The Siren's Sting (32 page)

Clémence looked away; Marlena's smile did not give Stevie much confidence. ‘Why would we help you, Stevie?' Marlena said. ‘Even if we could? These people mean nothing to us.'

Clémence put a placating hand on Stevie's arm. ‘Vaughan is mad with anger. He is totally irrational right now, desperate to find out who tried to kill him.'

‘It wasn't an accident?' Stevie said.

‘Of course not,' broke in Marlena. ‘He has so many enemies. He is too dangerous even to talk to over the phone right now. I'm afraid we can't help you.'

‘We have too much to lose,' added Clémence, a note of pleading in her voice.

Stevie got up slowly. ‘You have already lost.'

‘What do you mean?' Clémence reached for Stevie's arm again but Stevie stepped away.

‘You have lost your human credentials.' Stevie said, then she made a decision. She looked down at Clémence. ‘I am not leaving. I will sit in your house until either of you change your mind, or I can get Krok on the phone myself.'

Marlena shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.'

Stevie chose a white-painted cane
chair under a shady canopy of bougainvillea. The scene should have been marvellous—a pool nestling among natural granite boulders, the heady scent of thyme and cistus, the trill of the cicadas. But she could think only of Farouk. A small green scorpion appeared from a crack in the rocks. She moved her foot carefully away.
To think of all these scorpions in the sun
. . . She looked back at Marlena and Clémence, tanning themselves.
Evil
likes to enjoy itself too
.

She didn't know what she would do next, but she wasn't leaving. The twins were her only lead to Farouk right now. To distract herself from her pounding rage at their indifference, she picked up a book of Slim Aaron's photographs sitting on top of a pile on the coffee table. The photographer was a well-known documenter of
la
dolce vita
and the international jet set. His gorgeous photographs captured the great and the good and the fabulous at play in their hideaways all over the world. Interestingly, he had begun as a war photographer. One day the death and tension became too much for him and he decided to walk on the sunny side of the street, as he put it, for the rest of his life.

Stevie flipped through the photos, trying to think of something that would help Farouk. She saw pink swimming pools on the Mexican coast, tree houses in Brazil, ranches in Arizona, chalets in France and Switzerland, yachts on the Mediterranean, a safari in South Africa . . . She was about to flip the page when something gave her pause. She looked more closely at the photograph. A group of four—two couples by the looks of it—stood in the foreground of a luxurious camp, dressed in tailored khakis.

The woman on the right caught Stevie's eye: she was tall and lean, her hair swept into a long, high ponytail, a pair of large gold sunglasses pushed back on her forehead. Her nails, rather incongruously given the background, were painted aquamarine. The face—Stevie could have no doubt—belonged to Clémence. Her boot was resting on the head of a huge wildebeest, and she cradled a shotgun in both hands. No one else in the picture was holding a gun and there could be no doubt that Clémence had shot the beast herself, in a former life, with a former husband. Clémence Krok, the photograph told Stevie, was not afraid of guns at all. From the look of it, she was very much at ease with them. As Josie always said, even criminals stick to what they know. And Stevie suddenly knew who had tried to kill Vaughan Krok.

She carefully set down the book, page open, and called to Marlena as she passed, on her way into the house. Marlena stopped and glared at her, but her curiosity was aroused by Stevie's small, beckoning hand. She came.

‘I have a proposition for you, Marlena.'

Marlena smirked in contempt. As if Stevie had anything she wanted, it seemed to imply.

‘I know it was Clémence who tried to kill Krok.'

‘What?' A short, sharp retort, like a revolver shot.

‘You didn't know?' Stevie studied Marlena's face, but it betrayed nothing. It was possible she didn't know.

‘She could never do that, not in a million years would she have the strength to do that.'

‘I think you underestimate your twin, Marlena.' Stevie pointed to the open page.

Marlena's eyes followed and she froze. Then, recovering quickly, she snapped, ‘Stupid girl. Her vanity was always her weakness.' Her eyes flashed. ‘It doesn't prove a thing.'

‘Maybe not to a court, or to you . . . but it will be enough to convince her crazy husband that she did it, and who knows what he will do to her?'

