The Siren's Sting (2 page)

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.

‘And my soul has suffered as only the soul of a Greek woman can. The pain changed the timbre of my voice forever. That is why it is so much in demand.'

If her soul was the key to her voice, the rest of her secret spell seemed to lie, as far as Stevie could tell, in slurping raw eggs before each performance, in remarkable vocal exercises, and in a tortoiseshell comb that absolutely had to be in its place in the thick black chignon before she would deign to sing.

Angelina was not modest but she was extraordinary. She saw herself as the guardian of a fantastic talent, and Stevie wondered what it would feel like to have a talent like that, to be the best in the world at something, to be so sure of yourself and your destiny. It must indeed be a marvellous thing. Every morning would bring with it certainty and passion and confidence that you were doing exactly the right thing in the right time and place. Stevie would have given a lot for that sort of comfort. Obviously one had to be born under the lucky star, but perhaps it was a matter of nurture as well as nature . . .

Had she neglected a burgeoning talent at a tender age, a skill that might have led her to this golden path of certainty? Had she overlooked something? Arms stretching out of their sockets, head still inverted, Stevie could not think of a single thing. She was neither musical, nor artistic, nor could she run very fast; she was far too self-contained for the stage and ball sports were anathema to her; her cooking was simple and edible but hardly something she could call a talent.

Focusing on the positives—this was a yoga class after all— she listed the things she could do well: fence, shoot, ride, disappear. All in all, not a very promising list for a small, birdlike girl with big ideas.

A small boat on the horizon caught her attention and distracted her from these somewhat unhelpful musings. The Gulf was full of small wooden skiffs, manned by fishermen out hunting the fast-moving tuna schools. But this one was very far from land. She knew that the skiffs were also used by people smugglers taking desperate Somali refugees to the promise of a relatively better world—and it was indeed relative—in Yemen. The smugglers were ruthless, and they had reason to be: in Yemen, people smugglers could still be crucified; if the wrong coastguard approached, they were likely to dump their cargo of souls into the sea to save themselves. Stevie shook her head slowly and breathed in through her nose. She had to stop seeing menace and darkness in every situation. It was not a Healthy Outlook.

She could not resist glancing back out at the skiff. Even with her head upside down, Stevie could tell it was going fast, very fast, and that it was moving towards them. The class retreated into the Pose of the Child for the final five minutes of the session. Stevie knelt forward, turned her head and rested her cheek on the deck, her eyes still on the little boat. Another like it appeared and Stevie felt a familiar prickle at the back of her neck. She didn't like the little boats one bit—something felt wrong.

She had long ago made a pact with herself to always listen to her instincts, no matter how absurd they seemed, and so, while the rest of the class rolled up their rubber mats and went down to a papaya breakfast, Stevie remained where she was, feigning meditation, green eyes steady on the horizon.

A third boat had now joined the first two.

No fishing-boat engine could propel the craft forward at that speed. She raced to one of the on-deck telescopes used for sightseeing and trained the lens.

The boats were fibreglass-hulled Zodiacs—not fishing boats at all—with high-powered engines. In the first, she could make out eight men dressed in combat fatigues. Could they be from the coastguard? But as far as she knew, Somalia did not have a coastguard, and in any case, they were too far out from land.

Perhaps it was an American or British patrol helping to keep the Bab-el-Mandeb free of drug traffickers and smugglers. The boats sped closer and the prickling on Stevie's neck turned to ice. The men in the other two boats were dressed like locals in a mish-mash of T-shirts with Western logos and traditional headdress, baseball caps and ragged shorts, their dark faces blank of expression. In his arms, each man cradled a sub-machine gun, except for the one at the very front—not more than a boy—who held a rocket-propelled grenade launcher steady at his side.

Stevie leapt up and headed for the bridge. Surely the captain had seen the boats too.

But when she got there the door to the bridge was locked. Stevie hammered on it but no one answered.

The first boat was almost alongside. The man standing at the bow of the first boat raised the RPG to his shoulder and fired directly at the bridge.

There was an explosion like thunder and the deck shook.

Pirates
.

Stevie's ears were ringing as she ran along the deck. Cabin doors were opening, balcony doors sliding apart, voices rising in confusion. As Stevie sprinted towards Angelina's cabin, she noticed the figure of a man by the lifeboat, standing still and staring out to sea. Stevie recognised him almost at once. Unlike many of the other passengers, who had obviously still been fast asleep at the time of the attack, Socrates Skorpios was immaculate in a pale summer suit and navy tie, his dark hair combed, his tortoiseshell glasses in place. He was watching the pirates. As she passed, she saw him calmly take a cigar from his pocket and light it, eyes still on the sea wolves below. Stevie had a second to marvel at his cool before she turned her mind back to the task at hand. Finding Angelina.

The captain's voice came over
the intercom, preceded by the usual soft ringing of bells. The voice, steady and firm, told all passengers to stay put in their cabins, to lock their doors and not to venture out for any reason.

There was another explosion, this one muffled by the thick glass and the heavy panelling of the ship's interior. In the breakfast hall, waiters were trying to fold stiff-limbed silver-tips under tables. The room was surprisingly quiet, the waiters calm, the passengers' faces frightened and pliant. Stevie wanted to stop and help, but Angelina would not be handling this well.

After some knocking and reassurance, Angelina opened the door to the cabin. Her eyes and hair were wild with sleep and fright, and she had stuffed her jewels into her brassiere.