The Siren's Sting (6 page)

He nodded once, the tiredness settling back into his face. ‘You were very lucky—you all were. The
Zoroaster II
, a tanker carrying chemical waste, was taken the same day not far from where you were attacked. The pirates destroyed the bridge with a rocket-propelled grenade and forced the captain to stop. He was injured quite badly apparently—machete—and the crew are being held to ransom.' Rice rubbed his chin in a gesture of exhaustion. ‘It was the fifth attack in those waters this week, if we count the one on the
Oriana
. All the others were successful.'

‘Do we know anything about these pirates?' Stevie asked, her eyes still on his face.

‘Suposedly they're poor fishermen from the Somali coast looking to make a living in a country that has no functioning government. The piracy problem starts on land: civil war in 1991, fighting between the warlords all over the country, famine. Then the world sent food aid and the warlords stole most of it and sold it on across the border to buy more weapons. Then Operation Restore Hope and the Battle of Mogadishu.'

‘When the militants shot down two Black Hawk helicopters with rocket-propelled grenades.'

Rice inclined his head. ‘The Americans were leading the operation and they lost nineteen men. The bodies of two of them were dragged through the streets on television. It's not that much better now: a transitional government with virtually no power, backed by Ethiopian troops who, from what I hear, are often part of the problem. Looting, killing, gang rape—no one held accountable . . . And the government wonders why it has no legitimacy in the eyes of the people. The whole country is the worst kind of mess. The only structure that does exist is the clan structure, which often ends up behaving much like the mafia.'

Rice stopped abruptly and turned to stare out the window. In the dying light of the day, his skin was grey. Stevie shifted her gaze; she did not want to see his weakness. It was like seeing him naked.

‘Not surprising, then,' she said, ‘that the fishermen have turned pirates. It must be hard to see the world's trade pass outside your front door and to be trapped in hell with no way out.'

‘Mmm . . .' Rice turned back to Stevie. ‘But something tells me there is more to it than that. The attacks are too ambitious, too successful . . . The pirates have moved beyond bamboo ladders and machetes—they're now armed with explosives and automatic weapons, they track their target ships with GPS.'

‘So, what are we talking,' she asked quietly, ‘in terms of numbers?'

‘Two years ago, the numbers were around eight; last year, the number jumped to more than sixty. It's estimated the pirates took around forty million dollars. In the first half of this year, that record has already been smashed. The insurance for cargo ships transiting the Gulf of Aden has gone up ten times. It is not an isolated, nor an insignificant, problem.' He said the last bit as if to himself.

‘The pirates who attacked us arrived in brand-new Zodiacs,' Stevie offered, ‘with high-powered engines, reserve fuel tanks, the whole lot. They were well coordinated—it takes a bit of practice to move in concert on the high seas—but they looked local, Somali. My impression was that most of these men were trained seamen, even possibly military men; half of them were wearing armour.'

‘It's obviously been a lucrative business for the pirates,' Rice confirmed. ‘Apparently they're driving brand-new Land Cruisers in Boosaaso, sporting Rolex watches, diamond ear studs, the full bit. They use the profts of the attacks to buy better outboard motors, better weaponry, navigation systems and so forth.'

Stevie nodded. ‘That would explain the equipment—but not necessarily the training. Experience, I suppose, but you know what I mean: men who have been in the forces move differently. You can just tell someone with training. The pirates I saw—with the exception of a young Rambo who was just spraying bullets about in a panic—had training.'

Rice said nothing, stared at Stevie for a moment as if making up his mind about something. ‘We're in trouble, Stevie.' He looked out towards the street. Black limousines were pulling up outside the church, people were coming out, dressed in the sombre greys and blacks of mourning. ‘You know Hazard has started up a maritime security arm in response to the escalation of sea-borne threats in the last few years. It's been rather successful and we've been engaged by a great many of the biggest shipping lines in the world.'

Stevie said nothing. The picture was beginning to form in her head even as he spoke.

‘In the last four months, we've suffered nineteen pirate attacks, twelve of them successful.' Stevie's eyes widened. She had not expected the numbers to be so high. No wonder Rice was stressed.

