by Andrew Grant
Lesley turned the gray parcel over and I saw that the clasp on the silver chain was shaped like a tragicomic mask.
“This is me,” she said, pointing to the smiling face. “And this other guy is—can you guess, Cyril?”
His face had turned pale, and the patchy stubble made his skin look as if it were covered in mold. Lesley opened the clasp, unwound the chain, and set it to one side. Then she unrolled the gray suede. It made a rectangle about eighteen inches long with a flap of the same material folded over, hiding its contents.
Lesley got to her feet and started to walk toward Cyril, casually sliding the half-opened parcel along the tabletop with the tips of her fingers. Cyril started to fidget. Lesley reached the corner of the table, stopping barely five feet away from him. She stood there for a moment, looking him up and down, and then the corners of her mouth began to creep up into the ghost of a smile.
The smile was too much for Cyril. He turned and made a dash for the door, but the tall guy was ready for him. He caught him, spun him round, and marched him right up to the end of the table with his arms pinned to his sides.
“You want to beg, now would be the time,” Lesley said.
Cyril was breathing so hard he was almost wheezing, but he didn’t say anything.
“Shame,” Lesley said. “I like it better when they beg.”
“Does it make any difference?” I said.
“Does to me,” she said, grasping the corner of the suede flap and slowly peeling it back.
The parcel held a pair of rubber surgeon’s gloves, which were small, even allowing for them to stretch; a coil of white elastic, an inch across, with metal hooks at each end; four long copper needles, like the kind acupuncturists use; a small hammer; two scalpels; a pair of long-nosed surgical forceps; a pair of slender, pointed scissors; a clear plastic box, rectangular in shape, containing a sewing needle and some bright blue thread; and a device that looked a little like a pair of miniature bolt cutters. It had the same kind of mechanism to multiply the force but the jaws were more rounded and it had a swollen, bulbous end.
Each item was held in place with a little loop of black elastic, obviously designed specially for the purpose. There were no gaps, and nothing extra had been squeezed in. It looked like something you might use to carry your favorite housebreaking tools.
Lesley left the parcel open in front of Cyril and went to the built-in closet at the far end of the room. She opened the right-hand door, reached inside, and hauled out a trolley like the kind they use to carry stacks of linen in hotels and hospitals. It was made of shiny wire mesh, six feet tall and two feet square. There was nothing inside it. The wheels at each corner were disproportionately large, like the ones on modern furniture. They probably weren’t the original wheels, but they were very effective. The trolley was taller than her, but Lesley moved it effortlessly. It glided across the floor after her without a sound.
As she drew level I saw that the frame of the trolley had been reinforced with inch-square metal tubing, and that one of the sides was missing. Four thick, brown leather straps had been attached near the corners of the opening, six inches from the bottom and three inches from the top. With the mesh and the straps, it looked like a portable cage.
Lesley wheeled the trolley all the way to Cyril’s end of the table. She left it with the open side facing the room. Cyril didn’t notice. He was still staring at the strange collection of tools, completely transfixed. The tall guy eased him back a couple of steps and Lesley moved up close to him. Her left hand grabbed his groin. She squeezed. Cyril squealed. His eyes looked like they were ready to pop out of his skull.
The tall guy let go of Cyril’s arms and brought the trolley in right behind him. Lesley kept hold of Cyril’s groin, looked behind her at the table, and hitched him up an inch or so onto his tiptoes. The tall guy moved quickly and secured Cyril’s ankles to the frame of the trolley before he could sink back down. He did the same to Cyril’s wrists, pulling hard enough on the straps to break the skin. Then he nodded to Lesley who let go, leaving Cyril spread-eagled. He was quaking, causing part of the wire mesh to rattle.
Lesley reached toward Cyril’s groin again, but this time he saw her coming. He wriggled his hips from side to side and tried to arc away from her, his backside retreating right inside the trolley. Lesley put her hand on Cyril’s thigh and slowly ran her fingers up his leg, over the front of his jeans, and as far as the hem of his T-shirt. Then she rolled it up, revealing the kind of sculpted stomach muscles you see on the cover of fitness magazines.
