The Siren's Sting Page 10

  Clémence whispered to Stevie, ‘Please, darling, a large vodka. I daren’t leave Vaughan when he’s like this.’

  Stevie nipped to the bar trolley in the corner and poured four fingers of neat vodka into a crystal tumbler.

  Clémence handed it to her husband, who took it automatically and drank it in one gulp.

  ‘Are you looking to purchase a villa, Vaughan?’ Dado’s manners were flawless.

  ‘Thinkin’ about it.’ The vodka had mollified Krok somewhat. He lit a cigarillo with a battered Zippo lighter. ‘But there’s only one piece of land I want on this whole goddamn island.’

  ‘The Villa Goliath?’

  ‘The Russki can keep that. I want the land next door.’

  Stevie’s ears pricked up. She did not like the idea of Krok buying into the neighbourhood any more than she had rejoiced at the arrival of Brown and his menacing black helicopters. Moreover, she feared she knew exactly what piece of land Krok was talking about: the Pietra Niedda. Well, Issa would never sell.

  ‘The villa there is rubbish,’ Krok continued, ‘but the land—it’s a whole promontory. A man could build a castle there.’

  Stevie glanced around. The crewman who had arrived with them in the Riva stood a little behind Vaughan and Clémence. His immaculate white uniform, white beret and mirrored sunglasses set him apart from the guests and the staff. He stood as still as an icicle, surveying with invisible eyes.

  Stevie, wanting to create space for a private chat with Clémence, stepped out onto the lawn where several people in various shades of gelato-coloured clothes were lounging on cane lawn chairs.

  An older man in a perfectly crisp marigold-yellow shirt was telling a story to a small group of people, gesticulating with a free hand. ‘But I tell you, they weren’t always professional. That’s why so many got killed. You remember Dorigatti?’

  ‘The tyre king?’ asked a man in sugar-paper blue trousers.

  ‘Him. He had a villa down at Romazzino, by the water. There was a beautiful daughter, about thirty, spoilt—you know the type— I think her name was Valentina or Valeria, something like that.’

  ‘Valeria Dorigatti,’ confirmed a woman in orange and red palazzo pyjamas. ‘I remember her.’

  ‘Anyway, every summer she brought a different boyfriend to stay,’ continued the marigold man. ‘Dorigatti didn’t like it, but he usually tolerated it because he loved Valeria with the distraction of a father. This particular summer, though, she had taken up with a much older man, very much interested in her money—a gigolo. He was distinguished-looking, well-dressed . . . but aren’t they all?’ Here the marigold man chuckled and took a sip of his drink.

  ‘It was at the height of the kidnappings,’ he continued. ‘Some men broke into the villa at Romazzino and kidnapped the gigolo, thinking it was Dorigatti. When the kidnappers called, Dorigatti himself got on the phone and offered them money to keep him.’

  The group laughed, feeling safe enough; those things didn’t happen very often on the Costa Smeralda—not anymore.

  Stevie could see Clémence and Krok inside. He was still talking to Dado, standing very close, his fish eyes darting about. Clémence had installed herself on a pop-art pink sofa with an elegant lady of sixty, swathed in shades of caramel and cream. Krok’s security man—one of his white knights, as he called them—stood directly behind her, closer than was prudent or necessary for personal protection, close enough to hear what the two women were saying.

  Maybe Clémence was right in her suspicions that her husband was up to something. Either that or he was curious about what Clémence and her companion might be talking about.

  ‘Stevie, come and join us,’ Clémence called, and Stevie felt the mirrored eyes of Krok’s man swivel towards her.

  ‘This is Elisabetta Falcone,’ she said when Stevie approached.

  ‘Signora Falcone.’ Stevie took the older woman’s hand.

  ‘Lisa, please.’

  ‘Your guests were telling the most extraordinary stories about kidnappings out there,’ Stevie said, trying to begin a conversation that might turn to useful gossip. ‘The man in the beautiful yellow shirt seems to know a lot about it.’

  ‘Dario? He was head prosecutor for organised crime in Torino before he retired—early. It is not a job that is good for the health.’

  ‘Some people are still afraid of the banditi, aren’t they?’ asked Stevie casually, taking a sip of her champagne.

