16

Amsterdam

EDWARD LOVED FEAR. The smell of it in the skin, the taste of it in the saliva, the feel of it in the drumming heartbeat. Fear was the most powerful force in the world. Edward knew fear was the engine for religion, the spark for war, even the kindling for love—because all people are afraid to be alone.

Fear had been the key to breaking the young woman’s soul.

Edward sipped his coffee at the kitchen table and considered the past three weeks. His experiment had proved to the malcontents and low-level criminals he’d formed into a loose gang that a careful application of abuse, drugs, and isolation, coupled with a consistent dose of rape and frequent threats of execution, could produce desired effects. He could tell each morning that the group’s nervousness about the kidnapping had lessened: the ransoms were paid, and the young woman had begun to drift into their circle. It wasn’t so different from his student days as an actor: you created a character and stepped into the skin. Now he’d done that for the young woman. He had remade her into a new character.

Edward made it clear to the others that no one else was to touch her; no one else was to speak to her without his permission. She was his clay. He knew, though, that they listened at the closed door as he told her of her evils, and the evils that she and her father had done, while he held the knife to her throat and pushed himself inside her. He knew they eavesdropped on the disintegration of another human being. And he’d told her they were listening, and it made her more afraid.

It was lunchtime, and most of the group had gone for a walk around Amsterdam to enjoy the sunny cool of the day. The others were eating in the main room.

He could talk to her alone now. Alone was best. He opened the knapsack and looked at the most interesting gear that she had rigged for him. It had taken a long while to get all the materials, but now it was done and there was only the final step. His only worry was Simon, who had to lay low in Brooklyn now that Sam Capra was dead but would be in touch, no doubt, in a few days.

He put down his coffee cup and went upstairs. She was kept in a small closet in the corner. He told the gang she was frightened of enclosed places, and her claustrophobia had played a critical role in her unraveling. Research was so important. He unlocked the door and inched it open.

She lay curled in the dark, holding her stomach, trembling. The room was not cold but still she shivered. She stared at him, not drawing away, just lying there, waiting to see what he would do.

“It is an important day,” he said. He did not climb atop her, pushing her legs apart and easing down the sweatpants she wore for his pleasure. He did not yell at her about why everything in her Old Life was bad, and disgusting and criminal, and an affront against human dignity, and how they fought against injustice. He did not play her videos showing the burned people, the shot families, the results of her father’s commerce. The rest of the gang loved his speeches; they leaned against the door and listened to him preach to the girl. He had read a book on how the Symbionese Liberation Army had brainwashed Patty Hearst, and it held many useful and fascinating tips for reshaping a woman into a pawn. So far his approach had borne fruit: after a few hundred hours of careful torture the young woman was quiet and pliant now, a textbook victim of intimidation and fear. Suffering was a condition that forged strength, and Edward needed her to be strong. “What do you want to tell me?”

She glanced at the door.

“They’re not out there,” he said. “It’s only you and me.” He smiled; it would let her know that it was okay to smile. “So you can use the toothbrush today, and the toilet. And then we will take a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yes. I have a job for you, one that is very important.”

Edward helped her to her feet and steered her into the small bathroom. She stank of sweat; she would need a shower before she could venture into public. It was important she not be noticed or remembered. He opened the door and told her to clean herself. She nodded, not looking at him.

He went downstairs and into his bedroom, where he had bought new clothes for her: modest slacks, a plain blue scarf she could pull over her mouth when needed to help mask her face, a gray pullover. She would be practically invisible. He came out and glanced in the kitchen. Demi stood at the sink, frowning.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

Demi said, “Piet went upstairs. He said you are handling the woman wrong. That you don’t know how to break her entirely. That he will do it.”

Edward turned and ran up the stairs. He tried the bathroom door. Locked. He kicked it in and he could see Piet, bending her over the lavatory, starting to inch his pants down. He held an antique short Japanese sword in his hand, a wakizashi, teasing its sharp edge along the woman’s back as though her spine was a whetstone. She shivered in silence. Screaming for help was long past her abilities.

Edward pulled his gun from the back of his pants and put it at the base of Piet’s neck. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “That’s my science project.”

“She needs to be properly broken,” Piet said. “And it’s not fair you get all the fun.”

Edward’s hand trembled. “Pull your pants up and go downstairs. She has a job to do today. Critical. You would traumatize her now?”

“If you break her right, nothing’ll traumatize her, and that’s the point. She feels nothing then.” Then he said, looking at Edward in the mirror, “What job is she doing?”

“A job for which she is uniquely qualified.” Edward fought down the urge to splatter Piet’s inconsequential brains across the faded paint of the bathroom wall. He wiggled fingers in Piet’s face. “Touch her again and her skin is the last thing you will feel.”

“Why don’t you want to share Little Miss Succulent here?”

Edward didn’t like the glint in Piet’s eyes. Piet was useful, but only to a point. However, he could make trouble and it was important there be no trouble, not now. Not when he was so close. So he said, “Because I don’t have to.”

