by Wendy Alec
James took her face in his hands. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘I have their word. If we meet their demands, every demand they make, they will not touch our sons. If we do their bidding, all their bidding, the boys will exist outside of their clutches. Free to live a normal life. Freed from covens and their depraved rituals. Freed from things too unspeakable to utter.’
Lilian stared at James, her breathing shallow.
He continued, relentless. ‘We sacrifice our freedom so that our sons may live free from subterfuge. That our sons may live free from their clutches.’
The martini glass slipped from Lilian’s hands, shattering on the floor.
There was a soft knock on the drawing-room door. A petite girl dressed in maid’s livery entered with an elfin-faced six-year-old boy in tow.
Nicholas De Vere saw his mother and broke into a cheeky grin. Lilian wiped the tears from her cheeks, regaining her composure instantly. She held out her arms.
‘Nicholas, darling . . . ’ she said. ‘Thank you, Laura. I had a slight accident. Be a dear and clean it up, will you?’
Nick ran over to Lilian, then caught sight of his father. Excitement swept across his features.
‘Dad!’ he cried, running full tilt into James’s open arms. James picked Nick up and lifted him high above his head. Nick screamed in exhilaration. James set him down on his lap.
A Germanic-looking woman stood at the door, her blonde hair pulled severely back off her face. She wore an unflattering houndstooth suit and dark stockings over hefty calves. Following immediately behind her was a handsome boy of about thirteen. His dark hair was cut short, framing high cheekbones. He was sweet-faced but serious.
‘Has Adrian done his homework, Frau Mahling?’ Lilian asked, her eyes suddenly cold.
The woman nodded briefly. ‘Master Adrian has completed his social science, madam. He has algebra still to do.’
Adrian walked over to his father and embraced him. ‘Good to see you, Dad.’
‘Great to see you too, Adrian.’ James ruffled his hair.
Maxim entered with a tray of canapés.
James gingerly picked up a sticky green-looking hors d’oeuvre.
‘A new recipe, Master James,’ Maxim said, beaming proudly.
James exchanged a look with Lilian.
‘It’s Beatrice and Pierre’s day off.’ Lilian hid a smile, in spite of herself.
James grunted, took a bite and spat it immediately into his handkerchief.
Adrian winked at Nick who collapsed into loud giggles.
‘Chilli, Maxim?’
‘Chilli, sir.’ The butler glowed with pride.
James looked around and frowned. ‘Where’s Jason?’
Maxim raised his eyebrows. ‘I have just been informed that Master Jason unfortunately had a technical hitch with his Mustang and had to “hitch” . . . ’ Maxim grimaced slightly ‘ . . . a ride home.’
James sighed in irritation.
Suddenly there was a loud screech of brakes outside, accompanied by raucous laughter. Lilian walked to the window and watched a dark-haired seventeen-year-old ease his six-foot frame out of a lime-green Mustang crammed with high school students.
A petite blonde twined her arms around him flirtatiously and Jason smiled back rakishly. He looked up to see Lilian watching him through the drawing-room window.
Blushing furiously, he slammed the car door. The girls in the back blew kisses at him while the guys shouted unintelligible insults.
Jason slung his satchel over his shoulder and strode up the front steps. A moment later he pushed open the drawing-room door.
‘Mom . . . ’ He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek. His eyes lit up when he saw his father. ‘Hey, Dad! You’re back!’
A genuine smile spread across Jason’s face.
‘Hey, Adrian, Nick!’ He grabbed Nick’s shoulder and drew him to him. ‘There are four security dudes on the porch.’
The boys made a scramble for the door.
‘POW! POW!’ cried Nick, shooting at Adrian with an imaginary pistol.
James held up his hand.
‘Sit down, boys,’ he said, his voice serious. ‘Your mother and I need to talk to you.’
With a groan, Jason slung his satchel onto the floor as the younger boys reluctantly retraced their steps.
Jason punched Adrian in the side. Glaring at him, Adrian punched him back.
‘Boys!’ Lilian glared at Jason. ‘Your father has news.’ She looked over to him.
‘Not another promotion.’ Jason scowled. ‘And another move.’
