The Siren's Sting Read online

  THE

  SIREN'S

  STING

  Miranda Darling began her career as a fashion model in Paris and London, then went on to read English and Modern Languages at Oxford University. She travelled widely to countries such as Russia, Azerbaijan, Croatia, Namibia and Indonesia before returning to Australia to complete a Masters in Strategic Studies and Defence. She analysed new security threats for a think tank, where she published widely in newspapers and journals. She retains an interest in international intrigue and now writes full time.

  THE

  SIREN'S

  STING

  MIRANDA

  DARLING

  First published in 2011

  Copyright © Miranda Darling 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  Sydney, Melbourne, Auckland, London

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74175 920 4

  Internal design by gogoGinko

  Set in 11/16.5 pt Berkeley by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In loving memory of my grandmother, Margaret

  No one among us can complain about his death, for whoever joined our ranks put on the shirt of Nessus. A man’s moral worth is established only at the point where he is ready to give up his life in defence of his convictions.

  —Major-General Henning von Tresckow, condemned to

  death as one of the main conspirators in the 20 July plot to

  assassinate Adolf Hitler in 1944

  Some things are necessary evils, some things are more evil than necessary.

  —John le Carré

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  A lithe woman with a gait like a panther kissed the Greek on the mouth and leapt into the waiting Riva speedboat.

  She turned and looked back up to the dock. ‘I’ll see you in Monaco, darling.’

  Her lover lifted a hand. ‘You won’t forget your promise, will you—between here and the yacht club?’

  The woman laughed, revealing slightly pointed teeth. ‘It’s for life, darling. Even I could hardly forget a thing like that.’ She covered her extraordinary kaleidoscope eyes with dark glasses and tied a Pucci scarf patterned in turquoise and coral around her hair. Then she gunned the engine and the beautiful wooden boat purred to life. ‘Are you sure you won’t come with me now?’ she called back over her shoulder.

  Passers-by stared at the couple: the handsome older woman in her silk scarf, the younger lover with his jet hair, his black glasses and tanned, rugged profile.

  The young man smiled, tilted his head. ‘I’ll bring the yacht around this evening, kukla. There’s no rush. We have the rest of our lives to be together.’ He knelt and cast off the mooring ropes. The woman edged the Riva carefully between the other boats. Her skill at handling the boat was obvious, even in such a simple manoeuvre. She motored slowly into the Bay of St Tropez, then, raising her slender hand in a final, elegant salute to the man watching on the pier, she opened up the throttle.

  The explosion shattered the calm of the bay as the Riva was engulfed in a fireball. Somewhere on the dock a woman screamed, then there was only silence as a plume of black smoke shot into the sky, and the smell of petrol and ash filled the air. The wreckage of the boat, still aflame, began to sink slowly into the shining water, and the young lover on the pier, to his knees. He rested his forehead on the jetty and closed his eyes, shutting out the horror on the water.

  Over the last of the flames, mystically undamaged, floated the Pucci scarf. It danced in the currents of hot air, hanging over the carnage like a silken eulogy to the smashed body below. It twirled and writhed there a moment, drawing the attention of the watchers on the dock, before it too succumbed to the violence of gravity and sank gently into the sea.

  1

  In the Crisis Response room at Hazard HQ, London, every soul was shattered with adrenaline and exhaustion. All eyes were on a large radar screen. The green blips indicated ships currently transiting the Gulf of Aden, off Somalia, a stretch of water more commonly known as Pirate Alley. Updates from the International Piracy Reporting Centre in Kuala Lumpur flashed across another, smaller screen:

  0539 UTC: Posn: 13:51.7N–051:05.1E: Gulf of Aden.

  Pirates armed with RPG and automatic guns chased and opened fire on a chemical tanker underway. The master sent a distress message requesting help. Skiffs came very close to the tanker and pirates placed a ladder on the vessel’s side to board. Due to evasive manoeuvres pirates failed to board the vessel. A military aircraft arrived at location and circled the tanker.

  ‘Not one of ours,’ said Messinger abruptly, and turned his eyes back to the radar screen. The room’s focus was on one large dot in particular; it was being shadowed by three much smaller dots moving at high speed.

  ‘I don’t like the look of those skiffs,’ muttered Betterman. ‘The Atalanta is going at fourteen knots—should be fast enough . . .’

  ‘It could be fishermen chasing tuna,’ suggested young Boyd.

  David Rice, head of Hazard, massaged a grizzled temple. He was a bear of a man, ex-SAS, handsome with his iron-grey hair, unflappable. But the strain was showing, even on him. He knew only too well that it was not fishermen chasing tuna. The radio crackled to life. It was tuned to Channel 16, the international distress channel.

  ‘This is Captain Mukkhanda of the Atalanta. We have three speedboats alongside. They have sent a message to stop.’ The captain’s voice was hesitant; everyone in the room could sense his fear.

