The Siren's Sting (14 page)

As soon as they were out of sight, conversation at the table naturally turned to the just-departed couple.

‘Well Susanna told me he killed his first wife—and I wouldn't be surprised if it were true.'

‘He's like Bluebeard the pirate!'

‘No, no,
no
, darling, you got that all wrong. It was her—
she
killed her first husband, and her second died in mysterious circumstances. Apparently she drives all men wild with jealousy . . .'

‘Of course she stays for the money. That's why they married.'

‘He certainly owns her in that sense, but where is her dignity? I'm not sure I could stay with a man who treated me like that for any amount of money.'

‘But did you get a good look at her jewellery? I'd love diamonds like hers. And he's probably not even home half the time. Just the odd holiday. Not such a bad price to pay.'

‘He's mixed up in all sorts of things that are hidden behind his mercenaries.'

‘It's a dirty business regardless, I know . . .'

‘But he takes it to another level.'

‘You shouldn't cross him—important people are in his debt.'

‘I'm not impressed. The man's a pirate.'

The scene with the Kroks, far from dampening the spirit of the party, seemed to electrify it. Soon after the
babas au rhum
were served, the women were dancing, along with some of the more colourful men; others sat in knots smoking their various tobaccos, drinking espresso and small glasses of
fil 'e ferru
, the local grappa, named after barbed wire for both historical reasons (the mountain peasants used to hide it down wells, attached to a length of wire) as well as for the quality of its mouth feel. Stevie stayed seated, watching the scene unfold before her.

Osip, still next to her, looked away from the dancers and turned to Stevie. ‘Do you think they are as happy as they look?' he asked lightly.

Stevie considered a moment, head to one side. ‘Yes,' she said slowly, ‘I think they might be. Not all of them, not all the time, but I think they are happy.'

‘Is it the money, do you think?'

‘No. The money helps them to be free and have more fun, but I think they seem to have a capacity for joy. That is the key to happiness.'

‘To find pleasure in the small things, the everyday things,' Osip echoed.

Stevie smiled and nodded. ‘I've seen people with enough money who fixate on getting more—of everything: diamonds, cars, handbags, clothes, houses . . . They can't consume fast enough. And they always seem to be the unhappiest people—the men can't relax and they grow fat; the women get these horrible pinched mouths. They become mean. They can no longer take pleasure in a perfect dawn, or a warm bed, or raindrops on the window pane.'

Osip grinned. ‘You are quite the poet yourself.'

Stevie shook her head. ‘My soul is terribly unromantic. In my business—' She stopped abruptly. She had almost forgotten herself. ‘I plan parties,' she explained with a smile, ‘and in my business, I see too much of people behaving badly.'

Osip looked at her curiously. ‘You remind me of someone.'

His eyes bored into hers and she felt her colour rise.

Damn the curse of blushing!

‘The cousins,' he said simply. ‘You're the girl with the cousins.'

Stevie was thunderstruck.
How did he know about Simone and
Mark?

‘The fig tree,' Osip went on, smiling. ‘The champagne bottle. I knew the voice was familiar.'

Stevie blushed even deeper. All she could manage in response was a carefully controlled, ‘Oh.'

Osip laughed and looked away, sparing her more discomfort.

‘Have you managed to get rid of them yet?'

Stevie shook her head. ‘Alas, no. I fear it will be impossible.'

‘Everything in life is possible,' he replied, ‘that is the beauty of it. Why don't you come over tomorrow afternoon? We're neighbours after all. You can meet my sisters—although I think perhaps you know them already?'

‘Nicolette, Marie-Thérèse and Severine,' Stevie replied, putting the pieces together. ‘We used to play on the beach as little girls. You're the
Barone
's son.'

‘Adopted son, but in all other ways, yes. We are a very close family. Come over. It will be a reprieve from your cousins at least.'

‘Thank you,' Stevie said, ‘I might do that.'

Osip excused himself, saying he had a windsurfing appointment with a friend in Baia Sardinia. He kissed Stevie on both cheeks and left the party.

