The Siren's Sting (21 page)

Lamia's accented English overlapped the voices of the men, much to Stevie's dismay. ‘This one is my wedding ring, so naturally it is more special to me.' Mrs Al-Nassar was waving her hand about like a branch in the breeze, showing to good effect the precious rocks that perched thereon. ‘It is forty carats.'

‘It certainly has presence,' Stevie remarked, her eyes quite blinded by the glittering egg that covered the lower half of Lamia's ring finger.

‘It is not the size that matters, darling.' Lamia took in Stevie's lack of adornment—four simple strands of pearls around her neck—with an air of slight puzzlement. ‘Naturally it is the sentiment that counts.'

Stevie nodded her assent. ‘As you can see, I am not the sentimental type. Perhaps my pearls . . . They were my great grandmother's.'

‘The Fabergé egg?' Essam Al-Nassar had noticed. Stevie blushed but Lamia saved the day.

‘I believe in inherited jewellery,' she interjected. ‘It has a certain patina of sentiment that I find irresistible.'

Stevie suspected there was little in the way of jewellery that Lamia could resist. Well, at least the woman had passion, and she smiled warmly and often at her husband. There seemed to be real affection there.

Stevie leant her head back, suddenly feeling tired from the day, the champagne, the anxiety, the poisoned air . . . She caught Krok's words again—he appeared to be in the middle of a sales pitch.

‘I have contacts right through Africa and Southeast Asia, but what I really want, and where the big money is now, is the Middle East. But I need the connections. I need someone who can put deals and people together. That's what EN does best. He's been doing it since before the Americans in Iran—the arms for hostages deal— and now he can do it for us.' He stared hard at Al-Nassar's man. ‘We can get our hands on anything you want: missiles, helicopters, guns, ammunition, guidance systems, submarines, even chemical and nuclear weapons. We have a, er, particularly creative way of getting hold of specialty cargo. Nothing is impossible, nothing is traceable back to us, and we pay a very generous commission on all deals brokered at no risk to EN. Just connections, connecting.'

The sound of a motor launch distracted the men. A boat had pulled up alongside carrying some more guests from the
Petrina
. The musicians darted towards the ladder and formed a new corridor, swaying and playing.

The first person aboard was a dour little woman in a dour little brown woollen dress, the front of which was buckling under the weight of pearl brooches and necklaces; she was followed by a brown little man who could only have been her husband.

The next couple made Stevie catch her breath—the beautiful Iris, resplendent in polka-dotted chiffon and moonstones, and behind her a tall man in his late thirties, blue linen trousers, dark-haired and craggy-faced.

Henning!

Stevie's heart did an involuntary somersault of pleasure that was quickly replaced by confusion and suspicion.

What are Henning and his mother doing on the
Petrina
? Why are
they here?

Skorpios swooped on Iris; Stevie noticed Henning, too, needed no introduction. Why was she surprised? How much did she really know about the man? And, as she had discovered in Moscow, he seemed to specialise in unlikely friends . . .

Neither Iris nor Henning looked in her direction, although Stevie knew Henning had seen her. She had felt his blue eyes hot on the side of her face. Likewise, she gave the couple no more than a cursory look of mild and shallow curiosity.

Something was up.

Skorpios brought the couple over to Stevie. ‘You know Iris, I believe.' Stevie and Iris shook hands. ‘And this is her son, Henning.'

Henning took Stevie's hand and smiled right into her eyes.

‘Charmed,' he said softly in his deep voice.

Stevie realised with a jolt just how much she had missed him—his touch was electric on her hand—but she merely smiled politely then turned away towards Clémence, an inane query about dinner already forming on her lips.

Clémence, on the other hand, was showing some interest in the new arrival, and was casting admiring looks at his strong, lean figure, his fine suntanned hands.

‘I'll seat this one next to you at dinner,' she whispered to Stevie with a slight raise of the perfect eyebrows, then glanced nervously towards her husband. She did this often, Stevie had noticed—her eyes flicking up to his face with the small, rapid movements of a gazelle. Krok was paying her no heed and she seemed relieved.