  The distress call was picked up by a nearby British naval frigate, the HMS Stormont, doing manoeuvres in the Gulf.

  ‘Can you keep the craft astern?’ came the response.

  In the Crisis Response room, the Hazard crew could see the small dots gaining ground.

  ‘They are still approaching at high speed. We can try. There is a possible mother ship. Port side.’

  Everyone watched as the three blips formed a line and kept gaining.

  There was a moment of silence, then the frigate: ‘Alalanta, this is Foxtrot 19. Increase speed to your maximum and start manoeuvring heavily to port and starboard. Immediately.’

  Suddenly, over the radio, there was the tearing sound of an explosion, then another, accompanied by the ack-ack of automatic gunfire.
>
  ‘This is Atalanta. The bridge is hit. The skiffs are alongside now, repeating their request to stop.’

  Another explosion tore through the transmitter, then radio silence . . . The voice of the frigate asking the captain to respond. Nothing. The Atalanta had stopped broadcasting.

  On the screen, the ship slowed visibly then suddenly veered left, heading for the coast of Somalia and the pirate town of Ely.

  ‘That’s not a good sign,’ whispered Boyd.

  Eyes fell away from the screen and a pall descended on the room. The incident report flashed up on the smaller screen, just in case anyone in the room had any doubts about what had just happened.

  1223 UTC: Posn: 04:59S–043:52E: 415NM south of Mogadishu, Somalia.

  Pirates armed with machine guns and RPG attacked and fired upon a general cargo ship underway. The vessel enforced all effective counter-piracy measures but was unable to prevent hostile boarding. Pirates successfully hijacked the vessel with her 25 crew members and are sailing the vessel towards Somalia. Further information awaited.

  All thoughts turned to the twenty-five crew of the carrier, now prisoners. The chances were they would be held for months— even, god forbid, years—by the pirates. It was a nightmare. Eyes were lowered; and from a windowless room in the heart of London, what could anyone do?

  The team was used to kidnappings: it was their job to get the victims back safely, to negotiate ransoms, organise handovers. A large whiteboard on the wall had a list of names running down the left-hand side. These were the unlucky ones currently being held by criminals, terrorists, guerrillas and the like. Other columns charted the location, time and date of the kidnappings, suspected perpetrators and so on. Large maps stuck with pins covered the other walls. Between them, they covered the globe, red and yellow pins clustered in Chechnya, Colombia, Russia, Iraq, Mexico, the Philippines . . . Now a cluster of white pins was growing rapidly off the coast of Somalia and in the Gulf of Aden. The speed and concentration of the attacks was something else entirely: not a battle but a war.

  ‘Can we get details of any injuries aboard Atalanta?’ growled Rice. ‘Call our negotiators, call the shipping line, call everyone and tell them to stand by for contact from the pirates.’ His mouth was tight with tension, his fists clenching and unclenching, and he rocked onto the balls of his feet, a boxer ready for a bout.

  Boyd was busy collating satellite pictures of the area, navy reports, reports from other vessels in the area. He sent the information to the captain at the Piracy Reporting Centre and in a moment the update flashed across the screen for all to see:

  All ships transiting waters around Somalia and Gulf of Aden Possible pirate mother ship activity noted:

  1228Z in position 08:58S–044:02E, approximately 310NM south-east of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania;

  1608Z near position 08:09S–045:12E, approximately 360NM south-east of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.

  These areas will remain high risk for the next 24–48 hours as weather conditions continue to be conducive to small-boat operations. Mariners are warned to avoid transiting these waters if possible. If necessary to transit these waters, mariners are encouraged to use all counter-piracy measures and employ all best management practices.

  Merchant vessels transiting this area are requested to report any suspicious activity.

  The description of some of the suspected pirate mother ships are as follows: long, white Russian-made stern trawlers with names STELLA MARIS or ARIDA or ATHENA.

  The door to the incident room opened and three fresh bodies entered. Their anxious young faces betrayed the fact that they had some idea of what they were walking into—and yet not enough. Rice held up a hand in greeting, waved them in.

  ‘Right all,’ he barked, his throat hoarse from canned air and too much coffee, ‘these three are junior support, here to relieve the burden and learn the ropes. Use them—that’s what they’re here for. Their names are Buttrose, Khan and Mellon.’ He pointed to the two men and one woman, then addressed the newcomers directly. ‘Lightning briefing, boys and girls: we’ve just had sighting and descriptions of a couple of mother ships. We are circulating these to all the captains transiting the area. Mother ships are large trawlers or tankers used by the pirates to refuel and supply the smaller attack skiffs. The mother ships are often vessels captured in earlier pirate attacks, so they can be trawlers, tankers, you name it. Their use means that the pirates can operate as far out to sea as they want to, in international waters or in remote oceans where target vessels normally consider themselves safe from shore-launched attacks.’