‘
Zoroaster II
was also one of ours. Unlucky thirteen. I have two men on board that ship, and one of them is Owen Dovetail.'

‘Oh no.' Stevie's hand covered her mouth in dismay. She had worked closely with Owen on many assignments and had a great respect and affection for the taciturn Welshman.

‘He was on board as protection—unarmed, of course; the laws don't allow us to be armed. It's a one-sided war out there.' Rice lapsed into silence.

Finally she murmured, ‘Are you in contact with him?'

‘He's managed to send a few text messages. Apparently, though, they've been locked in the hold so he can't give us any indication of the whereabouts of the ship.' He looked up. ‘It doesn't sound good, Stevie. It's almost as if our ships are being targeted on purpose. The number of attacks is too far above the average. That's why Dovetail was on board, and a new guy, Simon Timms, too.'

‘Have the pirates contacted anyone yet?'

Rice shook his head. ‘The contact will most likely come to us through a middleman in London in the next couple of days. Everyone at Hazard is standing ready. We
will
get Dovetail and Timms back. Trouble is, we have to free the whole crew to get to them. There are twenty-six different nationalities represented on board and we're dealing with representatives from almost every one of those countries. It's a logistical nightmare. Then, when contact is made, the negotiations customarily drag on for months. The crews of the
Bremen
and the
Asia Pearl
have been held for five and seven months respectively.'

‘In terms of Hazard's involvement
,
how many ships are we talking about here?' Stevie's consternation was growing. The numbers sounded overwhelming.

‘We have nine ships, seven with captured crews still held, at various stages of negotiation. That's a total of two hundred and nine seamen, plus Dovetail and Timms. The ships themselves are covered by a war risk policy, which covers acts of terrorism and, increasingly, piracy; we've also been offering a third type of policy of protection and indemnity that covers the crew.' Rice rubbed his chin again. ‘We've been able to outsource some of the legal work, but negotiating with the pirates and the insurance companies rests with us.'

Rice didn't need to say it—but he said it anyway. ‘Stevie, this could sink us.'

Stevie felt the weight of what Rice was telling her settle on her slim shoulders. ‘And the hostages?'

‘They're all at risk. We are basically stuck between the pirates and the insurance companies and what they are prepared to pay: Hazard is handling the face-to-face but the insurance companies make the final call. So far, the pirates in Somalia have treated their hostages relatively well—they are, after all, their best asset—but we don't know how long that will go on for. We're doing everything possible. You can imagine what two hundred and eleven hostages are doing to the incident room—and that's not counting all the other kidnap cases we're dealing with all over the world. I've brought in everyone I know, pulled in masses of favours, but it's not enough. We're working thirty-six hours on, eight off.'

Rice didn't have to tell Stevie that he was working hardest of all—his appearance said everything. She had never seen him looking so worn, so vulnerable, so . . . old.

She wished she could un-see it. David Rice and her grandmother Didi were the twin pillars of her world; losing Rice would mean collapse.

Outside, the rain had become a downpour. A small cluster of mourners—the stragglers—appeared at the entrance of the church. They popped large black umbrellas, the blooms of sorrow, and stood waiting, unsure what to do next.

Stevie turned back to her boss. ‘Do you want me in London?'

Rice shook his head. ‘No. I've put a hold on all new clients until we get a handle on this. I won't need you for some time.' He paused, his eyes on the black and grey shapes outside. ‘Why don't you take a holiday?' The words came out heavily.

‘I don't—' Stevie began to protest, but Rice dropped a weary hand onto the table.

‘Stevie, I don't have the energy. It's an order, not an invitation: take a goddamn holiday.' He rose from the table, and looked down at her. His grey eyes met hers and held them briefly—an apology of sorts?—then he turned and walked out.