Stevie's gaze shifted to the mousy woman who had arrived with Henning. Who was she? Her thinning grey hair was caught up in a tight bun and she wore large glasses with clear plastic frames; a matching chain assured that the glasses would stay on her person if they did slide off her nose. She kept pushing them up with a thin little finger—a nervous tic, perhaps, thought Stevie.

The woman wore sensible beige shoes with white rubber soles that were completely at odds with the encrustations of pearls that hung on her front: at least eight strands of large white pearls, several pearl brooches pinned in no particular pattern, and a pearl tiara fixed firmly to the front of the head. The effect was not unlike a display of antique jewellery at a flea market, laid out with pins on a rough dark cloth, though Stevie could tell that the pearls and their settings were magnificent.

Her husband wore a tweed jacket, similar glasses and shoes, and had obviously fought a losing battle to control the wiry tufts of grey hair that insisted on sprouting almost at random on his balding scalp. He was otherwise undecorated, except for a gold wedding ring and the most enormous gold tie pin, crowned with a diamond that, in another setting, would have had to be fake.

They were sitting together, each with a glass of Pimms, saying nothing.

The little knot of plotters had broken up with the arrival of the new guests and Stevie decided to indulge her curiosity. She stood, somewhat unsteadily, and made for the odd couple.

‘Good evening, I'm Stevie Duveen.'

The couple stood and replied as one, ‘Good evening, I'm sure.'

The woman spoke first. ‘I'm Primula White. This is my husband, Professor Peter White.'

‘It's a pleasure to meet you both.' Stevie smiled. ‘Do the musicians travel everywhere with you? It's rather a lovely idea, don't you think?'

‘Oh no, not always,' Primula White replied. ‘They play on social occasions mainly. They wouldn't follow Mr Al-Nassar to a business meeting, for example.'

Professor White broke in, ‘Although there was that one time in Smyrna . . . There was a Greek merchant—or was he a Cypriot? I can never quite get my facts straight in the heat.'

‘He was a Greek trader, Professor, and the circumstances required a musical accompaniment.' Primula White's voice was sharp and precise, cutting through the fog of her husband's reminiscences.

Stevie's mind boggled trying to imagine the kinds of business deals with Greek traders that might require musical accompaniments. Instead, she said, ‘It sounds like you are regular guests of Mr Al-Nassar. How fortunate for you.'

‘We are indeed very fortunate, Miss Duveen, to be the recipients of such generosity. However, perhaps you labour under a misapprehension. I am engaged as a governess to Mr Al-Nassar's youngest son, Ali. Most kindly, the Professor is welcome to join us whenever he is free to.'

‘Whenever I am free to, yes.'

‘It must be a charmed life, full of adventure,' remarked Stevie. This explained a lot, but still not the pearls and the tie pin.

‘Miss Prim watches over us all. It's really very reassuring.'

Stevie didn't need to turn her head to know exactly who was standing next to her. Miss Prim, as he called her, was actually blushing.

‘Do you need much watching over?' Stevie mustered up the courage to turn and look smack bang into Henning's eyes.

His expression was serious, but the left corner of his mouth danced in the way she knew so well. ‘Anything can happen at sea— and frequently does, wouldn't you say, Professor?'

‘Oh, er, yes, frequently does. Indeed.' He was blushing too. Henning had certainly made quite an impression with the bookish couple. But then again, that was what he did best.

‘Poor Miss Prim had her arm twisted to join us this evening,' Henning continued. ‘EN insisted that she put all her jewels on and be ready at seven.'

‘I told Mr Al-Nassar I didn't have any jewellery—only the earrings my mother left me, and they are back in England, in the bank, for safekeeping.'

‘So Essam festooned poor Miss Prim with something from his own stash—or, rather, Lamia's.'

‘It really was very kind of him to lend me such beautiful pearls.'

‘Even the Professor didn't escape.' Henning gestured towards the tie pin. Peter White shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

‘Come on,' said Henning. ‘Let me refresh your drinks.'

‘Oh, Mr Henning, really, I should start to feel quite tipsy and—'

‘Dear Miss Prim, your reputation is under the protection of your husband and several hundred bodyguards. It is unassailable.'

Henning refilled the glasses, adding a little extra gin to the Pimms for good measure then poured himself a whisky and soda. The couple tottered back to their chairs and Henning cornered Stevie.

