The film began predictably enough, with a young hitchhiker servicing an improbable-looking group of truck drivers at a truck stop. But about ten minutes in, things became too violent for Edward’s taste. The boy was being choked, and was clearly in distress.
“This isn’t working. Turn it off.”
When Sergei turned around there was no mistaking the wild arousal in his eyes. For the first time Edward felt a flicker of real fear.
“Turn it off? How about I turn you off, old man.”
Pulling a rolled-up pair of socks out of the top drawer of Edward’s dresser, Sergei stuffed them into the civil servant’s mouth. Then, as casually as if he were snuffing out a candle, he closed Edward’s nostrils, pinching them between finger and thumb.
The panic was immediate and total.
He’s going to kill me.
Edward struggled wildly, aware that his efforts were futile but unable to stop himself from straining at the ropes. He could hear the blood in his brain, the pressure building up like a swollen damn. He felt as if his skull would explode, imagined his eyeballs popping out of their sockets. He was aware of losing consciousness, of the white stucco ceiling above his antique mahogany bed blurring then turning to black. He braced himself for death.
“There now. No more talking. We watch.”
Miraculously, incredibly, the boy let go of his nostrils and pulled the balled-up running socks out of his mouth. Air rushed painfully into Edward’s lungs and tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Jesus!” he sobbed. “That wasn’t funny. I thought you were going to kill me.”
Sergei Milescu looked at him and smiled.
“Maybe I am.”
Henry Whitman felt the sweat pouring down his back as he increased the incline on his running machine. The prime minister’s daily workouts were grueling, but did wonders for his stress levels.
“Prime Minister? Sorry to disturb you, sir. But I have the home secretary on the line.”
Henry scowled at his secretary, Joyce Withers. “Can’t she wait?”
“Apparently not, sir.”
Henry hesitated, aware how foolish he must look in front of Joyce. I’m the damn prime minister. Alexia De Vere works for me, not the other way around. But he took the call. He was too afraid not to.
Afterward he ran and ran until his legs shook with exhaustion. But his frustration lingered. How had he gotten himself into this situation?
More importantly, how the hell was he going to get himself out?
Sir Edward Manning stared at the laptop, wide-eyed with terror. On a pillow in front of him, Sergei Milescu had arranged Edward’s own top-of-the-line Japanese chef’s knives into the shape of a fan.
“You see, that’s what I call true love,” Sergei was saying. “Not just being willing to die for someone. But being cooked and eaten. Would you do that for me, Eddie? Do you love me that much.”
The images on the laptop weren’t graphic. Sergei was showing Edward a CNN news report from a few months ago of a famous case in which a gay psychopath had murdered, dismembered, and ultimately eaten his boyfriend in the ultimate snuff movie. The boyfriend was filmed willingly consenting to the entire affair, prompting a flurry of philosophical hand-wringing about the dangers of sadomasochism, and whether voluntary killing could ever be classed as murder.
It was the look in Sergei’s eyes that terrified Edward, turning his bowels to liquid and making sweat stream in little rivers down his back and chest.
“Now. Where shall we begin? Here, perhaps?” Picking up a serrated fruit knife, Sergei pressed it against Edward’s left nipple. The old man shrieked into his gag.
“Or here?” He moved the knife over an index finger. With a flick, he sliced into the skin. Edward screamed, his pupils dilating wildly with terror and pain. The cut was small but deep. Blood was everywhere, soaking the sheets in a deep, plum-red pool.
“Or here?” Slowly, relishing each second, Sergei dragged the point of the knife onto Edward’s belly, tracing a line downward till the blade brushed the top of his penis. “Would you like that, Eddie? Would you like me to cut?”
Sir Edward Manning strained wildly, pulling so hard that the ropes at his wrists and ankles drew blood.
Death was coming. He knew that now. It wasn’t death that scared him as much as the torture that would precede it. He wasn’t very good with pain. Never had been.