Stevie stood and walked about. She didn't feel like dancing; she wanted to learn more about Krok and his world. Three men in pale linen trousers and light summer jackets were seated at the far end of the pergola. They were deep in discussion, their eyes hidden by sunglasses, although the sun had far passed its brightest point and the light under the bougainvillea was dim. One of them was Dado Falcone, the other was Skorpios.

Stevie's instincts told her these were the men whose conversation would be most useful, but she could hardly just sidle up, yawn, and lie down under their lounge chair, no matter how innocent she looked.

Then she had a thought.

Many of the houses on the Costa Smeralda, having been built by the same handful of architects, had similar features. One of them, as was the case at Lu Nibaru, was sunken bathrooms with low windows opening up at terrace-floor level. Many a conversation had been accidentally overheard because of this unlikely design. It was possible that the Falcones' villa might have such a bathroom. There was a window not too far from one of the men's feet.

Stevie slipped into the house and followed the cool terracotta steps down. The bathroom was on her left and she opened the door with great caution. Sure enough, through the window high above the toilet, she could see a tan loafer, a silk sock in pale pink. She twisted the handle on the window to open it, silent as a hummingbird, then lowered the cistern lid and sat.

Anyone peeking in would be embarrassed to find a young lady engaged in private business.

Fortunately for Stevie, the men spoke Italian, rather than a regional dialect that she would have found impossible to understand.

Dado dropped a lit match and she smelt cigar smoke. ‘When times are economically uncertain, it's unwise to offend one of your best customers. The man may be a vulgarian, but he buys more of my systems than Germany or France. It is the relationship, not the man, that I nurture.'

‘But, Dado, you have no idea where he on-sells your systems to, nor to whom. He's a mercenary, not a registered arms trader. I can only imagine he sells to places where others won't.' Stevie craned her neck to get a better view. Dado's confederate was a man with thick white hair—a shock of snow above his tanned face. ‘I've heard he runs barges off the coast of West Africa—floating gun supermarkets for anyone who wants them. Think about the customers: from Sierra Leone, Nigeria, the Congo. The picture is not a pretty one.'

‘Someone will always sell to a pariah,' a third man's voice broke in. Although Stevie couldn't see his face from where she was sitting, she recognised Skorpios' Greek-accented Italian.

‘You Swiss,' he chuckled. ‘You'll worry yourself white, Aldo.

Business is business and money makes the rules. As I have more money than both of you put together, I say Krok is sound. Our syndicate finds him useful and until he is not useful, he stays.'

The man with the white hair—Aldo the Swiss—began to protest. ‘He is not a man we can control. This new venture smacks of madness. I don't—'

‘We don't need to control him,' Skorpios said. ‘We only need to profit from his activities. If anything goes wrong, we deny all association.' He shrugged his giant shoulders. ‘Of course, let me remind you this is not our first time, friends; we are hardly a gathering of virgins on their wedding night.'

There was a pause, then Dado spoke. ‘But I do agree with Aldo that the man seems to be growing less predictable. That destabilises the relationship.'

‘Does he still buy from you?' Skorpios asked. ‘Does he still find customers when no one on the open market seems to be buying? Does he allow you to keep your hands perfectly clean?'

Dado nodded.

The Greek turned to Aldo. ‘And does he still run his money through your banks?'

Aldo raised both hands in a gesture of resignation.

‘Does he still make me a fortune?' Here Skorpios laughed.

The three men stopped talking as a waiter brought a fresh round of espressos and a plate of colourful marzipan fruit.

Stevie recognised Skorpios' hand—the signet ring—take a plump sugared peach.

‘Besides,' he went on, ‘the man has the best connections this side of the Pillars of Hercules. Totally clean, totally professional— even we don't know who he is. If we did . . . well, Krok might be less useful. But I've seen what his men can do and it is . . . impressive.'

‘His connections are extraordinary.' Dado neatly tapped the ash from his cigar into a silver pocket-ashtray.

‘He is linked to every villainous head of state and warlord on the planet.' Aldo shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, profit is one thing and I don't deny I have a love of money, but what about conscience? Things are going too far. This is completely unethical and immoral. Our profits so far have been excellent. Let's close this door before Krok blows the building down with us in it.'

