The Siren's Sting Page 4

  Stevie shuddered. The next attack.

  People would die. The pirates would have to use extreme violence to reinstil the paralysing fear that was so useful to them in their attacks. Strategic ferocity—all organised crime groups used it. Fear was the great controller. Machiavelli had put it in his advice to princes: is it better to be loved or feared as a prince? he had asked. The answer to his own question had been ‘feared’. Stevie wondered whether David Rice would have come to the same conclusion. Hazard had recently moved into maritime security, in response to a growing amount of requests from shipping clients for threat assessments, physical protection, and marine kidnap and ransom policies. The pirates were increasingly becoming David Rice’s problem.

  Stevie finished her coffee and wandered the city for an hour, heading down to the banks of the river where, even on a sunny summer’s day, the banks were shrouded in mist. The heat of the day was beginning to build. Turin was one of the most understated cities in Europe. Despite its beauty and its ancient history—it had been a Roman city—it was not a place for ordinary tourists. Perhaps there were not enough splendid monuments, no recognisable landmarks, no obvious reasons to visit, and very few big hotels.

  Dark undercurrents of mystery ran through the town, once the home of Italy’s kings. It was an area steeped in witchcraft, prone to deep fog, home to the famous shroud of Turin. Its scale was typically regal, dwarfing the average citizen; even its streetlamps were capped with crowns. Massive statues of pilots and steel workers joined those of kings and knights.

  Stevie headed back to the Piazza San Carlo to find Leone waiting. He came towards her in the cool shadows of the arcade, dressed in his pale straw-coloured linen suit, a blue shirt of Oxford cloth and a Panama hat. He smiled the moment he caught sight of her and raised his palms.

  ‘Cara . . .’ He kissed her on both cheeks then stood back and took a good look at her. ‘What happened?!’ Leone was looking at the stitches over her eye.

  Stevie smiled. ‘I bumped into a cupboard door on the cruise ship—it’s nothing.’

  Leone looked at her critically. ‘You haven’t changed so much. Maybe a little age, a tiny line of care around your eyes . . .’ He traced the edge of her face with a gentle finger. ‘But still la piccola Stevie.’

  Stevie raised her eyebrows in amusement and winced. Her cut stung. Leone was not an ordinary man. His name suited him, with his heavy head, his thick greying curls, his clipped beard; he was tall and magnetic and utterly eccentric. He had not changed at all.

  He offered her his arm. ‘Let’s eat.’

  The Whist Club owned a building on the square. Their rooms were up on the first floor—the piano nobile—and included a huge and splendid ballroom with perfectly polished wooden floors and mirrors and chandeliers everywhere. The room was dark and delightfully cool. Stevie felt an urge to spin across it in her flat sandals, an urge she fortunately managed to resist. They moved to the club sitting room, with its gold silk damask-covered walls and furniture, and ordered Crodino. The waiter, very correct and wearing white gloves, brought the bright orange drinks and some salted crackers, then seemed to disappear into the wall. Stevie remarked on it.

  ‘Oh, the Whist Club is full of secret passages and entry ways. And discreet rooms where a gentleman may retire after a heavy lunch and take a nap . . .’

  ‘Or . . .?’

  Leone smiled. ‘Or.’

  Stevie looked over at a tall, handsome man in a dove grey suit—young and slim, with a heavy head of blond curls. She recognised one of the younger members of a major Torinese industrial family. He was having a Campari with a severe-looking bald man, and a very glamorous woman dressed in caramel suede and golden bangles. The sofas were arranged so that the members were visible to each other, but just out of earshot.

  Leone noticed Stevie’s glance. ‘He might be good for you— though a little young perhaps . . .? Unfortunately, his older brother married in the spring.’

  Stevie turned back to Leone and smiled. ‘I’m not looking for an arranged marriage.’

  Leone spread his fingers. ‘All marriages are arrangements of one sort or another. Otherwise they would not last.’

  ‘You don’t believe in—to use an old-fashioned term—a love match?’

  ‘You are an old-fashioned woman. So like your grandmother.’