James spoke quietly. ‘I have been offered and have accepted the post of Ambassador for the United States.’ He poured himself a whisky from a tray next to the canapés. ‘ . . . To the United Kingdom.’
The boys stared at him in complete astonishment.
‘It necessitates our moving to London. We take up residence in Winfield House in Regent’s Park in just over a month.’
‘Aw, Dad – my baseball game . . . ’ Adrian moaned.
Nick ran around the room. ‘The Queen. POW! POW! The Queen, POW!’
Jason sat, staring down at the floor. His shoulders shook with a cold fury. Lilian looked at him anxiously.
‘Jason,’ she said, softly.
He ignored her. ‘I’m not leaving.’ He stood up, his hands shaking. ‘You’ll have to kill me and drag me out of here.’
James took a sip of his scotch. ‘Then I’ll kill you and drag you out of here,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
Jason turned to Lilian, trembling with uncontrolled rage. ‘I won’t go, Mother.’
Lilian looked at James imploringly.
‘You’ll do what we say,’ James said quietly.
‘Do what you say,’ Jason snarled. ‘You’re no example – you’re never here.’ His voice rose. ‘My life’s here – not in some backwater Limeyland!’
‘Your life’s with this family!’ James’s voice rose.
‘What family, Dad? You’re never here! We’ve moved five times in five years.’ He picked up his satchel. ‘Thank God I’m in boarding school!’
He clenched his fists.
‘ . . . and I’m not going to Yale – I’m going to film school in New York and you won’t stop me.’
James moved towards Jason and grasped him firmly by the shoulder.
‘And who pays for boarding school and film school? You’ll do as I say, young man.’
‘Go on – buy my subservience with money – just like you buy everyone.’
James turned to Lilian. Incensed. ‘It’s enough, Lilian! He sits in his room for days at a time watching God knows what. That Stanley . . . Stanley . . . ’
‘Cupcake,’ shouted Nick. Then he buried his head in the sofa cushions.
Jason threw his hands up. ‘Kubrick,’ he shouted, red in the face. ‘Kubrick to my unenlightened, media-illiterate family.’
‘You’re grounded and no allowance!’ Adrian muttered under his breath. Lilian gave him a warning look.
‘You’re grounded,’ James roared, thrusting Jason away from him in fury.
Nick and Adrian collapsed in uproarious laughter. Lilian gestured vainly to them to be quiet.
‘And you watch that temper, Jason De Vere!’
Jason stormed out of the drawing room, slamming the door behind him.
‘Not one of the De Veres has a temper like his,’ James exclaimed, heatedly.
The door reopened.
‘You do!’ Jason screamed. He raced up the stairs like lightning.
Lilian walked over to the windows, hiding her amusement.
‘ . . . AND NO ALLOWANCE!’ James roared up the stairs.
He strode back into the drawing room and turned to Lilian, his face like thunder.
‘He’s coming to England, Lilian. My word is final.’
Five Weeks Later
New York Harbour, New York
The entire De Vere family gathered inside the huge embarkation hall in New York Harbour. A v
ast pile of trunks labelled ‘De Vere’ stood in front of a large glass divider beyond which lay the massive berth of the RMS Queen Elizabeth 2.
Lilian took out a hanky, tears welling in her eyes. She clutched Jason to her. ‘Goodbye, Jason, darling.’
Jason hugged her tightly. ‘Bye, Mom. Take care.’
James slapped his eldest son on his back, ‘I’ll miss you, Jason.’ He stepped back, his eyes moist. ‘Do us proud at Yale, son, and you can go to film school. I give you my word.’
Jason nodded, suddenly emotional. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
He tousled Nick’s hair, then slapped Adrian on the shoulder.
James and Lilian turned and moved through passport control, up the embarkation gangway, followed by Adrian and Nick who clutched his father’s hand tightly.
‘Hey, Nick!’ Jason called.
Nick turned around.
‘Now I’m not there to protect you and Adrian’s off to Gordonstoun, you have to stand up to the Limeys!’
Nick let go of James’s hand and bolted back down the gangway, escaping the grasp of the unprepared passport controller, and ran full tilt into Jason’s legs.
Jason knelt down and gently raised Nick’s tear-stained face to his own.