‘Is it responsible to spike the governess' drink?' she asked, feigning horror.

‘She's a lovely woman really, but she needs to relax. She's held together so tightly I worry she'll pop something one day.'

Stevie pictured Miss Prim's bun exploding like a champagne cork and giggled. ‘By the way,' she said, ‘what on earth are you doing here?'

‘Didn't you call?'

‘No. Well, yes, but days ago. And you were on the other side of the world.'

‘Actually, Persepolis is closer than people think.'

‘Not the point, Henning.'

Henning looked at her long and hard. His laughing blue eyes grew serious, his voice quiet. ‘Clémence told me about your dive. After today's misadventure, are you really telling me you don't need rescuing?'

Stevie took a large sip of her champagne and looked away. ‘I'm perfectly alright, thank you. And you couldn't have known that was going to happen,' she added, ‘so that can't be why you're here.' She realised she felt faint and looked surreptitiously around for a chair, hoping Henning wouldn't notice.

He pushed a cane armchair over but remained standing. ‘Don't forget I'm on your side,' he said gently.

Stevie sat but said nothing. She didn't quite know where to begin. Drawing Henning back into her world was not something she had thought she would do. Still, she needed friends, needed someone to talk to, especially as Rice was impossible these days. After some time, she spoke, her voice almost a whisper.

‘I'm just an observer.'

Henning leant against the railing and looked at her. ‘Observing what, exactly? The Kroks? Their friends' amorous intrigues?'

‘Pretty close.'

Henning looked sceptical. ‘It's a new line of work for you.'

‘It's a favour for someone—not strictly, strictly business.'

Henning's face hardened. ‘Rice.' He turned away to face the lights flickering on the mysterious island of Cavallo. His voice drifted back to Stevie. ‘He has no right.'

‘I'm here as Clémence's guest—she knows everything. It's safe.'

‘Really?' Henning turned, his eyes going to Stevie's red nails. ‘He has no right,' he repeated, taking a deep sip of his whisky.

‘I could have said no,' Stevie said sharply. She had a strong will and mind of her own and Henning had best not forget it.

‘Rice knows only too well the influence he has over you. He pretends not to, of course—much easier on the conscience . . .' He placed his glass on the handrail and looked at her. ‘But he can make you do anything.'

Stevie suppressed a thunderball of anger rising in her throat. It would not do to show her fury, draw attention, lose control. Not now.

‘I remember another friend who once asked me to do him a favour.' Her voice was icy. ‘To help a friend.'

‘And I should never have asked.' Henning's expression was grave. ‘I'll never forgive myself for putting you in so much danger.'

‘Well . . .' She softened a little. ‘We would never have had that mad adventure together. I don't regret saying yes.' She added, even more softly, ‘To any of it.'

They were quite alone. Stevie suddenly longed to kiss him again. The other guests were mingling around Al-Nassar; it was unlikely anyone would notice. Henning's low voice brought her out of her reverie.

‘Vaughan Krok is a devil. You shouldn't be anywhere near this man.'

Stevie raised an eyebrow. ‘I suspect he's not the only one on board tonight that matches that description.'

Henning broke off to draw a fresh cigarette from a crumpled soft pack. He was about to offer Stevie one, then stopped. ‘Sorry. Probably not the best thing for you right now, considering.'

Stevie smiled as he put the packet away. ‘Probably not.'

‘It's not a coincidence I'm here, Stevie.'

She waited for him to continue, and when he didn't she suggested, ‘Your mother?'

‘Partly. She heard you were cruising aboard the
Hercules
and wondered if it was such a good idea.' Henning did not meet her eyes.

‘And she called you back from Persepolis.'

‘My mother is not a hysterical woman, Stevie. Quite the opposite. I have seen her demonstrate the most extraordinary sangfroid when bear-like men have quailed. When she tells me something is not quite so, I listen.'

‘Your mother is fabulous.' Stevie glanced rather enviously over at Iris, as tall as a milky reed in a cream silk blouse and pencil skirt. She was laughing lightly at something Vaughan Krok was saying to her pearly chest (he stood almost a head shorter than Iris), the dark waves of her bobbed hair dancing in the evening breeze. Her red lips were perfect and there was not a note of falseness in any of her gestures.