  ‘You know I will take that as a compliment,’ Stevie replied, sitting up a little straighter.

  ‘And so you should,’ said Leone. ‘And so you should.’

  He leant forward, his elbows on his linen-clad knees. ‘But are you very particular?’ He made the word sound mysteriously charged with meaning, almost lascivious.

  ‘You mean in general, or in my choice of men?’

  Leone made another gesture. Of course.

  ‘In some ways, yes, I am. Shouldn’t we all be? I’m not particular in terms of, say, a man’s profession or what kind of shoes he wears or whether he smokes or not. Even his looks. But there are some things I cannot move beyond.’

  Leone prompted, ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, certain character traits, like cowardice or malice or lack of curiosity.’

  ‘Lack of curiosity. That is an important one.’ Leone fixed Stevie with a deep stare, holding her eyes for an uncomfortable length of time before she broke away to rest her empty glass on the coffee table.

  ‘What are you curious about, Stevie?’ His manner was growing more flirtatious as the conversation grew more personal.

  ‘Why you never married, for one thing.’ She flashed him a victorious, teasing smile.

  Leone’s hand slapped his knee. ‘Eh! No one would have me.’

  That might have been true if Leone did not possess a beautiful estate outside Turin, a comfortable fortune, and a title to go with it.

  ‘You won’t have them, you mean, Leone. Maybe you too are . . . particular?’ Stevie raised a provocative eyebrow and winced again. She would have to stop doing that.

  ‘I am too set in my ways to change. A woman—an Italian woman—would demand I change. I cannot betray myself like that.’

  ‘But you think I should?’

  Leone shrugged gently. ‘It is easier for a man to be unmarried than a woman.’

  Stevie laughed and gently shook her head. ‘I think you are a dinosaur, Leone.’

  Leone smiled rather wistfully at Stevie then consulted a pocket watch inlaid with amber. ‘I took the liberty of organising the private dining room. I think you will find it charming.’

  It was indeed charming: an octagonal room inlaid with wood and painted pale blue. It was decorated on every wall with paintings and mirrors, like a jewelled box.

  The waiter held the dishes as Stevie carefully spooned boiled rice, then creamed fish, onto her plate—it seemed Leone’s gout was playing up again. Her wine glass was filled with a rather delicious Nebbiolo, from the Piedmontese word for fog, named so because it grew in the mist in the valleys of the Langhe not far away. Her luncheon companion, having briefly discussed the food, was back on the subject of love.

  ‘Sooner or later, in love, the reality comes through the veil of fantasy and people are disappointed. I hate disappointing people. Better not begin with hopes. Managing expectation is the key to happiness.’

  Stevie took a small sip of wine. ‘Warren Buffett said the same thing once.’

  ‘Who?’ Leone’s eyes flared with a tiny flame of jealousy.

  ‘Never mind.’ She put her glass down. ‘You know, you don’t have to flirt with me, Leone. You can relax.’

  Leone too put down his glass. ‘It is good manners to flirt when in the company of a woman,’ he said softly.

  ‘I thought that only applied to married ones.’

  Leone flashed a smile. ‘You are quite right, of course, but it is a hard habit to break.’ He helped himelf to more rice and looked up. ‘My ex-girlfriend is now the First Lady of France,’ he said suddenly.

  Stevie waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she asked, ‘Do you regret not ma
rrying her?’

  Leone exploded with laughter. ‘È matta come un cavallo—she is as mad as a horse.’

  By the afternoon, a warm rain had begun to fall. The streets glossed over and filled with bustling umbrellas. Stevie, caught without one, hurried to the Piazza della Consolata to meet David Rice. She passed a newsstand on the way and saw the latest copy of Eva 2000, a popular weekly gossip magazine that specialised in long-lens photographs of stars on holiday. The cover had a photograph of Skorpios and Angelina—when had they taken that?

  There was a tiny café—the Caffè al Bicerin—full of dim corners and little tables lit with candles. Stevie, her dress and hair quite damp by now, chose a table away from the window. Rice’s training made him nervous of windows.