“No hair,” she said. “Pity.”
Cyril’s jeans were held up by a wide leather belt. The buckle was shaped like a motorcycle. A Harley, or maybe an Indian. It wasn’t a very good replica. Lesley unfastened it, pulled the strap free of the belt loops and dropped it on the floor. The crash made Cyril jump. Then Lesley unfastened his waistband. The jeans had a button fly. Lesley undid all four, pausing each time one popped open to gaze into Cyril’s face.
Lesley eased Cyril’s jeans right down to the point where his ankles were strapped to the trolley. He had Calvin Klein underwear—a pair of tight black trunks with a gray stripe at the top. Lesley gently rubbed the front with the palm of her hand and the slight bulge began to grow more pronounced.
“That feeling you’re getting right now?” she said, hooking her fingers into his waistband and pulling down. “Enjoy it while you can.”
George released a catch and folded the LCD screen out from the side of the camera. Then he rotated a little dial with his thumb. A button in the center lit up green.
Lesley reached over to the row of tools and took out the coil of elastic. She turned to Cyril and passed it around his body, nearly level with the top of his buttocks. She joined the metal hooks together and positioned them at his side. Then she let the loop ping back, pinning his exposed penis to his abdomen. The elastic held it upright, pointing away from his scrotum.
“Time to go, George,” she said.
George hit the green button with his thumb and the camera started recording. He started off with a wide shot to show Cyril trussed up on the trolley, and then homed in on his groin. Cyril could see what George was focusing on, and the extra attention made the elastic hardly necessary.
Lesley had picked up one of the scalpels and the bolt cutter, and was holding them up in front of her. George panned across to include her in the frame.
“Since this is all for David’s benefit, let’s give him the choice,” she said. “Which method, David? Old or new?”
“Neither,” I said.
“Neither? You want me to rip his balls off with my bare hands? I suppose I could . . .”
I said nothing. Cyril yelped, and his penis twitched beneath the elastic strap. George somehow held the camera steady, his face completely blank. The tall guy was leaning on the wall near the door, arms folded, staring at the floor.
“OK then,” Lesley said, putting the scalpel down. “If you’re squeamish, we should go with the burdizzo. Designed for animals. Not much blood. Crushes the epididymis, and the balls just fall right off. After a few days, anyway, while they shrivel away and die.”
She held the device up to Cyril’s face and made a show of opening and closing its jaws. She snapped them open easily enough, but made a real play of squeezing the handles together again. Strain lined her face and sharp tendons bulged in her wrist. Then she winked at him. His eyes started to roll back in their sockets.
“Look, he’s getting the idea,” she said, smiling and turning to point the thing at me. “Ever seen one of these before?”
“Frequently,” I said. “All the ambassadors have them. Standard government issue.”
“This one’s for rams. Perfect for humans, too. Used to have one for lambs, but it didn’t work too well. Sometimes one ball would survive. Had to come back later and finish it off. Couldn’t get the pressure. Handles were too short. Not a problem with this one. But you know the best thing about it?”
I said nothing
.
“The noise it makes. When it crushes the little tubes. Like biting into a stick of fresh celery.”
“Means nothing to me. I eat nothing green.”
“Then I guess my special toy would be wasted on you,” she said, and turned to tuck the device back into its space. “This your first time?”
I didn’t answer.
“Then cutting would be better anyway. Get to see right inside. It’ll change your life, believe me.”
Lesley pushed the end two chairs out of the way and reached over to the hinged flap in the tabletop. She scrabbled to get a grip on it for a moment, then pulled it right over on itself until it was lying horizontally along the wooden surface. There was a strip of black, brushlike material about half an inch wide fixed to the long edge, opposite the hinges. It would be to let cables run through when the flap was closed, but in that position the ends of the bristles finished exactly level with the edge of the table.
