Am I being foolish, bringing him here? Allowing him to take the lead?
Probably. But it's the danger that makes it so sweet.
"Nice place."
"Thank you."
"Take your clothes off and lie down on the bed."
Edward hesitated, taking in the various props around the room. There was a video camera on a tripod in the corner, and a spool of rope in plain view on top of the dresser.
"No filming. In my position I can't allow-"
The slap came out of nowhere, hard and sudden. "I said get undressed."
Sir Edward Manning did as he was told.
I'm going to enjoy this.
For the first thirty minutes he did. Sergei was such a natural submissive, it was incredible how readily and skillfully he took to the dominant role. Tying Edward to the bed, first by his wrists alone and later by his ankles as well, he did things to his body that Edward had never even imagined. Probing, teasing, hurting occasionally but never to the point where it became a turnoff, the boy had the energy of a young bull and the ingenuity of a chess grand master. Time after time Sergei brought Edward to the brink of orgasm, only to deny him the ecstasy of release. After a long, difficult day of serving the needs of his demanding new female boss, this night of unbridled male pleasure was exactly what Edward needed. Why would anyone want to come out of the closet when life inside was as exquisitely pleasurable and verboten as this?
"Stay there. I've got a little something I want you to watch."
Spread-eagled on his back, with patches of still-warm wax congealing around his nipples and groin, Edward had no choice but to comply. He hoped the porn would be good. Generally speaking, he wasn't a fan, preferring his own imagination to the crassly performed scenarios of the "actors" on-screen. But perhaps this was more of a young man's thing, a price one paid for having such delectably nubile lovers.
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."