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But I’m not stupid. He is probably tracing the call, which means I’ll keep the conversation short. Hopefully, Pavel is listening in, so he will be expecting me.
Reaching for the phone, I ensure our hands don’t touch, which, judging by his slanted smirk, Oscar finds quite humorous. Ignoring him, I turn my back and dial the number Pavel gave me. When it rings, my palms begin to sweat.
When it continues to ring without an answer, I begin to panic. Has something gone wrong? Just when I’m about to hang up and dial again, in fear my trembling fingers have dialed the wrong number, Pavel’s hoarse voice answers.
He speaks in Russian, which means he knows Oscar is listening.
Putting my game face on, I turn around and lock eyes with Oscar. “It’s me. You still want to make money?”
I recite the speech we practiced over and over again. We are going to work the angle that Pavel has only agreed to work with Oscar and Astra because he needs the money and they are trusted confidants of Alek.
“Yes. When?”
I’m about to reply when Oscar gestures he wants the phone. Without a fuss, I pass it to him and hope my nerves don’t show.
He never breaks eye contact with me when he begins to speak in Russian. This was one of the possible scenarios Pavel prepared me for, so I stand quietly, refusing to buckle under Oscar’s intense stare. They speak for a few moments, which is mainly Oscar asking him questions, I think, because when his eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, it’s evident he’s impressed with what he hears.
They finally say their goodbyes, and Oscar hangs up, smiling. “Well, it appears you were telling the truth,” he says, pushing back his chair and coming to a stand.
“Of course, I was.” I want to know what they discussed, but I don’t dare ask.
“I had to make sure,” he replies. “Only Alek’s contact would know the amount shipped to us two months ago and how much money we paid. I also asked him some questions which were only known by us.”
I don’t know how Pavel knew, but we have fooled Oscar—for now.
“I will ensure Astra knows a meeting has been set for two weeks from today. She will be most pleased.” His comment reveals his desperate need to win his way back into her good books, but I’m unmoved by his happiness.
Folding my arms across my chest, I glare at Oscar, daring him to refuse me. “I held up my end of the bargain. It’s now time you do the same. I want to see him.”
This is the ultimate standoff because if he denies me, I will throw the silver knife, which is within reach, at his head. He must read my determination because he nods.
“Okay.”
I should be happy he agreed, but truth be told, I’m scared. I don’t know exactly what I’m walking into, but I know it won’t be good.
Oscar doesn’t waste any more time and leads me from the dining room down the long corridor. It’s eerily quiet; so much so, my footsteps echo off the pristine walls. I have no idea where he’s leading me, but the farther we walk, the more ominous things become because something sinister lingers in the air.
When we reach an old wooden door, I wipe my sweaty palms onto my jeans because this seems so out of place in a modern house. Oscar opens it with a big brass key, revealing a steel spiral staircase leading into a dark, dank basement.
He moves aside, hinting I’m to go first. I can’t be sure he hasn’t brought me here to kill me, but nonetheless, I commence a slow walk down, holding the cool rails so I don’t break my neck. A small yelp escapes me when the door slams shut behind me.
However, that soon turns to a surprised gasp because the door closing has triggered a row of lights to illuminate the way down. They are dim, but they are enough for me to see it’s not too far down. My feet can barely keep up as I race down the narrow steps, ready to face whatever is down here.
But when I descend the final step, I realize that no, I’m really not because what I see rips the air from my lungs. I come to a violent stop, blinking rapidly to ensure my eyes aren’t deceiving me.
They’re not.
I can’t speak. I’m barely breathing, and I doubt I ever will be able to breathe soundly again because the sight before me will be marred onto my soul forever. I want to go to him, but I can’t. My feet refuse to move.
My brain can’t process what I’m seeing because it’s too horrifying to accept as truth.
“No,” I weep, unable to stop my tears, but I will never be able to shed enough to express this guttural hollowness I feel.
A broken man is shackled to a wooden Saint Andrew’s Cross. His arms are extended above him, his legs spread. Thick silver chains attach his wrists and ankles to the barbaric device, not allowing him any movement as he is bound tight.
His modesty is covered by a pair of flimsy black underwear.
“No,” I repeat, shaking my head, unable to accept this man as being my Saint.