  ‘Usually it is people who have something to be afraid about. Their conscience tells them so. But these days I suspect it is not so much the banditi that are at work . . .’

  When Lisa didn’t finish the sentence, Stevie added, ‘Although it must be a temptation—the jewels, the yachts, the incredible cars that sit like gold nuggets in the scrub. I might be tempted to pocket one if I were a desperate sheep farmer.’

  Lisa raised her palms. ‘People these days want to show too much.’

  Stevie noted that Elisabetta Falcone wore only small golden rings in her ears, and a wedding ring of thick gold; her watch was a plastic Swatch but her clothes were silk and cashmere, her suede loafers quietly expensive.

  ‘I agree,’ replied Stevie. ‘Living discreetly is really the best defence against—’

  Clémence interrupted, obviously growing annoyed with the direction of the conversation. ‘Oh, yes, yes, but what fun is that?’ She pointed at the white knight behind her. ‘The best defence is a large man with a gun.’

  Stevie wasn’t sure if Clémence meant what she was saying or if it was being said for the benefit of her husband, who had now moved within earshot.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand that, Stevie.’ Clémence levelled disdainful violet eyes at Stevie, clearly wanting to put her back in her place. ‘You know nothing about the real possibilities of massive wealth.’

  ‘Probably not, Clémence,’ Stevie replied mildly. ‘I only know that some people live in prisons of their own making—they make money their motto and then it holds them captive in return.’ She smiled. ‘I try to use the little money I have to be free.’

  Sensing a dangerous topic, Lisa deftly turned the conversation onto another tack.

  Stevie heard Krok’s voice grow loud: ‘. . . and I tell you what, they’re operationally perfect and totally risk-free. Officially, nobody controls them, and they don’t work for any government—so there is no recourse. They can disappear as quickly as they appear, and the most beautiful thing is, they are totally, utterly deniable. It’s an amazing investment opportunity.’

  Stevie froze as Dado began to protest, but in a much softer voice.

  Stevie smiled as Lisa said something about the new restaurant in the port, and nodded at Clémence’s reply, but her ears remained tuned in to Krok and Dado. Her mind was reeling. She hoped the white knight didn’t suspect eavesdropping; she giggled and took a canapé just in case.

  What were the two men talking about? Krok’s mercenaries? Perhaps. But he had mentioned that no one controlled them, that they were deniable . . . She wondered if that was a good description of Krok’s soldiers of fortune. And why would Dado be interested?

  Beside her, Clémence lifted her chin and allowed her cheeks to be kissed by a handsome man in red trousers.

  ‘Piero, darling.’

  ‘Come and sit on the grass, Clémence. Martina and I have brought friends from Milano. I want you to meet them.’ Clémence stood and followed Piero onto the lawn. Krok and Dado moved over to the bar, out of earshot now, and Stevie excused herself.

  She walked across the lawn and sat on the grassy roof above the courtyard. She could see Clémence at the centre of a gay little group down below. She seemed to be telling a story and the others were laughing. Stevie tried to reconcile this Clémence with the troubled woman who had appealed to her for help.

  Was Clémence really such a good actress that she could totally mask her terrors under this laquered façade? If so, she was one of the best Stevie had ever seen. Or was she perhaps a woman who, bored, sought extra
attention by manufacturing dangers and fears and then begging for help? Stevie had seen a few of those in her line of work too.

  Vaughan Krok’s head appeared below. He scoped the garden then saw Clémence and went still, fixed in her direction like a sniper. Stevie felt glad she was nowhere near the man.

  Lunch had been laid out on a magnificent narrow table under the bamboo pergola, with small cane chairs for fifty. Stevie found herself seated between Piero, the man in the red trousers, and a young man with tawny lion’s hair and wide turquoise eyes. Both stood politely as she arrived at the table and Piero pulled out a chair.

  Clémence was on Piero’s other side. Dado, the host, had placed Krok at the far end of the table, but Krok ignored the place card and sat down opposite his wife, scraping back his chair and leaning forward on his elbow, talking over Princess Loli, addressing Dado. Stevie noticed his eyes darting between Clémence, Piero and the man in the marigold shirt, also sitting beside his wife.

