The Siren's Sting (33 page)

Was Farouk in there? How many others were there? How were they armed? The rescue party had the element of surprise and a very good getaway vehicle in its favour, but that was about it.

Stevie whispered, ‘I need to get a look inside the shed. I'm going to swim in.' She stripped off her outer layers and rubbed a little engine black on her face to stop it gleaming like a moon. Before she slid overboard, she reminded the sisters that Josie and others had the photograph and the message, and should anything happen to her . . .

‘Just go,' hissed Marlena. Stevie slid soundlessly into the inky black sea and began swimming.

She swam right up under the jetty until she was directly under the boathouse and stayed there a moment, treading water. Looking up, she could see slivers of light between the planks. The radio was on, playing Italian pop music. She could hear no other voices. A shiver of cold and fear ran through her. What was she doing? It was madness to attempt this. She wanted out. She was frightened. Then she thought of Farouk, and Issa, and of how far they had come already. There was no choice but to go ahead.

She crept silently out of the water and onto the rocks. The boatshed was built against a sea wall made of granite boulders and Stevie was small enough to fit between the boulders and the wall of the shed. There was no window, but a point of light led her to a hole where a knot of wood had fallen out. She put her eye to the hole.

Curled up on a blanket in the corner, like a lost puppy, was Farouk Farmishan. He was shackled to the wall by one ankle. The bile of rage rose in Stevie's throat when she saw the chain, saw the little ankle rubbed raw by the steel clamp. A man sat in the other corner; Stevie could only see his legs from her spyhole. He was sitting by the radio smoking, reading a newspaper. There did not appear to be anyone else in the shed. And after all, what could a six-year-old boy do to escape? Stevie's mind raced, searching for a plan. Should she go back and get Marlena? Marlena had a gun, and they would be two against one.

Stevie moved away from the peephole and was making her way back down to the water when her foot dislodged a small rock. It bounced on a rock below and fell into the sea. She heard the floor creak. The man inside was getting up. She froze. Had he heard? Surely the radio was too loud. The door to the boatshed opened, light spilling out. The man stepped towards the edge of the jetty and looked out to sea. There was something familiar about the body language and Stevie realised the man was getting ready to take a pee off the edge of the jetty. It was now or never.

She clambered up like lightning and unsheathed her knife. She heard the clink of a belt buckle, a zip. She crept closer. The man's focus would be on the task at hand; this was her chance. She spotted a boat hook lying on the jetty and resheathed her knife. Distance was best. She lined up behind the figure, who grunted in relief and let loose a stream into the sea. With all the might of her small but muscular arms, Stevie swung the boathook like a bat and caught the man on the temple. Without a word or a noise he toppled forward into the sea. A face appeared beside the body: Marlena.

‘Turn him over,' whispered Stevie. ‘He'll drown.'

‘Who cares?' Marlena whispered back, but she did as Stevie asked. She began tying the unconscious man's hands high on the legs of a sea ladder.

Stevie crept into the shed and knelt by the door. ‘Farouk,' she called gently. ‘Farouk, little sunshine.' It was Issa's pet name.

The boy looked up and for a moment didn't recognise Stevie. Then a light dawned in his eyes, but no smile.

‘Your papa sent me to find you,' she said, creeping closer, not wanting to frighten him into shouting or crying. ‘Do you remember me? Stevie?'

He nodded once.

Stevie looked around and found the key to the shackles on the desk. She freed Farouk and picked him up in her arms. He felt as light as a feather. ‘Are you ready to come with me, Farouk? We will have to swim.'

He nodded again.

Stevie and Farouk climbed carefully, quietly, down to the water's edge.

Marlena swam over to them. She pointed at the unconscious guard. ‘He won't drown, but he's not going anywhere.'

Stevie put Farouk on her back. ‘Now hang on, Farouk, don't let go.'

She began to swim with her precious cargo, Marlena following behind. The water was cold and dark but there were no shouts or noise and soon the Zodiac came into view. Clémence hauled Farouk aboard, dripping wet, and wrapped him tightly in a towel. Stevie climbed in and found the sugar lumps. She put one in Farouk's mouth and the rest in his hand. ‘Eat these one by one.' They would help stave off shock. Stevie ran to pull up the sea anchor.

