The Siren's Sting (23 page)

Skorpios bellowed, ‘Leave us,' and ran to his lover.

Stevie was only too glad to close the cabin door on the scene.

She smiled politely at Falcone as he stepped back to let her pass in the narrow passageway, wondering if she was the irritant the two men had been talking about. Was there murderous intent disguised as chivalry and
bon ton
in the man behind her? Her shoulder blades burnt in anticipation of the sharp sting of a knife.

None came and Stevie felt both relieved and a little foolish as the hubbub of the after-dinner conversation came through the open door. The guests had left the table and were mingling on the deck.

Henning was whispering to Princess Loli, making her laugh, her eyes bright; Iris was deep in conversation with Lamia. Stevie saw Clémence glide over to where her husband stood talking to Al-Nassar and his right hand and watched as she tried to join the conversation— but Krok just turned his shoulder and blocked her, pushing her away with the back of his arm. He didn't even pause his words.

Clémence looked momentarily lost and Stevie slipped over to her side, taking her elbow.

‘Darling,' Stevie said gaily, ‘I haven't seen you all evening! Come and sit by me.' She led Mrs Krok to some empty chairs a little to the side of the party. As they passed, Stéphane, the aristocrat from Liechtenstein, handed them two glasses of champagne with a little bow, his eyes fixed on Clémence.

‘He seems very interested in you,' Stevie remarked, glancing at the dark-haired European.

‘He's interested in my money—in Vaughan's money I should say.' She drank from her glass. ‘I'm not being cynical, Stevie. It's hard for Stéphane. Behind his world-weary gestures and disdainful laugh is the insecurity of an aristocrat without a country, clinging to a meaningless title that gets him invited to the right parties. Trouble is, Stéph's tastes are very expensive—sports cars, travel, gambling, fine art, the life of
le jet-set
. He needs a fortune to finance his aspirations.'

Clémence looked around. ‘I'm the richest woman here, apart from Lamia. And even Stéphane is not that stupid. Why not? I'm still attractive—if Vaughan and I divorced I would be entitled to a huge chunk of his wealth.' She finished her champagne in one long swallow. Her voice was low and hoarse when she spoke again. ‘Sometimes it's as if he can't stand me, can't stand the sight of me.'

‘Would you ever leave him, Clémence? Surely his fortune isn't worth your health—not to mention Emile's life. And as you said, it's not as if you would be left with nothing.'

‘My dear Stevie, you don't understand, do you? A divorce would be far too expensive—even for my husband—and too dangerous. I know too much about Vaughan, his business . . . You don't get to be as powerful as he is without doing some very bad things. After sleeping with Vaughan for nine years, I'd have to be pretty stupid not to know at least one secret that could destroy him. He will never let me go.' Clémence glanced down at her nails, her rich perfume hanging about her like a protective cloud.

‘He will never let me go,' she repeated, ‘and if I tried to leave . . . he would kill me. I'd be found on the floor of one of my bedrooms in a pool of my own vomit—a drug overdose, a tragic suicide. I've heard him talk to people about my barbiturate addiction.'

Stevie stared at her. She didn't seem to be—

‘No, Stevie, I don't have an addiction. That's the point. He is laying out the groundwork for my murder like a game of solitaire, card by card. And he knows I see it. It's one of his more delightful forms of bullying—to remind me of how lightly I tread on this earth, to remind me that I breathe because he allows me to.'

Stevie shivered and stared down at the oil-black sea where the lights of the
Hercules
were dancing to the tune of Al-Nassar's musicians. The ship was full of bullies and thieves and Stevie could feel the desperation—Clémence, Angelina, Stéphane, how many others?— creep along her spine.

A steward appeared with a tray of cognac and announced to the party: ‘The games in the saloon are about to begin.'

12

Stevie did not like games.
Nor was she very good at them. Even ones that people might have supposed she would be quite suited to were somehow beyond her. Generally she was able to avoid them, though children's birthday parties could be problematic, and English country house parties were perilous. In that situation, a well-timed urge to take the dogs for a long walk usually did the trick.

However, shipboard with a sociopathic weapons dealer and mercenary definitely classified as a situation where games would be difficult to avoid. Stevie gathered her skirts and wondered whether she could convincingly fake a faint, considering her condition . . .