‘Hey, pal,’ he whispered. ‘I’m always here for you. No matter what.’
‘No matter what . . . ’ Nick stammered.
Jason held out his left hand. ‘Remember. Brothers’ pact . . . ’
Nick placed his chubby nail-bitten hand on top of Jason’s just as Adrian ran back down the gangway to place his left hand on top of Nick’s.
‘Brothers,’ said Jason.
‘BROTHERS!’ Adrian and Nick echoed in unison.
‘For eternity!’ Nick added, emphatically.
Jason looked down at the urchin-faced five-year-old and gave Nick his lopsided grin.
‘For ever, pal,’ Jason murmured. ‘My word.’
Nick nodded earnestly.
A flashbulb went off as Maxim pressed the trigger of his latest invention, a black digital camera with a myriad of impressive-looking silver gadgets on its top.
The ship’s horn sounded.
‘Boys! Come on!’ James called. Nick and Adrian ran back up the gangplank, then turned to Jason, waving furiously.
‘I’ll miss you guys!’ Jason shouted above the noise of the ship’s engines.
The flash went off again.
James and Lilian stood at the entrance and waved, Lilian crying and blowing Jason one last kiss.
He took a deep breath, watching his father as he finally disappeared into the ship.
Maxim walked towards Jason, camera in hand.
‘You’re my responsibility now, Master Jason.’
‘Let’s pack for Yale.’
TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER
Chapter Fifteen
Brothers
King David Hotel, Jerusalem, Saturday, 18 December 2021
Jason De Vere paced the marbled floors of the lobby of the King David Hotel, barking instructions into the headset of his mobile phone. He checked his watch for the third time in quick succession, then reluctantly sank into a large leather chair and idly picked up the business section of The Washington Post. He glared in distaste at the cup of weak Israeli coffee on the table. Thank God the Third World War was finally over. The Ishtar Accord couldn’t come soon enough for his liking, and he knew he echoed the sentiments of hundreds of conglomerate owners throughout the Middle East and the West. At least the media industry was fast returning to normal. He took a sip of the lukewarm black coffee and grimaced. VOX’s Jerusalem offices had escaped the worst of the war but his entire Tel Aviv staff had been killed in the nuclear blast from Iran. He sighed. And the King David Hotel stood unscathed. He snapped out of his reverie at the wailing of sirens drawing up outside the hotel.
Adrian had finally arrived.
Three black vans carrying six armed EU secret service men led the cavalcade, followed by the European President’s sleek armoured Mercedes. Four additional Mercedes and three more enormous protection vans screeched to an abrupt halt outside the hotel entrance, their earsplitting sirens still wailing.
Six bodyguards armed with MP5 machine pistols jumped out of the first van and tore into the lobby while four Israeli police helicopters chattered overhead.
Immediately, six secret service men surrounded the armoured Mercedes as Adrian De Vere exited. He walked through the entrance of the hotel shielded by his bodyguards into the lobby, straight to where Jason sat.
Jason put down the paper and grinned, studying Adrian as he took off his jacket and handed it to his personal bodyguard. He sat down on the plush velvet sofa, observing Jason affectionately.
Adrian seemed relaxed. He wore an easy air of sophistication, a man at home with his presidency. Trim, tanned and immaculately groomed, his playboyish good looks took eight years off him. Jason grimaced. Where his brother passed for thirty-two at forty, Jason was well aware he looked fifty for his forty-three.
‘God, you’re good, kid!’ Jason leant over, clasping Adrian’s shoulder. ‘The last time you got this much attention was when you burned down Dad’s greenhouse and the Newport firefighters came down! The centre of Jerusalem is totally blocked off. Air space over Ben Gurion Airport is closed. The whole city’s crawling with police units and snipers.’
Adrian grinned and loosened his tie.
‘Cappuccino.’ Adrian smiled at a waiter hovering anxiously next to him. The waiter shook his head nervously.
‘No cappuccino, Mr President, sir. It’s Shabbat,’ the waiter replied in a thick Israeli accent.
Jason held up his cup and sighed. ‘Even a European President has to bow to Shabbat . . . ’ He sighed again. ‘No milk.’