  Rice glanced over Boyd’s shoulder at the newest updates popping up on the computer screens, then returned to the briefing. ‘Pirate activity,’ he continued, ‘is on the upswing the world over.’ He gestured to the massive maps on the walls. ‘From the west coast of Africa, through the Middle East, past India and Sri Lanka and deep into Southeast Asia. Pirate gangs make use of topographic particularities such as “chokepoints”, narrow passages of water that make large ships vulnerable to assault. The Malacca Strait—’ he stabbed at the pins ‘—is particularly vulnerable because the narrow body of water means ships have to slow down to transit the area. Somalia is now a hotspot due to massive instability on land, as are the waters off Nigeria.’

  Rice stopped to take a long drink of water. ‘What was once little more than armed fishermen raiding the odd trawler has become something else entirely: the sea raiders are armed with sophisticated weapons and boats, their attacks are well-coordinated, audacious— and lethal.’ His bloodshot eyes met those of each of the three newbies, striking that point home. ‘Piracy is becoming very, very big business and Crisis Response is now a war room.’ He straightened up. ‘Questions?’

  There were none.

  Still the reports rolled in:

  1333 UTC: Posn: 17:27N–056:42E: 20NM E of Kuriya Muriya

  Islands, Oman (150NM ExN of Salalah).

  Pirates attacked and hijacked a refrigerated cargo ship underway and took hostage the 21 crew members. Further report awaited.

  0825 UTC: Posn: 08:42N–067:00W: 430NM NW of Boosaaso,

  Somalia.

  Pirates in skiffs attacked cruise ship oriana underway. RPG and machine-gun fire reported.

  Rice closed his eyes. It was a minute before he could speak. ‘The Oriana. Stevie’s on that ship.’

  2

  Some four hundred and thirty nautical miles from Boosaaso, Somalia, dawn was breaking across the deck of the Oriana. The sky was pink and untroubled; silvery wavelets ran from the prow of the ship and, for those keen enough to be up with the sun, there was the distinct possibility of dolphins. Fortunately for Stevie, her client did not believe in exercise, nor in the hours before noon, and so she was free to attend the Awaken Sunrise yoga sessions each morning.

  Stretching her hamstrings in a pose of questionable dignity, Stevie wondered at the vagaries of the job that had landed her aboard a luxury cruise ship, in sole charge of protecting what could be fairly described as a human tornado—ostensibly protecting the tornado’s jewels from burglary; in reality, protecting her from herself.

  For almost twenty years, Angelina Dracoulis had ruled the operatic stages of the world, all the while claiming to be just thirty years old. Any question of chronological improbability was magicked out of existence by the force of Angelina herself, an energy so powerful that it seemed even time would bend before her.

  Angelina was contracted to give nightly performances to the rich, silver-streaked crowd aboard the Oriana and was extremely well rewarded for her efforts. As befitted a world-famous soprano, she was terribly dramatic and her current lover, Fernando Zorfanelli, an Italian film producer, had insisted she agree on private security to keep her safe, and his own demon jealousy under control.

  Stevie had been voted by her colleagues—traitors all—at Hazard as the operative least likely to irritate, and most likely to understand, the diva. And Angelina was a total diva, no question: enormous cat’s-eye sunglasses,
red lipstick on a massive, mobile mouth, the curves of a racetrack and, of course, the jewels.

  La diva was paranoid about her jewels, terrified that they might be stolen, and yet she could not travel without them. She had, with some difficulty, been persuaded to have paste copies made, but could not bear to wear them and travelled with both the real jewels and the fakes. The original pieces were indeed impressive—mostly mementoes from lovers—and Angelina claimed they made her feel adored and wanted.

  ‘And I cannot sing when I feel vulnerable, Stevie, darling. My high notes sound shrill and insecure.’

  She spent most of her time stretched on a chaise longue on the sundeck of her luxurious cabin, smoking the odd cigarette through an ebony holder, reading romantic novels, and ordering the handsome young stewards about. Angelina had been instructed to introduce Stevie as her travelling companion—nothing more— to anyone they might meet. It was safer that way. Occasionally she pestered Stevie for gossip on other celebrities she had worked with, but most of the time Stevie was left in peace and there was not much for her to do.

  The shipboard security measures were excellent. There were discreet security cameras posted at regular intervals, the staff was trained to handle any contingency, and there were even flare guns (safely behind glass) on every private sundeck of the ship. It was the Oriana’s maiden voyage and nothing was being left to chance.

  It seemed everyone in shipping had learnt a lesson in hubris from the Titanic. In any case, as Stevie had reminded an almost-hysterical Angelina several times during one particularly stormy night on board, their route was to take them from the Caribbean to Greece and there was not a jot of cold water between the two destinations. Icebergs were not going to be a problem and she should remove all visions of herself freezing tragically and beautifully on a floating packing crate out of her head.

  Despite, or perhaps indeed because of, her dramatics, Angelina was an incredible singer and deserved the reverence she inspired. The voice, she had explained to Stevie late one night over a crème de menthe, was the real mirror to the soul.