The Siren's Sting (24 page)

Krok snorted. ‘Fibreglass is too visible, too vulnerable. Fine for the Caribbean rum runners, but this is a step into another league.' He puffed on his cigar. ‘I will blow their towel-head minds with this.' The right hand visibly stiffened, then relaxed at a soft gesture from one of Al-Nassar's perfect little hands.

‘Prove it,' the arms dealer said softly.

Krok stared at him, each assessing the other's intent. The right hand's phone rang, breaking the deadlock.

He answered in abrupt Arabic. As he listened, his eyes grew dark with displeasure. He said a few harsh words that Stevie could not understand, then relayed something to his boss in softer tones.

Al-Nassar pursed his lips and gave a wave of his hand. ‘Dump them,' he said in English.

Krok turned to the guests still marvelling at the monster below. ‘The show's over, folks, as they say. Champagne and dessert in the saloon.' Krok's guests took the hint and began drifting back into the saloon. Only Stevie remained, hidden in the shadows.

‘The ship that is transporting the SAMs for our African client has been spotted,' Stevie heard Al-Nassar explain quietly. ‘The Corsican coastguard is following it.'

‘Someone must have tipped them off . . .' The right hand's voice was bitter. Al-Nassar made a tiny movement with his hand and his man stepped back.

‘Our client will be very . . . disappointed, I am afraid.'

‘You have a transportation issue. I am in the transportation business.' Krok narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you want me to fix this problem?'

‘In exchange for a direct line to him, I presume.'

‘Of course. An introduction and a recommendation he source through STORM exclusively.'

Al-Nassar nodded minutely. ‘It is done.'

Krok smiled, called out for Marlena. She appeared at Krok's side almost immediately and he spoke to her in a low voice, his words inaudible to Stevie. Then he addressed the right hand. ‘Tell Muammar to check his Christmas stocking tomorrow evening.' He smirked, triumphant.

Stevie, invisible to all, watched from the shadows as Marlena stripped off her cashmere shawl and, in her tight black jeans and shimmering midnight-blue blouse, leapt down into the boat. The driver—a figure in black—stepped aside deferentially. She tied an Hermès scarf tightly around her head and fired up the engines as if she had done this before. Many times.

Moorings were cast off and the engines roared into life, deafening the spectators. The Zodiac peeled off at high speed, a wall of wake leaping up behind, then racing towards the
Hercules
and coming to crash like surf against the hull. Then Marlena and the monster were gone.

‘Someone must have tipped them off,' the right hand said again, out of earshot of Al-Nassar, his laser gaze directed at Krok. Krok merely laughed in his face, threw the cigar stub overboard and went back inside.

That night Stevie slept fitfully,
her slumber filled with vivid dreams that made her cry out in terror. When she woke around three, the moon was shining in her porthole and her face was wet with tears. There were demons at work inside her that she had never faced, never managed to quell, and when she was tired or tense or otherwise vulnerable they came to her: the memories of her parents, of their murder, of all the blood she had seen in Russia, of the heartaches, people lost, loves lost . . . When the pink of dawn came it was a relief and Stevie swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She took a cool shower, clearing her head of the night's turmoil. The sea outside was as still and perfect as a lake, mirroring the pale pinky-blue of the sky. Remembering Marlena's departure the night before, Stevie decided to take a jet ski out to see what she could find. She doubted there would be anything to see, but she needed action to drive the shadows of the night from her mind, and it was as good a plan as she could think of that morning.

All the jet skis aboard were gold. The man needed to be seen—she hadn't realised that about Krok initially: he was vain as all hell. She took off fast and roared out onto the sea, heedless of the rocks which were clearly visible under the glassy surface; the jet ski's draft was too shallow to be bothered by them. She let herself enjoy the speed and the warm air and the feeling that she was leaving everything behind, perhaps forever.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another craft. Following her? She turned up the throttle; Krok's jet skis were fast. So was the one racing behind her. A prickle of fear—the memory of the near-fatal dive was fresh.

She could outrun it, she thought, if she had to. But where to run to? Was the
Hercules
safe for her?