Suddenly the guard tied to the sea ladder woke up and began to shout.

‘Damn you and your bleeding heart, Duveen,' Marlena swore, and gunned the engines. ‘You should have left him to drown.' More shouts followed as men came running with torches. The powerful beams swept the sea in arcs, searching for the source of the monstrous noise, but the Zodiac was just out of their orbit.

‘Buckle up and get ready,' Marlena snarled over the noise of the engines. Stevie took Farouk on her lap and buckled them both into the seat. A speedboat had already been launched in pursuit. Marlena held the wheel with her knee and pulled out her gun. She turned, took careful aim, and fired. There was a scream in the dark, followed by a volley of return gunfire.

Stevie leant over Farouk, shielding him. ‘For god's sake, Marlena, just get us out of here.'

Marlena slammed the accelerator with her palm and the boat flew forward. A silver cigarette boat was now in pursuit, and bullets were firing into the dark. Marlena couldn't resist the provocation and slowed to fire another round. She let out a cry as a bullet from the return volley tore into her flesh. Clémence screamed and Stevie shouted, ‘Where are you hit?'

‘My arm—flesh wound. Bastards!' she swore.

‘You can't drive like that. Swap seats—you hold Farouk,' Stevie ordered, pushing Marlena down into her own seat and jumping behind the wheel. ‘Put pressure on it,' she called over the engines.

‘I know, damn you. It's not the first time I've bloody been shot,' Marlena shouted back, her face pale with pain. Clémence leant over and began winding a scarf tightly around her twin's arm, Marlena telling her to pull tighter, not to be a milksop, goddamnit. Stevie took the wheel and they shot out into the darkness, with Marlena shouting directions, guiding Stevie away from the shoals. Stevie tried not to think about the cigarette boat in pursuit; she knew a boat like that could probably match the speed of the crazy Zodiac. She concentrated fiercely on the dark water as Marlena shouted and swore, the blood now soaking through Clémence's scarf, running down her arm and pooling on the floor.

There was a burst of automatic weapon fire and Stevie crouched lower over the wheel, hearing a crack as one of the bullets slammed into the fibreglass. She could not risk being strafed with bullets, not with little Farouk on board, not with so little protection.

How would they get away? Could she run them onto the rocks?

She doubted it. Then she remembered a story David had told her of the old days in Hong Kong, the people-smuggling Triads and their snake boats
.
She had been fascinated by a tactic used by the Son of Sabre chase boats that pursued them. It had worked then, in similar circumstances; fingers crossed it would work again. She certainly had the advantage of surprise . . .

The pursuers were almost alongside now, burning their engines at seventy knots. The metallic paint of the cigarette boat was glinting silver in the starlight. A rigid hull and structure would be even better for the plan, thought Stevie. She took a slow breath and centred her courage, then she slammed the accelerator to full and sped past the pursuers.

‘Hang on!' she screamed at Marlena and Clémence, then, flying at around eighty knots, a few boat-lengths ahead of the cigarette, she spun the wheel and turned the Zodiac a full ninety degrees. The engines screamed and Stevie felt herself lurch violently sideways, almost winded by the seatbelt.

The speed and power of the Zodiac sent up a monstrous wall of wake behind them, right across the path of the hunters. In the dark, at that speed, the pursuers had no chance of seeing it coming.

The cigarette boat hit the water wall with a smash that sounded like a car wreck, then veered wildly off course and into the rocks. The vessel splintered. Stevie spun the Zodiac back on course, engines roaring in protest. She did not slow down to see what had happened, but when she did risk a glance back, there were no longer any lights, nor the sound of engines behind them.

Stevie, heart hammering, made two
calls as they pulled in to the little stone jetty at the end of her beach. The second was to the chief of the
carabinieri
on his mobile. There had been, Stevie reported, a shoot-out on Cavallo, a little boy spotted, men with flamethrowers . . . (It was best to over-dramatise, she thought, to make sure the armed response would create a sufficient stir.) Maybe even a bomb, she added. If things went according to plan, the
carabinieri
would call the gendarmes in Corsica and both would descend like Thor's hammer on the little island and take everyone holding arms into custody; this would give credence to the rumour she intended to start that it was the
carabinieri
who had rescued the boy. If Krok's men did decide to hunt for Farouk anyway, the delay would give Stevie and Issa a good headstart.