How could I have been so stupid? Risked so much, and for what? For sex?
In his terror, he thought about his mother. He thought about Andrew, his college boyfriend and the only man he’d ever really loved.
“Close your eyes, Eddie,” Sergei whispered in his ear. Through his tears, Sir Edward Manning did as he was told. He felt the cold blade against his genitals and wondered when, or even if, he would pass out.
“Let’s get some sound effects, shall we?” Leaving the knife resting on Sir Edward’s groin, Sergei untied his gag. “I want to hear you beg for your life.”
“Please!” Sir Edward hated the sound of his own voice, but he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this! I’m a rich man. I . . . I can pay you.”
“Pay me? Pay me what?”
“Whatever you want! Anything. Name your price.”
“Name my price? You still think I’m your whore, don’t you?” Grabbing a second, larger knife from the pillow, Sergei slashed like Zorro across Sir Edward’s chest. The old man let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“No, please. Please! Tell me what you want. I’m sorry! Just tell me what you want, for God’s sake!”
“All right,” said Sergei. “I’ll tell you what I want.” To Sir Edward Manning’s astonishment, the Romanian got up off the bed and began getting dressed. Scooping up the knives, he rattled them close to Sir Edward’s face, laughing loudly as the old man cowered, then leisurely carried them back into the kitchen.
For the first time since he was a child, Sir Edward Manning prayed.
Please, please let it be over. Please don’t let this be a trick, a way to prolong the agony.
He tried to fight back hope but it was impossible. He wanted so very, very desperately to live.
Sergei came back into the bedroom and smiled. Sir Edward Manning smiled back.
Then he realized that the boy had something behind his back.
“No, please! Don’t hurt me. PLEASE!” Sir Edward Manning felt black despair overwhelm him.
Sergei came closer. “Too late!” He laughed. “Bang bang!”
By the time Sir Edward realized it was an iPhone in Sergei’s hand not a gun, he’d already lost control of his bladder.
“First,” said Sergei, “I’m going to take some pretty pictures of you, Eddie. So I need you to smile for the camera. Can you do that?”
Sir Edward nodded furiously.
“I’m going to send these pictures to some friends of mine. If anything happens to me—or if you don’t do exactly as I ask—they’re going to wind up online for the whole world to enjoy. Do you understand?”
Another nod.
“And after that, my friends will kill you. They will slice off your dick and roast it with rosemary and they will eat it.” Sergei Milescu’s upper lip curled. “Do you believe me, Sir Edward?”
“I believe you.” Sir Edward Manning felt nauseous with relief. “I’ll do anything you say, Sergei. Anything.”
“That’s good. My friends will be happy to hear it. They’ll be even happier when you get them the information they need.”
“Information?”
“About your boss. But shush now.” Sergei smiled, laying a finger over Sir Edward’s lips. “First it’s picture time. Say ‘cheese.’ ”
Chapter Fourteen
Billy Hamlin was sitting on the train on his way into London. Outside, a steady, gray drizzle had set in, sluicing the train windows with a grimy film of water. There was water everywhere, sucking him down, drowning him. An endless current that, no matter how hard or how fast he swam, he could never escape
.
“You off up to London sightseeing?” The young mother next to him made conversation. “Heard your American accent earlier. You on your holidays?”
The woman was attractive but looked tired. She had two small, sticky-fingered kids with her, and was no doubt hoping Billy might provide some adult distraction. Taking in the normality of her life—the restless children, the stained raincoat, the bags of groceries wedged into the seat beside her—Billy felt a pang of envy so sharp it was like a knife in the heart.
“Actually, no. I’m on my way to visit Alexia De Vere.”
The young mother laughed. “Really? I’m off to see the Queen meself. Straight to Buckingham Palace once we get in to Paddington, aren’t we, kids?”
“I’m serious,” said Billy. “I have to warn Alexia De Vere.”
“Warn her? Warn her about what?”