Marlena blanched visibly. Stevie had struck home. She felt a pang of regret at having to use blackmail in such an insidious way, but greater things than scruples were at stake. She swallowed to keep her voice cold and calm. ‘So I propose a trade: your sister's life for Farouk.'

Marlena said nothing for a time, her eyes on the reclining form of her twin by the pool. Clémence, oblivious, waved at them, her bangles tinkling. Marlena looked back at Stevie and said, in a voice Stevie had never heard her use before, ‘I don't know where the boy is, I swear.'

Stevie nodded. ‘But you can find out. And you will. And we will get him back safely.' She took out her phone and photographed the picture of Clémence, then she looked at her watch. It was almost midday. ‘You have until seven this evening. Otherwise this photo goes to Krok with a suitably provocative message.' Stevie stopped and stared Marlena full in the face. ‘And you know there's no point running. You know better than I do that he can find you anywhere and he will never stop looking. Your only hope is to help me. My company will get a copy of this message, and instructions to send it on if anything happens to me. Bear that in mind also. And now I think I will leave you to make your inquiries. Time is short.' She nodded to Marlena. ‘I will be back at seven.'

Stevie passed the day in
restless activity. She swam out to the buoy in front of her grandmother's house, she did her calisthenics on the roof, activating her muscles, stretching out the knots that had accumulated with tension and hours spent on hospital furniture. She left a message for Josie, asking after David's condition. Everything else would have to remain unsaid; she did not want to risk worrying David, if he did come to.

She did take the precaution of emailing herself the photo and a brief description of the situation, with the subject heading:
In Case
of Missing
. If she did disappear, Josie would check her emails and find it. Not that it would do much good at that point, she thought.

The power of the photo was in the deterrence.

Perched on a granite boulder at the edge of the crystal sea, soaking up the last of the warm afternoon rays, Stevie asked herself the question she had been dodging since her encounter with the twins: was she prepared to go through with her threat to expose Clémence to her psychotic husband? She could only hope it didn't come to that. She knew she had to believe she would in order to have any power over Marlena; the woman's instincts were finely tuned to any sort of weakness and she could not afford to show any doubt or Farouk would remain missing, if not worse. The twins had made a choice when they got involved with Vaughan Krok, and they had made another choice when they refused to help Stevie; these choices had consequences.

Back in the small kitchen, Stevie made herself a simple dinner of prosciutto, bread and cheese, some olives. She would need the strength. Then she dressed carefully: she had to be ready for anything. She put on her blue swimsuit, then a pair of loose black silk pants, a navy blue cotton safari jacket. She filled the pockets with sugar lumps, a powerful torch and her phone. She could not know what the night held, but it would certainly be best to attract as little attention in the night shadows as possible, no matter what. She strapped her knife to her calf and set out to find the twins.

Stevie parked the jeep a short distance away from their villa, facing downhill. The engine was noisy and she wanted to surprise them in case they had had any clever ideas about calling Krok's men themselves.

All was quiet at the villa; the lights were on around the pool. Stevie climbed over the granite boulders that surrounded the pool and looked in. It seemed that Marlena—it would have to be Marlena— had given the security men and staff the night off. The sisters sat side by side on a cane lounge, deep in conversation. They were holding hands. All looked as it should. Stevie crept through the boulders like a ninja then appeared suddenly by the pool's edge. The sisters started.

‘Good evening,' said Stevie, walking towards them, exuding a sangfroid she did not feel.

They looked up at her. Marlena, for the first time since Stevie had met her, looked vulnerable, even frightened. There had been a change.

Stevie stood in front of them. ‘Where is the boy?'

‘They're holding him on Cavallo,' Marlena replied softly, her usual sneer gone. ‘In the boatshed of the yacht club.'

Stevie needed to keep the advantage. To do that she had to take complete control, and she made a split-second decision.

‘Where does Krok keep those Medusas?'

Down at the marina, it
was quieter than usual. The yachties were mid-regatta and having an early night; the parties had not yet begun. The season was over and many of the big yachts had moved on, most towards the Caribbean, where the season was just beginning. The
cantiere
was deserted, the boats in dry dock under tarpaulins. Marlena led the way. The twins had changed out of their customary resort wear. Clémence wore dark, slim-fitting jeans and a midnight-blue windbreaker, Marlena a black neoprene wetsuit and holster. The butt of a silver gun showed. Of course she would be armed, thought Stevie—however she had no choice but to trust Marlena.