Unlike the rest of the wood, the underside of the flap was not polished. It wasn’t finished at all. Instead, it was covered in brown stains, the color of old blood. There were dozens of patches. Many were overlapping. I doubt there’d been huge volumes, but it had soaked well into the grain. There would be no chance of removing it now. It had formed an indelible pattern, a little like those inkblot pictures that psychiatrists show you.
Lesley stepped aside, and the tall guy levered himself away from the wall. He came over and pushed the trolley forward so that Cyril’s groin was pressing into the edge of the tabletop. He peered around the front and checked that the underneath of Cyril’s scrotum was hanging down far enough to rest on the surface of the flap. The tall guy didn’t touch it—he just looked. Satisfied, he locked the brakes on the trolley’s rear wheels and went back to his place by the door.
Lesley slipped her jacket off and hung it on the back of the nearest chair. She took the surgeon’s gloves from the roll of tools and snapped them on. A small cloud of talc puffed out from around each wrist. It smelled vaguely of lavender. Then she picked up two of the long copper needles. She gripped them carefully between her left thumb and index finger to avoid snagging the gloves and held them out for Cyril to see.
He started to wail.
Lesley picked up the hammer and stepped across, next to Cyril. His wailing grew louder and he began to thrash about, desperately straining against the leather straps. Lesley held one of the needles between her lips and reached down toward the table with the other. Before the tip had even touched him Cyril’s wailing had grown into a shrill, piercing howl. A trace of blood appeared as Lesley passed the needle through the left-hand side of his scrotum and gently tapped it into the underside of the wooden flap. The blood bubbled up around the stem of the needle for a moment, then streamed away across Cyril’s skin. Some got caught up in the blond hairs, but most made it down onto the rough, pitted surface. It pooled for several seconds before gradually being absorbed, adding a new, darker stain of its own.
Lesley tapped the second needle through the other side of Cyril’s scrotum, took a good pinch of skin, and tugged. The needles held firm. Then she swapped the hammer for a scalpel. Her left hand kept the skin taut while she made two cuts from just below the base of his penis in a kind of upside-down V-shape, away from his body and out toward his thighs. Blood oozed over the steel blade and the tips of her gloves as she calmly worked her way down. When she finished cutting she took the remaining copper needles and tacked the flap of skin down tight, forming a neat triangular hole.
I couldn’t help but stare through it at the gray, fibrous membrane inside. Lesley took the scalpel and sliced straight down the middle, leaving a single incision an inch and a quarter long. She took the forceps and guided the tip through the hole she’d made. She angled them to Cyril’s left and delicately probed the inside of his scrotum. Her hand moved in tiny, unhurried circles. After ten seconds she suddenly stopped and squeezed the handles together until the latches clicked into place. She cautiously drew the forceps back out. A loop of tubing, an eighth of an inch in diameter, was squashed flat in their jaws.
“Here comes the first little guy,” she said.
Cyril was silent now, and completely still. He was gawping down at himself, fascinated, not believing what he was seeing. Lesley pulled her hand back a fraction further, took out the scissors, and lined them up on the tube just above where the forceps were gripping it. Then she stopped and put the scissors down on the table.
“What am I doing?” she said. “Planned to go with the burdizzo. Forgot to get their new home ready.”
Lesley went over to the cupboard where the trolley had been stored and returned with a glass jar in one hand and a stainless steel flask in the other. The jar was five inches tall and three inches across, and had a matching lid with a spherical grip. The glass was slightly cloudy as if it had been repeatedly scoured by a machine, making it look aged, like a remnant from some ancient school laboratory.
“The little guys will be safe in here,” she said to Cyril. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take care of them, and you can come visit any time you like.”
Lesley eased the lid off the jar and filled it with clear liquid from the flask. She didn’t replace the lid, and after a moment an unmistakable stench caught in the back of my throat. Formaldehyde. Like in an old mortuary.