Adrian looked up at the waiter. He nodded. ‘Black coffee.’
Jason raised his eyebrows. ‘It’ll be lukewarm.’ He picked up The Washington Post. A photograph of Adrian covered the front page.
‘You’re the big news in this town.’ In fact, you’re the big news everywhere. The most historic peace accord in seven decades of the Middle East – “The charisma of JFK”, “the statesmanship of Kissinger”.’ He put the paper down on the table. ‘You got the European Presidency, pal, and you deserve it.’
Adrian grinned. ‘Not bad for someone who nearly failed his GCSEs. You should see the security brief.’
He called over his shoulder. ‘Travis.’ A muscular, clean-shaven man with close-cropped blond hair and clear blue eyes stepped forward.
Jason nodded in recognition. Neil Travis, former SAS, Adrian’s soft-spoken head of security, had been in the security detail for Adrian’s entire eight-year term as British Prime Minister. Travis pulled out a three-hundred-page dossier, then nodded respectfully to Jason.
‘The greatest security operation ever mounted in Israel, Mr President, sir.’
‘Bigger than Bush in 2008, Travis?’ Jason teased.
‘Respectfully, much bigger than President Bush, Mr De Vere, sir.’
‘Thank you, Travis,’ Adrian said.
Travis stepped back out of sight.
‘It’s exhausting to be President,’ Adrian laughed.
‘Sounds more exhausting to be your security detail,’ Jason said dryly.
Adrian grinned. ‘He’s a good man.’ He looked around the lobby. ‘I haven’t been here for years, to the King David, I mean.’
‘I heard they’ve given you the Royal Suite,’ Jason said. ‘Mother would bite your hand off.’ He grinned. ‘You know they turned me and a thousand other lesser mortals away on account of you.’
‘Sorry, pal, you should have let me know you were out here.’ Adrian shook his head. ‘Independent as always – you should have used my name, Jason. Chastenay booked every room four weeks in advance – more easily secured. You know the drill.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Jason. ‘I’ve booked out the fourth floor of the Colony. I prefer it.’
‘Melissa and I used to stay there a lot when I was . . . ’ Adrian
broke off in midflow. ‘I didn’t want to go back . . . ’ His voice trailed off.
Jason studied his younger brother as the waiter returned with the coffee. When was the last time he’d seen Adrian? Four months ago at Melissa and the baby’s funerals in London. Briefly at the Aqaba press conference. Business. But as brothers, they hadn’t had a personal one-on-one since the last De Vere summer-vacation house party in Martha’s Vineyard when their father had still been alive.
Jason studied his younger brother.
Adrian had changed. It was subtle, but unmistakable.
Two years ago, after two terms as British Prime Minister, he had been worn down by the relentless British cynicism and the mandatory attacks on his character and policy. He had taken a year off after resigning from the Labour Party and had holidayed for three months with Melissa in the Carribean. She was already five months pregnant.
Then four months ago, the unbelievable had happened.
Melissa Vane Templar De Vere, Adrian’s wife, died in childbirth and the son whom Adrian had so eagerly awaited had been stillborn.
Adrian had thrown himself furiously back into politics and was appointed Europe’s envoy to the Middle East during the Russo-Pan-Arab-Israeli war. It had finally ended two months ago. A month later he had been inaugurated as European President with a ten-year term. The most powerful man in the West.
The Third World War – the bloodiest war in history – had ended. And Adrian De Vere had been almost single-handedly responsible for strategizing the most complex and ambitious peace process in the history of the Western and Middle Eastern world.
After five separate last-minute cessations, three by the Iranians and the most recent two by Israel, the final accord was due to be signed on 7 January in Babylon.
‘How much time have you got, Adrian?’
‘I meet the King of Jordan here in twenty minutes. Then the Russians, dinner with President Levin, coffee with the Turkish Prime Minister, then fly out at midnight to Teheran. It’s good to see you here, Jas. What is it – a VOX merger?’
Jason shook his head.
‘A buyout. The Israeli cable platforms YES and HOT are up for grabs. VOX closes on it tomorrow. And I’m considering purchasing Israel’s largest satellite provider. Once the Accord is signed, media shareholding here will go through the roof.’