They reached a shed by the water with a great steel door and several new locks. Marlena produced a set of keys and began to unlock them one by one. The heavy door finally creaked open. Stevie shone the flashlight: eight Zodiacs were stacked in twos. A ninth sat in the middle of the room on a trailer. ‘This is the one you saw.' Marlena pointed at it. ‘I refilled the fuel tanks when I got back. It should be all ready to go.'

‘What are they all doing here?' asked Stevie, looking around the dark shed.

‘Ready to fill orders, but everything is on hold at the moment. Only Krok can give the nod and he's got other priorities right now. Megrahi will probably take care of them in the next day or so.'

Stevie gave a little shudder as she remembered the man with the missing thumb. Krok and Marlena were not, she reminded herself, the only dangers that lay in wait. ‘Out of interest,' Stevie ventured, ‘where did you go that night?'

Marlena gave her a long look. Finally she sighed. ‘I don't suppose it matters now.' She started lifting off the tarpaulin. ‘Tunisia. We had a load of MANPADS. They fit nicely in the lockers of the boat and they're very popular in Africa and the Middle East.'

Stevie drew a sharp breath. She and Henning had been right, that day on the ghost ship. MANPADS: shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. They were usually guided and a favourite weapon to use against aircraft and helicopters. They were loved by terrorist groups and rebel groups alike for their portability and affordability, and for their ease of use. They would be a pirate's delight.

Stevie looked at the Zodiac. ‘I'm surprised you would use a boat like this to send a few MANPADS to Africa . . .' Some older missiles could be bought for a couple of hundred dollars. It seemed like a waste of resources.

‘It was a demonstration of what these boats can do.' Marlena's eyes narrowed defensively. ‘And the MANPADS were Starstreaks. They go for a quarter of a million dollars or more, and they're very hard to get. Controls are tight.'

Stevie froze. Starstreaks were beam-guided missiles that homed in on the target along a laser beam—called beam riding. They were particularly frightening because they were pretty much immune to most missile countermeasures. They could wreak untold havoc in the wrong hands. She shook herself. There would be time to think about that later. The matter at hand was Farouk.

She helped Marlena and Clémence push the trailer out to the water's edge and launch the boat. They jumped in. Marlena stood at the wheel and started up a single engine. They puttered discreetly past the dark boats, the rounded church lit beautifully from below, the lighted windows of the Luci di la Muntagna hotel.

Once out of the heads, Marlena set the compass for Cavallo. ‘You'd better buckle in if you want to stay on board.'

Clémence and Stevie buckled into the special bucket seats loaded with massive springs for suspension; Marlena wedged herself between the wheel and her twin. The eight three-hundred-horsepower engines roared to life.

The sound was extraordinary. The Zodiac picked up speed, nose climbing vertically at first under the weight and churn of the engines before planing and gathering even more speed. The wind rush was incredible. The closest thing Stevie had come to this was skydiving. Only here they bounced and flew as the fibreglass hull hit wavelets, and everything was pitch black.

Here's hoping Marlena's good at the wheel.

Fortunately, Marlena drove the beast with great skill. As they approached their destination, she slowed. Stevie remembered the dangerous shoals—were they mad to attempt this at night? But there was no other way. She was about to speak up when Marlena, without looking down at Stevie, said, ‘Relax. I know these waters like the back of my hand.' And she steered the craft expertly towards the small lights of the island before cutting the motors.

They unbuckled their belts. Stevie's hair was standing on end and her cheeks felt whipped, eyes watering. The momentum carried them in a way, then the wind, which by good fortune was blowing behind them. When they were close enough to make out the outline of the empty houses in the starlight, Marlena motioned to Stevie to drop the sea anchor. They could not put a real one down for risk that it would get caught in the rocks below and delay their escape. A rocky outcrop and the inky darkness made sure the dinghy was invisible to anyone on the shore. Marlena pointed a painted fingernail at the dark shape of a shed at the other end of the jetty. A crack of light suddenly appeared then disappeared again. Someone had just gone in, or out. They needed to get closer, find a way to look inside.