“Shall I write a label?” she said. “Or will you recognize them on your own? Got quite a collection going back there . . .”
Cyril didn’t answer. I don’t think he’d even seen the jar. He was still staring down at his groin, completely mesmerized. Lesley shrugged and screwed the cap back onto the steel flask. She picked the scissors up again, but before she used them she turned to look at me.
“You Brits appreciate irony,” she said. “So how do you like this? A squirrel with no nuts.”
FOURTEEN
Twelve people dropped out before the end of my training program.
Seven quit during the physical endurance phase. Two during weapons assessment. And three during unarmed combat. There was no shame attached to any of them. They all walked away with their heads held high. Because in the navy, it’s better to give 100 percent and come up short than never to try anything new. As long as you give it your best shot, you earn respect.
If you get kicked out, that’s another story altogether. Fortunately, in my class it only happened to one recruit. And not because of his performance. It’s up to the instructors to fix that. The problem was his attitude. Specifically, one question he couldn’t help but ask.
I was surprised at first. Because generally, the navy encourages questions. Have you got the right resources for the job? Could you achieve your objective more quickly? More safely? More effectively? But eventually I understood what he’d done wrong. It was actually pretty simple. I realized that once you’ve accepted an assignment, there’s really only one thing you can’t question.
Whether to do it at all.
_______
The tall guy took me to the family room and asked me to wait while he rounded up the items I was going to need for tomorrow. Then he left me on my own with the sofa to sit on, a stack of magazines to read, and plenty of time to think about what I’d let myself in for.
Lesley’s plan had a reasonable chance of success, I thought. It was simple and straightforward. Realistic objectives had been set. The necessary equipment and personnel had been promised. Commitments had been made, and assurances given.
As for me, I was perfectly clear what my role was going to be. Less sure how much to expect from the other people who were involved. And certain I was going to need more coffee. Typical of a first day in a new job.
I was hoping to lay eyes on my new partner at some point, but the only person to come near me in the next twenty minutes was George.
“It’s all here,” he said, dropping a battered leather Gladstone bag onto the sofa next to me. “Check it if you want.”
I opened the bag and looked inside. It was neatly packed. At one side a black polo
shirt had been rolled around some socks and a pair of boxer shorts. Next to the clothes were five clear Ziploc bags. The first held a watch, to replace the one the FBI had held on to. The second, a toothbrush—still in its wrapper—toothpaste, and deodorant. The third, a dozen cable ties and a clasp knife. The fourth, money. One thousand dollars in mixed bills. And the fifth, a gun. A Springfield P9. I took a closer look.
“This is Cyril’s?” I said.
“Right,” George said.
“How can you tell?” I said, pointing to a blurred patch on the right-hand side of the frame. The serial number had been burned off with acid.
“Lesley said so. You want to call her on it, be my guest.”
“Hotel reservations?”
“Taken care of. Online. Patrick’s got confirmation.”
“Who’s Patrick?”
“The guy you’ll be working with.”
“Where is he?”
“Right here,” said a voice from the hallway.
“Typical Patrick,” George said, shaking his head. “Always has to make an entrance.”
Patrick stayed out of sight for another moment then glided rather than stepped into the room. He hardly made a sound. He was only about five inches shorter than the tall guy, but I doubt he made five percent of the noise when he moved. He did have an advantage with his shoes, though—a pair of soft black Lacoste trainers, rather than shiny city slip-ons. They went well with the black tracksuit he was wearing, but looked a little strange next to his charcoal overcoat and the tan leather suit carrier that was slung over his left shoulder.
“Been working out?” I said.
“No way,” he said. “Hate that stuff. Was on my way to soccer practice. Then Lesley called. Just had time to grab some stuff for tomorrow and come down to meet you. You are David, right?”
“That’s right. I am. Glad to be working with you. You all set?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Then how about we pick up our passenger and hit the road? I’m getting hungry.”