  The first course was a beef carpaccio done Harry’s Bar style— cut slightly thicker than usual and dressed with a mustard sauce. Piero was talking to Clémence—Stevie could hear her tinkling laugh—while the man on her right was talking to Lisa Falcone, so she had ample time to scope the guests.

  The women at the table were amazing, like beautiful birds of paradise in their coloured silks and jewels. They weren’t all young, but they all shimmered with animation and style. There were a few young men like Piero and the tawny man next to her, but most of the men were older, all glossy with grooming and money.

  Krok stood out as a hard man among them—muscular, his hair cropped, dressed like an off-duty soldier—but he was not, Stevie noted, the only man at the table with frightening eyes. Stevie could suddenly smell the danger—even under all the polish. These were Krok’s friends, she realised, not Clémence’s. Her roving eyes stopped on a man seated at the far end of the table, broad nose and shoulders, dark hair slicked back, tortoiseshell sunglasses: Socrates Skorpios. He felt her gaze and turned, nodded once in acknowledgement: he had recognised her too. Stevie found her eyes locked on his, unable to look away. Fortunately, the man to her right turned and introduced himself with a smile. ‘Mi chiamo Osip.’

  ‘Like the poet?’ Stevie held out her small hand.

  The man nodded. ‘My father is a lover of the arts.’

  ‘Is he here today?’ Stevie wondered whether handsome men with clear eyes turned into the spoilt, ruthless men she saw around her—was it simply a matter of time and cruel intentions?

  Osip shook his head. ‘Lisa is an old friend of my mother’s. She rang and asked me at the last minute—one of the other guests had fly out to America and the numbers were off. This is not my usual . . .’ He seemed unsure how to finish the sentence.

  ‘So you’re here as eye candy?’

  ‘Possibly you could put it that way.’ Osip smiled. ‘I haven’t heard that phrase before. I suppose men can be bonbons too.’ His accent was French, not Italian, and his voice was ever so vaguely familiar, but Stevie couldn’t place it . . .

  ‘Are you a friend of Lisa’s?’ he asked.

  Stevie shook her head. ‘I came with the Kroks—I’m a friend of Clémence’s.’

  ‘I don’t know them personally.’

  ‘Tell me, what do you think of them? I mean, as an outsider, watching the two of them, what are your impressions?’ Stevie wasn’t quite sure what impulse had led her to ask Osip this, but she had a feeling his reply would be perceptive.

  Osip fixed his gaze on Krok first. ‘His reputation precedes him, of course, but even if I had no idea of the man and his friends, I should still say he was a violent man—erratic and angry. See how he sits on the edge of his chair, and his fingertips are white on his fork? Look at how aggressively he cuts his food. He is not a man at ease. And yet he is protected by his bodyguard. He has demons, possibly, or a guilty conscience; they might be one and the same.’

  Osip turned his eyes to Clémence, who was fluttering her feathers and chatting animatedly to both Piero and the man in the marigold shirt.

  ‘Clémence Krok is more difficult, I think. Is she the trophy wife who lives to please Krok and wear diamonds, to chit-chat amusingly and be envied by the women? Or is there something much tougher under that face, a steel plate, perhaps . . .’

  ‘Might it not be possible that she’s both?’

  Osip smiled at Stevie, his eyes an electric blue in his tanned face. ‘Indeed it might, but usually it shows more—the steel, I mean. She seems to bend like a willow in the winds of the men around her.’

  Stevie watched Clémence a moment—now laughing gaily with her male neighbours—and thought that Osip was right.

  Vaughan Krok was watching too.

  He was shredding a bread roll with his stubby fingers, rolling pellets on the linen tablecloth. Suddenly he shoved back his chair and stood, knocking over Princess Loli’s large glass of chilled rosé.

  Krok’s eyes were bloodshot. ‘We’re leaving.’

  Clémence looked up, her eyes wide. ‘Darling, so soon? Why don’t we finish lunch? I’m sure you and Dado—’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Oh, Vaughan. Why don’t I join you in an hour? It won’t—’

  Two powerful palms covered in freckles clamped down on the table, making the silverware jump. ‘Clem!’ he roared. The bull’s head lowered a moment, then came Krok’s voice, gravelly and dangerous: ‘I own you.’