The guests were assembled in the saloon and the round central table had been transformed for the games with a green baize top. Piles of striped chips and stacks of playing cards were collected to one side, under the protection of the chief steward-cum-croupier. Chairs had been set out around the perimeter of the room and a large screen in the corner hinted ominously at the possibility of electronic games—something equally dread-inspiring to Stevie.

She crouched quietly on a banquette, taking care to sandwich herself between two deflectors: Henning (tall and broad) and Clémence (attention-swervingly glamorous). She concentrated on making herself invisible—a rare talent she had that most of the time worked very nicely.

Once all the guests were seated, Krok appeared, cigar in one hand, the other hanging heavily in his jacket pocket. Stevie noticed the outline of a snub-nosed revolver straining at the white linen of the pocket.

‘Games. Mark of a man—how he plays a game.' His voice was loud and hoarse from the whisky, the smoke and the goblins within—a bark. ‘Can't trust a man who doesn't play games.' He turned his boiled eyes to his wife and Stevie felt the skin on Clémence's arm, resting lightly against her own, chill a few degrees. ‘Or a woman for that matter.'

He stared around the room, his eyes aggressive, as if daring someone to give him an excuse to explode. Then he suddenly smiled and gave another bark. ‘Russian roulette?'

He removed his hand from his pocket and drew with it a small white gun, like those carried by his crew. He raised it and fired at the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The sound was furiously loud, even in the carpeted and cushioned room. Someone let out a squeal, quickly stifled.

A single crystal drop fell from the chandelier into Clémence's balloon glass of cognac. A smoking hole was left, round and perfect, in the panelled timber ceiling above her head. The glass in Clémence's hands began to shake. Stevie saw Marlena reach over and take it out of her sister's hands, place it on the side table. The twins exchanged a glance that, to Stevie, was unreadable.

Stéphane leant towards Clémence. ‘Are you alright?' he whispered.

Clémence forced a tight little laugh, ‘Of course. It's just the gun . . . I hate guns—hate the noise, the smell, can't bear to touch them.' She reached for her glass and took a sip. ‘No doubt why Vaughan insists on firing them for party tricks,' she added, and smiled at the room in general.

Krok was laughing now. ‘It's much more fun with other people's lives,' he said. ‘Trust me.' Then, his eyes on Stéphane and Clémence, he added, ‘Don't look so shocked. My wife will tell you I'm only joking.' He smiled like a crocodile. ‘What shall we play first? I have every game you can think of and lots you can't. Battleships,
quinze
, poker,
boules
, backgammon,
pai gow,
roulette, craps, Monopoly, World Domination . . .' His eyes were ablaze with genuine enthusiasm. This mad love of games was a trait that might have humanised someone else, could maybe have made them more endearing. It only made Krok creepier.

Stevie was not the only person who felt this, it seemed. In the saloon full of people, not a peep could be heard. Men leant back and lit cigarettes, women sipped daintily at their drinks and smiled in their jewels, but no one said a word. Not even Stéphane, dependable lubricator of every social situation.

Krok's talent for cruelty now displayed itself, his antennae obviously subtle and sensitive despite the boorish impression he had crafted. He homed in on Stevie.

‘You. Pick a game.'

Stevie felt the familiar flush of terror—hot then cold all over. She straightened up, breathed, and raised her chin. Bullies were more dangerous if you cowered.

She only remembered the rules to two games: Charades and Snap. She glanced over at Skorpios' huge brown paw resting on the table nearby, the heavy signet ring, and she recoiled. ‘Charades,' she said in a clear voice, her skin prickling with self-consciousness as the room turned its face to her. ‘Let's play Charades.'

The silence deepened. Stevie continued to hold her chin high, backing her suggestion with a confidence she did not feel in the slightest.

Krok stared at her. Finally, just as her neck was about to crick painfully in its unnaturally assertive position, he smiled and barked: ‘You heard the bird. Charades.'

The game was to be played in two teams, with each person choosing the title of a movie, a book, a song or a play, writing it on a slip of paper and popping it into a silver bowl on the table. The titles on the slips of paper were kept secret from those in the other team. It took a while to form the teams. It seemed people could not decide whether it was better to be on Krok's team, or playing against him; the matter was finally decided by the steward.