Piet took the small sword away from the woman’s spine and walked out of the bathroom, Edward holding the gun at his side. Piet turned and smiled back at the young woman who looked away from him, covering her nakedness. Edward closed the door behind Piet.

The woman started to shudder, and Edward put a protective arm around her shoulders. “Did he? Did he?” He didn’t finish the question.

She shook her head. He inspected her back; a scratch, but the wakizashi sword that was Piet’s pride had not made a serious mark.

“It’s because you’re so important to me that he wants you,” Edward said.

“You’re not here all the time.” She spoke very softly.

“I’m everywhere. All the time,” he said, his voice cold. “I’m even in here.” He tapped her forehead. “Now clean yourself.”

He went downstairs. Piet sat alone in the kitchen. People always seemed to clear a room when Piet entered. It was time to get leverage over Piet so he made no further trouble.

“Your initiative inspires me,” Edward said. “Come along on the job. Since you’re curious.”

“Where are you going?” Piet sounded a bit nervous; Edward smiled.

“Centraal Station.” It was Amsterdam’s main train hub, on the north side of the city.

“Are you letting her go?” Piet asked. Demi, a thin Dutch blonde, stepped back into the kitchen, arms crossed.

“Don’t be silly; she doesn’t want to leave me. You will walk with us. Demi, you too. Go get the handheld camera. We have footage to shoot.”

Piet looked uncomfortable.

“I want you there. Because I trust you. And if you are there, I think she will do whatever I say.” Piet would be a spur to her to do what must be done. And Piet would then be in his power.

The woman came downstairs, slowly. She glanced about, uncertain, her hands trembling. She had not been left alone outside of the closet since being brought to the house three weeks ago. But she had made no trouble now, Edward thought, and he flicked a smile at Piet. The Hearst approach worked: break, tear down, and give her the barest bit of hope to rebuild.

She glanced once at Piet and her mouth trembled. “Are you making me leave?” she asked Edward.

“Of course not, Yasmin. You belong to us now, and we to you.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice small. She’d fought back hard the first two days. That memory of defiance in her face seemed distant now.

“Today is about your father.” Edward made a click in his throat. “He is dead to you. Do you remember, Yasmin?”

“Yes,” she said after a long silence. “He’s dead to me.”

“He’s a bad man, Yasmin. Your old world was very bad, isn’t that right? We’ve saved you from that evil.” He lingered on the last word. Evil wasn’t a word you got to use in every conversation. “But we are the ones who do good.”

“He’s a bad man. He needs to pay for what he’s done.” More strength in her voice. “He’s bad. Like you said. Very bad.”

Edward shot Piet and Demi a scowl of triumph. Then he gave Yasmin a smile. “You are nothing to him, and you are everything to us. Yes? This is true. This is your home now. We are your family. Forever.”

She didn’t speak.

“We are going for a walk, Yasmin, outside the house. You’ll be good, won’t you, Yasmin? Or I’ll have to put you back into the closet, for a week or a month or maybe a year. I’ll have to visit you there for a long time, play with you and my little knife. Maybe Piet would visit you, too.” He ran a finger along her jawline. She stared past his shoulder at Piet.

Then she nodded. She rubbed her arm and he could see the needle marks from the drugs he’d given her.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said. “I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’re going to use your expertise. You should be proud, us taking the bad you made and using it for good.”

She nodded again.

“We’re going where there are a lot of people, Yasmin,” Edward said. “All very bad people.”

“Very bad people,” she repeated.

“We’re going to the train station,” Edward said, and he held out his hand with a smile. With Piet and Demi watching, he put her hand in his. He could feel their gaze on him, like an audience in a darkened theater. And then he started to crush her fingers.

A slow moan escaped her mouth.

“I didn’t say you could make a noise,” Edward said, squeezing harder.

She went silent. He continued to increase the pressure. “Now you may speak.”

“When do we leave?” Yasmin gasped. But the best part was she didn’t try and pull her fingers away. She was broken.

Behind him, Piet laughed.

He released the pressure and interlocked her fingers with his.

“In a few moments. If you do as I tell you, you don’t have to go back into the closet. You can stay outside. All day. And tonight you could sleep in a bed, Yasmin. With me. Like man and wife.”

Her mouth moved like words might spill in a flood, but she was silent.

Edward put his lips close to her ear. “Will you do what I tell you, Yasmin?” But he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’ll do what you ask.” For a moment he saw the strong woman she had been, before her ordeal in the hellish closet, and then that sense of steel vanished as she glanced at Piet and Demi. Now she showed the others that she was a broken, desperate shell, trying to survive to the next hour. Just as he’d planned. Fear. He’d seen it in the faces of the men he’d killed in Hungary, in Sam Capra’s blind panic as he tried to find his wife in the smoke and noise of Holborn.

Fear worked.

He released her hand. “Everything changes for you today, Yasmin. Today, you’re the most important person in the house.”

Edward smiled. This was going to be so much better than London.