Page 176 of King’s Ransom

Then I had another thought.

About light.

I patted the bodies of Oberov and his son.

Of course, their phones had been taken, too, but a phone wasn’t what I was looking for.

I was after Roman Oberov’s gold jet-flame lighter.

I found it in his jacket pocket.

I flicked it on . . .

. . . and my little prison was instantly much better illuminated.

I was able to scan the whole box and the gruesome bodies of the two Russians in it with me.

But my predicament was unchanged.

And as I continued to think about it, and as the pool of concrete above me settled, the sad truth of my situation became clear.

I was screwed.

Completely and utterly screwed.

I was going to die here, buried alive in concrete next door to an amusement park at Coney Island.

I flicked off the lighter to preserve its precious light.

I lay in the darkness, trying to breathe slowly, to conserve my air.

I wondered if I shouted, would anyone hear me. I doubted it.

An hour passed.

Then two.

I nodded off.

When I woke and pressed the light button on my watch, it was 4:02 a.m.

Four hours had passed since I’d been entombed.

As I looked at my watch, I realised that it was now officially December 31st, New Year’s Eve.

It was then that a new emotion began to consume me.

Hopelessness.

I’m not prone to being emotional, but even I have a limit.

And this feeling—the complete and total loss of hope—I realised, was the Unperson’s purpose in killing me this way.

I had nothing but time.

To think and wait for death.

Alone.