Billy looked at the woman as if she were mad. “The voice. I have to warn her about the voice.”
The young woman turned away, drawing her children closer to her, protecting them.
She could see it now. The madness blazing in Billy Hamlin’s eyes.
“Excuse me.” Billy pressed his cell phone to his ear. “I have to take this. Hello?”
An eye for an eye, Billy. An eye for an eye.
Billy felt his throat go dry and his stomach turn to water.
Who will be the next to die?
The voice. It was back.
Billy started begging. “Please don’t hurt her!”
Hurt who, Billy? Your daughter?
“No, not Jenny.”
Or Mrs. De Vere?
“Neither of them.”
You choose.
“But they’re both innocent! Why are you doing this? Please, please just leave me alone.”
I can’t do that, Billy.
“Then tell me what to do.”
You know what to do.
“I need more time. It’s not that easy. She’s the home secretary! It’s not like I can walk up to her in the street.”
“Are you all right?” A young man, a commuter, put a hand on Billy’s arm. He was looking at him curiously, the same way that the young mother had a few moments earlier.
He thinks I’m crazy, thought Billy. They all do. They don’t understand.
“I’m fine,” he said patiently. “I’m on the phone.”
“There’s no reception here, mate,” the man kindly. “We’re in a tunnel. See?”
Billy looked through the grimy windows into the blackness. Panicked, he shouted into his handset.
“Hello? HELLO?”
The young man was right. The line had gone dead.
The voice was gone.
The Select Committee meeting was getting heated.
“With respect, Home Secretary . . .”
“Don’t talk to me about respect, Giles,” Alexia De Vere said curtly. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it? These people have no respect. Not for our values, not for our institutions, not for our flag. And we’re too cowardly to stand up to them.”
“Cowardly?” the minister for agriculture muttered under his breath. “What the hell would a woman know about fighting for the bloody flag.”
Alexia turned on him like a rattlesnake. “What was that, Charles?”
“Nothing.”
“No, please. If you have something to say, do share it with all of us.”
The six men seated around the table eyed one another nervously, like schoolboys who’d gotten on the wrong side of their teacher. They were here to discuss the problem of migrant agricultural workers demonstrating in Parliament Square. The protests were becoming increasingly unruly. Last week two Albanian beet pickers had urinated on the Union Jack, an incident that had made the national news and ignited a renewed debate on immigration that the Home Office could have done without. Everyone was on edge, but the home secretary seemed to be particularly waspish this morning. Poor Charles Mosely, the agriculture minister, looked as if he were about to have his balls cut off.
“Do you think I’m some sort of second-class citizen, Charles?”
“Of course not, Alexia.” I think you’re a first-class bitch, and so do the rest of the cabinet.
“Good. Because the last time I checked, women and men were considered equals in this country.”
“I appreciate that, Home Secretary. The point is that none of us feels that throwing the book at these two young men is going to solve anything.”
“They’re very poor.” The trade and industry secretary spoke slowly, as if explaining something very simple to a small child. “Destitute, effectively.”
“Irrelevant,” Alexia said witheringly. “They’re criminal vandals and they’re pissing on the hand that feeds them. They’re turning this government into a laughingstock.”
Walking over to the watercooler, she filled a plastic cup, willing herself to calm down. She knew she was overreacting. Taking everything too personally. But she’d had a frustratingly sleepless night, fretting over yesterday’s meeting with Commissioner Grant, and for some reason the six unfriendly, embittered faces watching her around the table this morning were bothering her more than usual.
Alexia had played things cool yesterday, refusing to show weakness in front of Sir Edward Manning and the commissioner. As a woman in politics, one couldn’t afford to let one’s guard down, ever. But the truth was, she was frightened, filled with a deep sense of foreboding that she couldn’t seem to shake. She’d received threats before, of course, as prisons minister. But this business with William Hamlin and the fire-and-brimstone voice on the phone was different.