Far out to sea, a dim blur grew into a boat. Stevie headed for it. Perhaps safety lay that way. As she drew nearer, she could see it was a white luxury motor cruiser, almost indistinguishable from so many other day boats in the Med. But it appeared to be drifting. There was no anchor chain—it was too deep anyway—and the engines were switched off. Stevie forgot the jet ski behind her and headed straight for the cruiser. Perhaps those aboard were in trouble.

Circling the boat, she could see no sign of life. She drove up to the stern and cut the engine, drifting in. She called out but there was no reply. There was no ladder either, and the platform was up, making it difficult to board. She pushed her way along to the starboard side, now hidden from the direction she had come, fastened the jet ski, stood up on the seat and grabbed the lowest rail. She could just reach. She swung her tiny frame up and clambered successfully—if rather gracelessly—aboard. She could hear no movement, see no sign of people on board. Curious. Her skin prickled again. Something was wrong . . .

The sound of another jet ski pulled her thoughts away from the mysterious ship. Her pursuer was approaching, heading straight for the boat. Her moored jet ski would be plainly visible to anyone circling the boat. Stevie crouched down out of sight and grasped the diving knife she wore strapped to her calf. She hoped it would not come to that. Her training was all very well, but she had yet to stab anyone for real. Although, she reminded herself, she had come very close that night in the Swiss sanatorium . . .

The sound of the engine was upon her. Steve peeped from a hole in the rail. The jet ski in pursuit was purple—not one of Krok's. Who then?

There was a soft bump against the hull, the cutting of the engine. The top of a man's head and one shoulder appeared over the rail. Stevie's heart jumped. She would recognise that shoulder anywhere.

‘What are you doing here?' She leapt over to Henning.

Henning vaulted the rail in one quick move and grinned at her. ‘I knew what you would do—I had a hunch you'd head out to try and discover where Marlena went in that beast of a boat last night. Turns out I was right. I had planned to do the same thing myself. Too curious to stay away . . .'

‘I'm glad you're here I suppose.' Stevie bent to sheath her knife. ‘Although you gave me a scare. I thought someone was chasing me.'

‘Well,' Henning winked, ‘someone is. But you know that already.' He smiled again, eyes hard on her.

Steve grew warm. She was unprepared for such a sally. Her knife was of no use in this situation. She looked into Henning's ice blue eyes, gaze glancing down and off the two smooth brown shoulders, the finely muscled arms, the tattoo of an owl in full flight on his inside forearm. She swallowed hard: it wasn't even seven am and she wanted him. There was no hiding from that. She wanted him with every cell in her body, here on this abandoned yacht, this ghost ship, with all its dangers and its menace.

She moved imperceptibly closer to him and suddenly Henning's arms were around her, holding her so tight it was hard to breathe.

His breath was warm in her hair as he whispered, ‘My god, how I've missed you, little bird.'

For a second, Stevie wanted to sink for eternity into this moment, to be held by Henning forever, the world be damned. Then she shook herself. Focus, Stevie. Open that door again and you may never be able to shut it. Not a second time. There is too much behind it. Things had almost got out of hand after Russia but she had managed to slam the hatch shut after a torrid few days—run away might be a better way to describe it. She could still remember him calling after her in the
bahnhof
as she bolted for the train, love in his voice, amusement: ‘Run, Stevie. But I will catch you. It is only a matter of time, my darling.'

She had not seen him in the months before Sardinia. The fact that he had not insisted, that after a few phone calls that Stevie had not answered he had stopped calling, had made it easier to get him out of her head. But seeing him again like this brought all her feelings flooding back. She was capable of anything out on this slate-smooth sea. It was a most extraordinarily dangerous position to be in and Henning must absolutely not guess any of it. If he did, he might try to persuade her to change her mind, to come back, and she might find herself unable to refuse.

She cleared her throat. ‘Where is everyone?' Her voice was husky. She coughed. Everything now depended on breaking this mad and unwelcome spell. Fortunately she was wearing her sunglasses; she hoped it would be enough to stifle Henning's rather uncanny ability to read her mind. She turned away and headed for the gangway. Whatever dangers lay below were less, at that moment, than the ones that lay within.