Skorpios laughed again. ‘What an imagination you have, Aldo. I didn't think the Swiss had it in them.' Then he leant forward, his deep voice almost a whisper. ‘You can never have enough money, Aldo. Money is power. Conscience is an unnecessary mental obstacle to greatness; it troubles mere mortals. Morality, ethics, laws—what are these to people who can make their own? These things do not touch men like us.'

Stevie, sitting as still as a stone in the bathroom, remembered their conversation in the jet above the Rub' al Khali desert.

Aldo set his espresso cup down, his hand trembling slightly. ‘I'm afraid I cannot include myself in your select group, Socrates. Your greed will be your undoing. As a Greek, you should well understand the concept of hubris.'

This time there was no chuckle from the Greek, merely a dangerous silence that none of the men seemed inclined to break.

Aldo rose. ‘There are other banks, other bankers, willing to lend a hand. My withdrawal will not affect the syndicate. I am content with my profit share so far and require no more. Please do not contact me ever again. You can rely on my absolute discretion. I know my life depends on it and the years I have left are of great value to me.' He gave a little bow and walked away.

Stevie, shivering in the cool dark of the bathroom, didn't dare breathe. She had definitely overheard too much. If she got up and flushed, the men would become aware of someone nearby. She would have to stay put until they moved.

But the two men seemed to have little intention of going anywhere.

Skorpios lit his own cigar—a fat, stinking affair—with a delicate gold lighter that looked like a toy in his large palm.

Dado was the first to speak. ‘Aldo has a wife, grandchildren. I think we can trust him.'

Skorpios simply lifted his great bullfrog throat and laughed.

9

When Stevie awoke, the sunlight
filtering through the cracks in the dark wooden shutters was already hot. Her mind was still spinning a little from her experience at the Villa Giardiniera and she needed coffee desperately. She could hear Simone in the bathroom blow-drying her hair. Possibly now was a good time to get the kitchen to herself . . .

The shutters in the little kitchen were still closed. Stevie flung them open to the hot pink and orange bougainvillea that grew over the kitchen window, so ancient and so large that it threatened, every year, to come crashing down. She spooned coffee into the metal coffee pot then lit the gas, singeing her finger with the match.

She could think only of Skorpios and the conversation she had overheard from the bathroom. She felt shaken—but did it really have anything to do with her assignment for Clémence? She had managed to establish that others too—even his associates—thought Krok volatile and unpredictable and dangerous. He seemed to have some new venture or deal afoot that all but the Swiss banker wanted in on.

Clémence hadn't returned her call and Stevie hoped she was— But before she could finish the thought, Simone entered the kitchen, already in full make-up and high heels. Stevie looked up brightly, hiding her dismay.

‘Good morning, Simone. Did you sleep well?'

Simone scratched a carefully waxed brown arm. ‘That room you've got us in, it's full of bugs. I can't sleep—I'm exhausted. And I've got this huge bite on my arm this morning. It's disgusting.'

‘Oh dear.'

The coffee pot boiled over impatiently as Stevie found two old blue cups. She held the pot aloft. ‘I've just made coffee. Will you have some?'

Simone wrinkled her nose, shook her head and opened the fridge. ‘Does nobody in this country eat, like, pancakes for breakfast? We tried to get brunch yesterday and it was impossible. I thought Italy was supposed to have this amazing food, but you can't even get poached eggs for breakfast.'

Stevie made a sympathetic face. ‘I don't think Italians are big breakfast people. They generally just do coffee, maybe a biscuit or a pastry. Eggs aren't breakfast food here.'

Simone stared at Stevie as though she had just explained that earthworms were considered a most sophisticated
aperitivo
in Sardinia.

A manicured hand extracted the milk carton from the fridge. ‘And that's the other thing—the use-by date on the milk here is so close. It's practically off.' Simone's large diamond gleamed in the sunlight. ‘Actually, I will have coffee.'

As Stevie filled Simone's cup, she wondered at her house guest's lack of grace. Simone had had every material advantage: two loving parents, a university education, every luxury she could think of, and yet she had managed to slide through life without picking up any manners.