And the dog. She felt awful about the dog.
Normally Alexia would have been completely unfazed chairing a meeting in which every man in the room was against her. The envy and hostility around the table this morning was palpable, but it was nothing new. But today she felt tired and vulnerable. To make matters worse, when she finally got to sleep last night, she had a terrible nightmare, of the kind she hadn’t had in years—the drowning dream. Strong, dark currents pulling her under. Lungs filling with water, unable to breathe. Poor Teddy had done his best to calm her down, fetching her a glass of water at four in the morning. Afterward he’d fallen back to sleep, but Alexia had lain awake, watching the dawn break over the river with exhausted, bloodshot eyes.
Parliament broke for the long summer recess in a couple of weeks’ time. It couldn’t come soon enough for Alexia. Just thinking about her summer house on Martha’s Vineyard and spending time with Lucy Meyer, her only real girlfriend, filled her with a longing she could hardly describe.
“Alexia? Are you with us?” Giles Fring, from the immigration think tank Borders, was talking to her.
“I’m sorry, Giles. What were you saying?”
“We need to draft a statement, Home Secretary.” Fring’s irritated sigh spoke volumes. “We must reach some sort of consensus.”
“We have a consensus.”
“No we don’t,” the trade and industry secretary said bluntly.
“Yes we do, Kevin. This is my department, my call. I decide a course of action and you agree to it. Voilà. Consensus.”
The men around the table exchanged despairing glances.
“Our statement is as follows: ‘The government will not tolerate acts of violence or hatred toward Great Britain or her people. It will be up to the courts to decide the fate of Mr. Silchek and Mr. Vladmizc. But the home secretary hereby authorizes the immediate clearing of Parliament Square. Moreover, the work visas of all those involved in last week’s rallies will be reviewed, with immediate effect.’ ”
The room erupted.
“You can’t be serious, Alexia! Revoking visas? What about freedom of speech?”
“Not revoking. Reviewing.”
“But with a view to deporting people! For peaceful protest.”
“There was nothing peaceful about what happened to that flag, Kevin.”
“The prime minister will never allow it.”
&nb
sp; Alexia smiled thinly. The trade and industry secretary was really beginning to get on her nerves. “Oh, I think you’ll find he will. Henry’s support is nothing if not staunch.”
Throwing his papers down on the table in a petulant rage, Kevin Lomax stormed out.
Charles Mosely said, “If nothing else, Home Secretary, I would suggest you reconsider the tone of the statement. It sounds . . .”
“Strong?” Alexia suggested.
“I was going to say ‘Stalinist.’ Put bluntly, it won’t win us any votes.”
“I beg to differ.”
“But, Alexia, be reasonable. We all—”
“Meeting adjourned. Good day, gentlemen.”
Ten minutes later, in the back of her ministerial Daimler, Alexia kicked off her shoes, sighing heavily.
“What’s wrong with these men, Edward? They’re all such cowards.”
Sir Edward Manning shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had bandaged the wound on his finger, explaining it away as a kitchen accident, but the lines that Sergei Milescu had sliced into his chest were far harder to dress. Not only were they agonizingly painful, but they put him in a constant state of fear that blood was about to seep through his shirt. Sergei wanted information on Mrs. De Vere, something scandalous enough and serious enough to have her forced out of her job. Right now Edward had no idea how he was going to get it. All of which made it extremely difficult to concentrate.
“I mean, you tell me, Edward. Have they forgotten how many men died for that flag?”
“I highly doubt Charlie Mosely’s forgotten,” Sir Edward said through gritted teeth. The pain was almost unbearable. “His son was killed three years ago in Helmland. Blown to bits by some roadside bomb.”
Alexia gasped. “Oh God. Really? I had no idea.”
“It was in your briefing notes, Home Secretary.”
“Was it? Shit. No wonder he was so touchy about the flag thing. Why didn’t you stop me, Edward?”
Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory Page 11