  Moments later, the man himself walked in. He stopped in the doorway and carefully closed his umbrella. Stevie noticed he used the action to cover the glances he threw into the dark corners of the café, left, right, then behind him. He was an operative to the bone and the years would never change that. His customary silver-topped cane was missing and he leant on his sturdy British umbrella.

  Despite his limp, there was nothing feeble about Rice; even at fifty he was a force. You could feel it radiating from him, like heat from the sun. Today, however, Stevie’s heart twisted with concern when she saw his face. The usual serenity of the broad, beloved forehead was gone; there was a tightness around the eyes and a pallor on the cheeks that she had never seen before. He sat without a word, tired beyond belief.

  Stevie would have liked to reach out and take his hand but that was out of the question. She wondered very briefly what would happen if she did . . . David would stiffen, then carefully shift his hand just beyond her reach—perhaps even clear his throat—and pretend the wrong-footed gesture had never been made.

  It would be a mortifying rejection that Stevie knew she would never have the courage to risk. David Rice would have to remain what he was and always had been: her boss, a family friend, loved from below, adored from afar, the measure of all men.

  When the waiter came to take their order, Rice raised a hand in refusal; Stevie, feeling chill and as clammy as a frog, ordered a bicerin. It was the specialty of the café: a small glass filled with hot chocolate, then a layer of hot coffee, and finished with a spoonful of cream. She raked her wet hair back off her forehead and met Rice’s eyes. ‘Flight alright?’ she asked, her question loaded with so many others.

  David suddenly smiled. ‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes warmed. ‘How are you, Stevie?’ His eyes found her wound. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly, the smile gone now.

  Stevie touched her forehead gently. ‘It’s nothing. Probably a splinter from one of the explosions.’ She smiled. ‘I am otherwise very well, thank you. You got my report on the Oriana?’

  He nodded once, the tiredness settling back into his face. ‘You were very lucky—you all were. The Zoroaster II, a tanker carrying chemical waste, was taken the same day not far from where you were attacked. The pirates destroyed the bridge with a rocket-propelled grenade and forced the captain to stop. He was injured quite badly apparently—machete—and the crew are being held to ransom.’ Rice rubbed his chin in a gesture of exhaustion. ‘It was the fifth attack in those waters this week, if we count the one on the Oriana. All the others were successful.’

  ‘Do we know anything about these pirates?’ Stevie asked, her eyes still on his face.

  ‘Suposedly they’re poor fishermen from the Somali coast looking to make a living in a country that has no functioning government. The piracy problem starts on land: civil war in 1991, fighting between the warlords all over the country, famine. Then the world sent food aid and the warlords stole most of it and sold it on across the border to buy more weapons. Then Operation Restore Hope and the Battle of Mogadishu.’

  ‘When the militants shot down two Black Hawk helicopters with rocket-propelled grenades.’

  Rice inclined his head. ‘The Americans were leading the operation and they lost nineteen men. The bodies of two of them were dragged through the streets on television. It’s not that much better now: a transitional government with virtually no power, backed by Ethiopian troops who, from what I hear, are often part of the problem. Looting, killing, gang rape—no one held accountable . . . And the government wonders why it has no legitimacy in the eyes of the people. The whole country is the worst kind of mess. The only structure that does exist is the clan structure, which often ends up behaving much like the mafia.’

  Rice stopped abruptly and turned to stare out the window. In the dying light of the day, his skin was grey. Stevie shifted her gaze; she did not want to see his weakness. It was like seeing him naked.

  ‘Not surprising, then,’ she said, ‘that the fishermen have turned pirates. It must be hard to see the world’s trade pass outside your front door and to be trapped in hell with no way out.’

  ‘Mmm . . .’ Rice turned back to Stevie. ‘But something tells me there is more to it than that. The attacks are too ambitious, too successful . . . The pirates have moved beyond bamboo ladders and machetes—they’re now armed with explosives and automatic weapons, they track their target ships with GPS.’