At one point, Stevie did wonder whether there wasn't something to Krok's theory—that you could tell a man by the way he played a game. She was on the opposing team to Krok, with Angelina, Stéphane, Dado, Princess Loli, Lamia, Professor White, Aristo and Clémence. Megrahi and the right hand were nowhere to be seen.

Angelina, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her wound bandaged, chose Ophelia—which technically was a personage and not a play or a movie or a book, but it suited her idea of herself: tragic, gorgeous love suicide. Stevie wondered for a moment how she would pull off such an unlikely casting . . . However, Angelina was not La Dracoulis for nothing. With a gesture, the swelling Greek womanhood disappeared and in its place appeared the lovesick girl. Without moving from her spot by the grand piano, she conveyed Ophelia's madness, her fragility, her devastated heart, her wretched death by drowning.

The other team was busy guessing, spirits and voices buoyed by the cognac and the miracle of talent before them. Then a voice louder than all the others called out: ‘My wife.'

Patchy laughter.

Krok continued, ‘Ask her where she got that scar on her wrist.' He barked out his laugh. This time only Marlena joined in, although she seemed to be laughing for a different reason, her gaze on Krok and not her sister. Several pairs of eyes drifted to Clémence's wrists. Stevie's followed; Krok's wife did indeed have a vertical scar on her left wrist . . .

Had Clémence been lying to her?

Clémence must have seen Stevie's hesitation. Her own face was brittle and pale, and showed nothing. ‘A bicycle accident, Stevie,' she said stiffly. ‘When I was a child.'

Marlena lit a cigarillo and threw back her head, exposing her pale, slender neck—so vulnerable to slitting or strangling, thought Stevie. She caught a whiff of Marlena's perfume, violets and something . . . Unusual and slightly bitter, it suited her. Marlena blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it ascend. ‘O for Ophelia,' she announced lazily, drawing Krok's attention away from his wife. ‘Am I right?' She knew she was, Stevie thought; Marlena was a master of charades.

The sound of outboard motors interrupted the game. Krok lifted his bull head from the bowl of his glass and almost smiled. He got up and left the saloon without a word. A few of the guests followed, including Stevie.

Out on deck, the noise was louder—it sounded like several dinghies close by . . . Krok stood, ham hands resting heavily on the rail, gazing out to the black sea. There were no lights visible, no boats. Nothing.

Al-Nassar said something over his shoulder and his right hand appeared. The man stepped up to the rail, closer to Krok. The sound of engines was growing louder—deafening almost—but still there was nothing to see. More guests had gathered on deck by now, drawn by the vibration of the motors.

A shout from the darkness, sudden synchronised silence, a feather-bump on the hull of the
Hercules.

Krok held a hand aloft—then dropped it like a flag. A floodlight exploded the sea, the deck, and the glittering guests with light.

Below them in the water bobbed a monster the likes of which Stevie had never seen before: a single Zodiac inflatable, about twelve metres long, painted white-pointer grey, and powered by eight three-hundred-horsepower Evinrude engines. It had been custom-fitted with massive fuel tanks and was designed to have a low profile in the water. Stevie understood straight away what it was: a high-speed, uncatchable smugglers' craft.

‘It's light, it's fast, it's unsinkable. We've had similar inflatables running across the English Channel three times a week—just a blur on the coastguard radar. Not one caught yet.' Krok spoke directly to Al-Nassar. ‘The beauty is you can beach these, run them right up. Takes the hassle out of offloading your cargo. And they'll catch anything they chase.' Krok's eyes glinted in the reflected light. ‘I call them “Medusas”.'

‘How much?' It was the first time Al-Nassar had spoken outside the cocktail-social context.

Krok hooded his eyes, looked a little bored, contemptuous about talking money. ‘In US dollars, about seven hundred thousand. How many does your client want?' He grinned wolfishly. ‘We might even do a little discount for orders over a certain number.'

The right hand said something to his boss in a low voice; Al-Nassar replied in the same hushed tone. It was the right hand who spoke. ‘Impressive, Mr Krok, indeed. And yet we have not seen them in action. What can they do? We feel our clients would need to be . . . convinced before they would confide their operations to vessels such as these. Fibreglass craft have done just as well so far.'