Henning put a hand on her arm. ‘Wait.' He slipped past her, torso just brushing her shoulders. ‘I'll go first.' He crept nimbly down the stairs, moving surprisingly quickly, Stevie thought. But then, there was just so much about him that she still didn't know.

On the table in the cabin below were the remnants of someone's dinner—two people; flat bread, some soft cheese, tabouleh.

‘It seems they left in a great hurry.' Stevie sniffed an empty glass. ‘Arak,' she said. ‘So they were Middle Eastern, maybe North African, at a guess.'

‘A good one.' Henning nodded to the Mars Légères cigarette packet lying empty beside the ashtray. ‘I know they smoke those in Tunisia.' He headed below to check the cabins but reappeared quickly. ‘Not a soul. But I did find piles of clothes lying about— men's clothes.'

Henning fired up a computer sitting in the corner. ‘Everything seems to have been wiped,' he said finally.

Henning and Stevie split up and combed the ship for clues, meeting up in the hold a few minutes later. It was empty save for a few old towels and some rope that had been recently cut. Stevie held up a small piece of straw. ‘Packing straw?'

Henning examined it. ‘Unlikely to have been for animals' use. Where did everyone go?'

Stevie sniffed the air. There was a faint smell of violets . . . She struggled to place it, then it came to her in a flash. ‘Marlena's scent. She was wearing it last night. She came here in that boat—she and Krok are mixed up in whatever this is.'

As they made for the ladder Stevie asked, ‘Henning, did you notice there is no name on this ship, nor registration markings?'

‘I didn't find any registration papers either.' He shook his head. ‘It's odd because she's in perfect condition, and I'd say worth around five hundred thousand euros. You don't just abandon a ship like this.'

‘She's a ghost ship.'

There was something floating in the sea to port. Stevie grabbed a pair of binoculars hanging from a hook and went to the porthole. ‘What is that?'

She squinted in the direction of an indistinct shape on the horizon. It was a small, punctured inflatable, barely afloat. Stevie lowered her binoculars. ‘I'd lay money on it being the tender. There's lettering on the sides but I can't read it.'

Henning took the binoculars. ‘
Bel Amica
. Must be the name of this ship.'

Stevie looked at him with some amazement. ‘You have extraordinary eyesight.'

Henning grinned at her. ‘I see everything. Don't forget that.'

‘I won't,' said Stevie, rather alarmed. They were silent for a minute. Stevie's mind ticked. ‘What was Marlena doing here last night, and what was Krok plotting?' she asked.

Henning suddenly stooped and reached for a crumpled piece of paper, half torn and jammed behind some wires. As he smoothed it out his face froze.

‘What is it?' asked Stevie nervously.

He handed her the paper. It was an end user certificate, issued by South Yemen, for twelve surface-to-air missiles. ‘EN's stingers,' she murmured, then looked up. ‘South Yemen no longer exists.'

Henning frowned. ‘I know.'

‘So where do you think she really took them?' The stingers had gone with Marlena; it had to be. Henning led the way back to the main cabin. There was a pile of maps under some magazines on a side table. He found one of the Mediterranean and traced his finger north from the island of Sardinia.

‘This is roughly where we are—and with a boat like that, calculating a fuel storage capacity of around fifteen thousand litres, she has a lot of options. But . . .' He ran his finger lightly south. ‘I'm guessing she was headed for Africa—most likely Tunisia.' He pointed to a peninsula that jutted out into the Med. ‘Either somewhere on the Cap Bon peninsula, or further west, the Ichkeul National Park. Those would be the best places to land cargo like this, and she could make that distance quite easily.'

‘Tunisia,' mused Stevie, leaning over his shoulder. ‘Who would want SAMs in Tunisia?' She searched her mental database for rebel groups interested in shooting down helicopters or civilian aircraft— the most popular use for the covetable portable missiles. Henning turned to her, their faces suddenly very close in the cabin. ‘It's not Tunisia,' he whispered, his eyes on Stevie's. ‘The weapons are bound for Libya. EN's man is ex-Libyan secret service. I recognised his face. He was involved in a boating “accident” off Cavallo last year; two men died and his face was in the papers. It makes perfect sense.'