The first phone call had been to Issa. It was not safe to take Farouk home, and Issa was not safe there either. The little party retreated to Didi's house. It was hidden from the road and near the butt of a dead end. They would be safe from surprise. Issa was waiting for them by the front door and, weeping, he took his son into his arms. Apart from his chafed ankle, and the fear he had suffered, Farouk was unharmed. Unsurprisingly, he sat on his father's knee and did not say a word. Issa, on the other hand, could not stop thanking them, tears periodically welling up in his eyes, his arms almost crushing his little boy with love.

Stevie took Marlena into her bathroom and unwound the scarf from the forearm. Blood pulsed from the wound, but the bullet had missed the bone. It had grazed the arm lengthways rather than piercing it. ‘You were lucky,' said Stevie.

‘You were luckier,' shot back Marlena. ‘You didn't get hit.'

Stevie found an old bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured it on the wound. Stitches were no good for bullet wounds—they simply increased the risk of infection being sealed inside. They had to heal from the inside out. She put a soft cotton pad on the graze and bound it tightly with a bandage. Marlena's eyes never left Stevie; Stevie ignored her and got on with her work. She fashioned a rough sling and tied it around Marlena's slender neck.

‘How are you going to explain—?'

‘My injury? Oyster shells.' She glared at Stevie with her hard eyes. ‘I stumbled on the rocks and tore my arm on oyster shells.' She said it so certainly that Stevie almost felt like a fool for not believing her. She realised she did not have to look after Marlena; Marlena could look after herself quite well enough. Stevie's usual role was protector. With Marlena, she did not know who she was . . .

‘That was a nice trick with the wake wall, Stevie. I might have to try that one myself sometime.'

‘Against whom?' muttered Stevie, still struggling with tying the sling.

Marlena laughed. ‘Whatever happened to that Henning fellow? He seemed rather keen on you.'

Stevie stared at her a moment. Finally she said, ‘I sent him away.'

‘And now you wish you hadn't.'

Stevie shook her head. ‘It was the right thing to do.'

‘Bullshit.' Marlena laughed. ‘Don't worry, he'll be back.'

Stevie shook her head again. ‘No, he won't.' She went to retie the sling, trying to perfect the angle of the arm across the chest.

Marlena stood up. ‘For god's sake, Stevie, stop fussing. Let's get a drink.'

They went into the kitchen, where Stevie found a bottle of grappa and poured everyone a medicinal drink. ‘How does that rumour mill of yours work, Issa?' she asked. ‘If I want to start a rumour . . .'

He looked up at her, uncertain where she was going with her question.

‘You tell one of Sauro's sisters, Ornella at the fruit and vegetable stand, and the old
nonna
in the
pasticceria
. . . By noon the whole island will know.'

‘We start this one tomorrow: the
carabinieri
launched a daring joint raid with the French police and rescued Farouk. Everyone is surprised because they are not known for their—alacrity? But nevertheless, it was a job well done.'

Issa nodded; he understood.

‘You know you can't go home, Issa,' Stevie said, looking straight at him. ‘They might come for you there. You will have to hide somewhere with Farouk until it is safe.'

Issa nodded. ‘I understand.' He thought for a moment. ‘But if Krok is everything you say he is, he will know where I would hide. He will find us.' Issa's hands were trembling.

Stevie knew he was right but said nothing. They had bought some time; sometimes that was everything. Whether Krok decided to come after Issa out of spite was an unknown. It might depend, Stevie thought, on how many distractions Krok had . . . All she could do now was deal with the matter at hand.

‘Marlena, we have to get them off the island. I'll need the Zodiac. We need to get to the mainland.'

‘Not a chance.'

‘Right now, Krok has no idea what has happened; when he investigates, he will hear that the
carabinieri
were behind the raid. No one on the island saw the boat or our faces. Things will be worse for everyone if Issa and Farouk don't get away tonight. It's just a few more hours.'

Marlena said nothing, conceding the point. The father and son were evidence. The further away from her they were, the better. She nodded.