net, just too far away. Her vision was growing dark, as a if a storm cloud had covered the sun.