  ‘So, what are we talking,’ she asked quietly, ‘in terms of numbers?’

  ‘Two years ago, the numbers were around eight; last year, the number jumped to more than sixty. It’s estimated the pirates took around forty million dollars. In the first half of this year, that record has already been smashed. The insurance for cargo ships transiting the Gulf of Aden has gone up ten times. It is not an isolated, nor an insignificant, problem.’ He said the last bit as if to himself.

  ‘The pirates who attacked us arrived in brand-new Zodiacs,’ Stevie offered, ‘with high-powered engines, reserve fuel tanks, the whole lot. They were well coordinated—it takes a bit of practice to move in concert on the high seas—but they looked local, Somali. My impression was that most of these men were trained seamen, even possibly military men; half of them were wearing armour.’

  ‘It’s obviously been a lucrative business for the pirates,’ Rice confirmed. ‘Apparently they’re driving brand-new Land Cruisers in Boosaaso, sporting Rolex watches, diamond ear studs, the full bit. They use the profts of the attacks to buy better outboard motors, better weaponry, navigation systems and so forth.’

  Stevie nodded. ‘That would explain the equipment—but not necessarily the training. Experience, I suppose, but you know what I mean: men who have been in the forces move differently. You can just tell someone with training. The pirates I saw—with the exception of a young Rambo who was just spraying bullets about in a panic—had training.’

  Rice said nothing, stared at Stevie for a moment as if making up his mind about something. ‘We’re in trouble, Stevie.’ He looked out towards the street. Black limousines were pulling up outside the church, people were coming out, dressed in the sombre greys and blacks of mourning. ‘You know Hazard has started up a maritime security arm in response to the escalation of sea-borne threats in the last few years. It’s been rather successful and we’ve been engaged by a great many of the biggest shipping lines in the world.’

  Stevie said nothing. The picture was beginning to form in her head even as he spoke.

  ‘In the last four months, we’ve suffered nineteen pirate attacks, twelve of them successful.’ Stevie’s eyes widened. She had not expected the numbers to be so high. No wonder Rice was stressed.

  ‘Zoroaster II was also one of ours. Unlucky thirteen. I have two men on board that ship, and one of them is Owen Dovetail.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Stevie’s hand covered her mouth in dismay. She had worked closely with Owen on many assignments and had a great respect and affection for the taciturn Welshman.

  ‘He was on board as protection—unarmed, of course; the laws don’t allow us to be armed. It’s a one-sided war out there.’ Rice lapsed into silence.

  Finally she murmured, ‘Are you in contact with him?’

  ‘He’s managed to send a few t
ext messages. Apparently, though, they’ve been locked in the hold so he can’t give us any indication of the whereabouts of the ship.’ He looked up. ‘It doesn’t sound good, Stevie. It’s almost as if our ships are being targeted on purpose. The number of attacks is too far above the average. That’s why Dovetail was on board, and a new guy, Simon Timms, too.’

  ‘Have the pirates contacted anyone yet?’

  Rice shook his head. ‘The contact will most likely come to us through a middleman in London in the next couple of days. Everyone at Hazard is standing ready. We will get Dovetail and Timms back. Trouble is, we have to free the whole crew to get to them. There are twenty-six different nationalities represented on board and we’re dealing with representatives from almost every one of those countries. It’s a logistical nightmare. Then, when contact is made, the negotiations customarily drag on for months. The crews of the Bremen and the Asia Pearl have been held for five and seven months respectively.’

  ‘In terms of Hazard’s involvement, how many ships are we talking about here?’ Stevie’s consternation was growing. The numbers sounded overwhelming.

  ‘We have nine ships, seven with captured crews still held, at various stages of negotiation. That’s a total of two hundred and nine seamen, plus Dovetail and Timms. The ships themselves are covered by a war risk policy, which covers acts of terrorism and, increasingly, piracy; we’ve also been offering a third type of policy of protection and indemnity that covers the crew.’ Rice rubbed his chin again. ‘We’ve been able to outsource some of the legal work, but negotiating with the pirates and the insurance companies rests with us.’