Stevie leant back in her chair and pulled out her black Russian cigarettes with the gold tips. She had almost stopped smoking them—she had overdone it a little in Russia—but, every now and then, she still craved the sharp, poisonous bite of the smoke in her lungs. She put one to her lips and lit it with a match; she drew in deeply then exhaled as if deflating, up towards the low ceiling. The exchange had left her feeling hollow and angry and anxious all at the same time. She wanted to help Rice but he didn't need her—didn't want her—and that wounded her. There was no choice but to take off. She stubbed out her half-smoked Sobranie, paid for her drink and went across the road to the church opposite.

The funeral had finished and all the mourners had left. The church had the empty feel of a room once the party is over and all the guests have gone home. Stevie could smell the mix of feminine perfumes, the tang of quality leather and cigarettes, that the visitors had left behind. Huge arrangements of white lilies gave off their own powerful scent and dropped golden pollen onto the waxed timber pews. Underlying it all was the familiar, reassuring smell of beeswax furniture polish, and incense.

She wandered about among the figures of Jesus and Mary Magdalen and St Sebastian full of arrows, nestling in their candlelit alcoves. To the right of the door was a large alcove covered from floor to ceiling with childlike drawings done on paper and stuck to the walls.

Each drawing, she realised as she moved closer, depicted someone in the act of dying: an old man lying in a bed under a grey crayon blanket and surrounded by the figures of his family; a younger-looking man lying under the feet of a horse, crayon blood pouring from his head; a woman in crayon skirts caught under the wheels of a tram; a group of crayon men in army uniform trying to stop a tank on a bridge . . . Hundreds of years' worth of deaths, recorded by loved ones left behind in pencil and crayon, then stuck on the church walls for remembrance.

It was an uncanny idea. The drawings were a reminder of the domesticity of death: it arrived in kitchens, in streets full of shops, in sparse bedrooms; it was happening all around them, to people who drew like children. So many deaths, thought Stevie, were accidental—a careless step, a silly mistake, the premature and unplanned end to a busy life. Life is a fragile and precious thing; we hang by a thread.

That, the cynic in her supposed, was the intention behind the wall: a reminder of our transience and mortality, the kindling of hopes for something to come after—in case we messed this life up.

Her grandmother Didi would say that every day should be cherished, every day was a new beginning, and every day should be mined for pleasures and charm; that was a life well lived. Stevie shook off the gloom that had shrouded her since the meeting with Rice and decided to act: she would head south tomorrow, down to the island of Sardinia, where her grandmother still had an old, whitewashed house by the sea. There, she would soak up the sun and swim and fill herself with serenity.

Back at the Turin Palace,
Angelina had left a note in Stevie's pigeonhole commanding her attendance at an impromptu performance at the Teatro Regio. She was to sing her favourite arias for Torino's finest, with dinner and dancing after. Stevie was just slipping back to her room, where she planned to decide in peace how best to refuse the invitation, when the diva herself swept along the corridor in her dark glasses, Zorfanelli on one elbow, Sanderson—carrying Angelina's jewel case—on the other.

‘Stevie, my darling, my saviour, my little
oiseau
.' Her voice filled every corner of the marble reception. ‘How can I ever repay you for saving my jewels? I've popped you in a box with Fernando and Sanderson for tonight's performance. You will be the guest of honour!'

Stevie forced a huge smile in return as she took the diva gently but firmly by the elbow. ‘Really, you are too kind,' she murmured, then went on in even softer tones. ‘But I must stress this, Angelina: please never reveal to anyone that I have been anything more than a travelling companion to you, never breathe a word about my background. And if we meet somewhere in the future, the same applies. This is what I ask in return for saving your jewels. Can you do this for me?'

The diva nodded, then caught sight of Stevie's damp hair. ‘The performance begins in a couple of hours,' she said in horror. ‘You can hardly turn up looking like that.' Then she blew her saviour a kiss and the trio swept through the revolving doors and into a waiting car.

La Dracoulis was magnificent. It
was as if she knew that everyone in the audience was there for more than her golden voice. There had been rumours crackling like electricity about her incredible survival of a pirate attack off Somalia. No doubt Zorfanelli—his sense of spectacle almost as acute at Angelina's—had played a part in whipping up a sense of danger on the high seas that added a different kind of glamour to the image of La Dracoulis.