Deadly Impact--A Richard Mariner nautical adventure by Peter Tonkin Page B

thought Robin. Tristan was under some kind of pressure – in some kind of funk – because he’d lost contact with the men he’d sent aboard
Sayonara
. And he needed Richard – or her – to bring him up to speed. But why? Why the panic?
    â€˜We lost contact, you see. Not a peep out of them in sixty hours and counting. Silent as the tomb since just after they got to Rat Island. We were expecting a call to confirm that everything was … ah …
ship-shape
, if you follow me. But they’re on board after all! I had no idea! On board already? Well I’d better tell …’
    â€˜
Signor
Lazzaro,’ announced maître d’ Marco’s still-chilly voice.
    â€˜Well, yes,’ blustered Tristan, disorientated. ‘But how did you …’
    â€˜Good evening,’ said a new, smooth voice. Tristan looked up while Robin looked round. The regal maître d’ was standing with a man by his side. A slim, vibrant man perhaps ten years Tristan’s senior but less than half his weight. And yet the breadth of the shoulders and the depth of chest were there. Did they play rugby in Italy? She wondered. But, judging from the face,
Murderball
might be this man’s preferred sport. Even in profile it was easy to see the sharp line of cheekbone and the way the cheek itself settled into a cavern before the equally sharp line of his jaw. And, above the cheekbone, the deep, secret hollow of his eye socket beneath the crag of brow and the upward sweep of the domed forehead – hollow again at the temple, capped with short-cropped grey hair so thick it looked like a steel helmet. She noticed the aquiline jut of his nose down to the thin-lipped shark’s mouth, and the way his chin jutted just where Tristan’s receded. How apt, she thought. Here was a man that looked every inch the Italian Macbeth. Or the murderous Scarpia, perhaps, from
Tosca
.
    But then
Signor
Lazzaro’s profile swung towards Robin and the eyes in those cavernous sockets proved to be a deep, melting brown, fringed with lashes many a woman would die to possess and surrounded by deep laugh-lines. ‘
Capitano
Robin Mariner, is it not?’ purred a deep voice with a frisson of nasality and the sweet, heady Italian depth of Amaretto. ‘Permit me. Francisco Alberto Lazzaro at your service.’ Robin smiled and nodded, thinking that delicious Amaretto tasted and smelt of almonds. As did deadly cyanide. Straightaway, Robin suspected that Lazzaro was the source of Tristan’s nervousness. But why?
    The newcomer sat in the seat that Tristan had clearly been saving for him. Lazzaro glanced up at Mario. ‘I would like San Pellegrino to drink, and to see the menu now, please.’
    Mario vanished. Lazzaro leaned forward, still without having addressed Tristan directly, even though he was now seated at his right hand. He was careful to keep the sleeve of his beautifully-tailored beige suit jacket – Milan, Robin thought; perhaps Gianni Campagna – clear of the puddle of wine in front of Tristan. ‘Now, I expect that Tristan here has informed you, I have been in the fortunate position of being able to support him and his consortium through some difficult financial times. A
disagreement
…’ The rich voice lingered over the word, ‘… between poor Tristan and
Signora
Folgate, has, shall we say, alienated the lady and her father, the
Patrizio
Palmi. And as a result I have gained a certain amount of … shall we call it …
influence
in the syndicate. To the tune of a few million euros … As a friend of the family – of the s
ignora’s
family, true, but that should not get in the way of business …’
    Robin looked across at Tristan, but he was into his
Brunello di Montalcino 2004
and apparently unaware of this humiliating washing of his embarrassingly dirty laundry in public.
    â€˜And I’m afraid that it was I,’ continued the smooth