  Quickly, Clémence stood, nodded to Lisa with a brilliant, unfocused smile, then followed her husband, the white knight falling in behind her, her napkin still clutched in her hand.

  As soon as they were out of sight, conversation at the table naturally turned to the just-departed couple.

  ‘Well Susanna told me he killed his first wife—and I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.’

  ‘He’s like Bluebeard the pirate!’

  ‘No, no, no, darling, you got that all wrong. It was her—she killed her first husband, and her second died in mysterious circumstances. Apparently she drives all men wild with jealousy . . .’

  ‘Of course she stays for the money. That’s why they married.’

  ‘He certainly owns her in that sense, but where is her dignity? I’m not sure I could stay with a man who treated me like that for any amount of money.’

  ‘But did you get a good look at her jewellery? I’d love diamonds like hers. And he’s probably not even home half the time. Just the odd holiday. Not such a bad price to pay.’

  ‘He’s mixed up in all sorts of things that are hidden behind his mercenaries.’

  ‘It’s a dirty business regardless, I know . . .’

  ‘But he takes it to another level.’

  ‘You shouldn’t cross him—important people are in his debt.’

  ‘I’m not impressed. The man’s a pirate.’

  The scene with the Kroks, far from dampening the spirit of the party, seemed to electrify it. Soon after the babas au rhum were served, the women were dancing, along with some of the more colourful men; others sat in knots smoking their various tobaccos, drinking espresso and small glasses of fil ’e ferru, the local grappa, named after barbed wire for both historical reasons (the mountain peasants used to hide it down wells, attached to a length of wire) as well as for the quality of its mouth feel. Stevie stayed seated, watching the scene unfold before her.

  Osip, still next to her, looked away from the dancers and turned to Stevie. ‘Do you think they are as happy as they look?’ he asked lightly.

  Stevie considered a moment, head to one side. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I think they might be. Not all of them, not all the time, but I think they are happy.’

  ‘Is it the money, do you think?’

  ‘No. The money helps them to be free and have more fun, but I think they seem to have a capacity for joy. That is the key to happiness.’

  ‘To find pleasure in the small things, the everyday things,’ Osip echoed.

  Stevie smiled and nodded. ‘I’ve seen peop
le with enough money who fixate on getting more—of everything: diamonds, cars, handbags, clothes, houses . . . They can’t consume fast enough. And they always seem to be the unhappiest people—the men can’t relax and they grow fat; the women get these horrible pinched mouths. They become mean. They can no longer take pleasure in a perfect dawn, or a warm bed, or raindrops on the window pane.’

  Osip grinned. ‘You are quite the poet yourself.’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘My soul is terribly unromantic. In my business—’ She stopped abruptly. She had almost forgotten herself. ‘I plan parties,’ she explained with a smile, ‘and in my business, I see too much of people behaving badly.’

  Osip looked at her curiously. ‘You remind me of someone.’

  His eyes bored into hers and she felt her colour rise.

  Damn the curse of blushing!

  ‘The cousins,’ he said simply. ‘You’re the girl with the cousins.’

  Stevie was thunderstruck. How did he know about Simone and Mark?

  ‘The fig tree,’ Osip went on, smiling. ‘The champagne bottle. I knew the voice was familiar.’

  Stevie blushed even deeper. All she could manage in response was a carefully controlled, ‘Oh.’

  Osip laughed and looked away, sparing her more discomfort.

  ‘Have you managed to get rid of them yet?’

  Stevie shook her head. ‘Alas, no. I fear it will be impossible.’

  ‘Everything in life is possible,’ he replied, ‘that is the beauty of it. Why don’t you come over tomorrow afternoon? We’re neighbours after all. You can meet my sisters—although I think perhaps you know them already?’

  ‘Nicolette, Marie-Thérèse and Severine,’ Stevie replied, putting the pieces together. ‘We used to play on the beach as little girls. You’re the Barone’s son.’

  ‘Adopted son, but in all other ways, yes. We are a very close family. Come over. It will be a reprieve from your cousins at least.’