Keep Calm (32 page)

Adam nodded as they kept walking. He searched as intently as he could through the windows of pubs and restaurants to find one person laughing, even smiling. No one was. The curse of Adam Tatum loomed like a thick cloud over Shoreditch. It would stay there for as long as he remained.

*   *   *

WITH THE FIRST
light of day, Beau's family BMW wagon pulled up to the main pavilion of the sparkling new American embassy in the Nine Elms area of London. The embassy, recently opened, looked like an installation dropped to Earth from another planet. It was a large gleaming cube sitting proudly, defiantly secure, looking out onto the river, daring anyone to breach its perimeter. Adam and his family got out of the car with the few handbags they had left. Richard's father's guns had been thrown away in a trash can on the ride down.

Adam thanked Beau again. Kate gave him a warm hug. There was no need for small talk. Beau got back into his car and drove off with his normal stoic grace. Adam solemnly led his wife and the kids across the street, up to the pavilion, eager to throw himself at the mercy of his government; to have his family taken from the country, and for him to be put into a jail cell for God knows how long. This was his best-case scenario: an unknown time in a series of prisons, maybe even for the rest of his life. It was the most he could hope for unless the curtain opened to expose Heaton and what he'd done.

As they crossed the street, Trudy heard someone call out her name.

“Trudy. Trudy … My love. Please…” She turned around to see Étienne standing beside a Heaton-issued Mercedes. She stopped in her tracks, the very sight of him stirring her, causing her to flutter. Despite knowing all that she did, she crossed the street toward him. There was so much she wanted to ask him, so much she wanted to say. Her heart had taken control of her feet.

Adam and Kate both turned back a beat later, already well on the way to the front gate of the embassy. Adam instinctively knew someone had lagged behind. When they saw Trudy, crossing over to Étienne at the Mercedes, with Harris and Peet, Heaton's gunmen, now stepping out of the car, all he could do was scream at the top of his lungs.

“Trudy. Trudy, no! Stop!” She turned back in the middle of the street; her father's voice had broken the trance. She saw the fear in his pleading eyes as he and Kate, with Billy in tow, raced back to the street for her. The lovelorn teen knew in an instant, when she saw Harris and Peet shuffling menacingly toward her, that she had made a grave error. She was about to run for her parents and try her best to get away when another Mercedes barreled up the road and stopped in between her and the Heaton men. It was her grandfather, Gordon.

He slammed the brakes in the middle of the road, his window rolled down, and called to his granddaughter.

“Get in love, quickly.” He reached back and opened the rear door. Harris and Peet, whose shoulder was still in a sling, were on their way over, her parents coming up from the other side. She jumped into the car. Gordon stepped out; in a blur he threw his arm over the roof of the car and fired a pistol toward Harris and Peet. They both ducked for cover, buying Adam, Kate, and Billy time to get over to the car. Gordon turned to them, his face as sour and hardened as either of them had ever seen him.

“Get in the car. Now!”

Adam tried to reason with him. “We're going to the embassy, Gordon, and I'm turning myself in.” Gordon turned back and fired off another two rounds in an effort to keep Harris and Peet on the back of their ankles.

“It's a mistake. You're playing with people that can melt minds inside of that place. Top-drawer people. You're in real rough waters, son. This isn't the plan. I have one. I promise. Get in.” He turned to Kate. She was staring at him in a disgusted way that made his heart drop to his groin, little Billy burrowed into her side, scared out of his young mind, looking up in confusion at his now gun-crazed granddad.

“Trust me, Kate, you need to get into the car. Right now. On your mother's soul, I've nothing but your best here. Get in!” She turned to Adam right as Harris found a parked car to hide behind and shot off his revolver, smashing out Gordon's side window. A siren went off at the embassy. Red lights flashed on the gates. It would be mere seconds before the street would rain with embassy soldiers pouring out of the intergalactic cube at the top of the plaza.

Adam nudged Kate and a crying Billy into the back of the car with Trudy. He jumped in behind them as Gordon tore away up the street under a storm of gunfire coming from both Harris and Peet. The Mercedes raced through the back streets, snaking its way up to Battersea Park Road. Gordon pulled out a manila folder and threw it back to Adam, who was huddled up into a ball doing his best to calm his terrified family down.

“It's passports. The best fakes money can buy. I have a friend. He's putting a boat together on the west coast to get across the St. George Channel to Bray. From Bray, you'll cross over to Galway. We'll get you on a cruise ship to New York.” Adam opened the envelope. He found the passports with all of their photos and an impressive amount of cash: the Davis family from Greenwich.

Gordon punched the car now and made a final speedy tear on the pavement until he came up to the intersection at Queenstown Road. Then he made a sharp, squealing turn. Kate spoke for the first time.

“How did you know that we would go to the embassy?” She was probing. Still not ready to trust him.

“I didn't. Harris did. Heaton did. I've just been following them. I knew job one for them was to find you. They've been here on and off waiting for you for two days. Figured I'd be here when they finally caught up with you.” He turned down a small street, went slowly under an old brick railway underpass, and parked the car.

“First thing we need to do is get you as far away from London as we can.” He jumped out of the Mercedes and motioned for the family to follow him across to a late-seventies Volkswagen van, also parked in the shadowy tunnel of the overpass. It was loaded down with fishing rods and family bikes, folded easy chairs strapped to the roof, fishing licenses, and ripped remnants of semi-funny bumper stickers plastered all over the front. Adam instructed the group to do as Gordon said. They piled into the dusty old hippie wagon. Gordon put on a large, oddly shaped fishing hat. Adam sat in the front seat as his father-in-law handed him another version of the same silly cap.

He turned back to his granddaughter.

“There's a bag of sandwiches in that cooler there, luv. Some drinks, too, and a couple of travel games I picked up for you kids.” He caught Kate's eyes in the rearview mirror and winked at her as he turned the van back, slowly ambling onto Battersea Park Road in the very same direction that they had come from.

The other lane was filled with police and embassy vehicles barreling by them, lights and sirens, shouting and dancing. Two embassy helicopters were escorting the squad cars with a wild windy whip from a hundred yards above the earth as Gordon slowly wheeled the van away, right under their noses.

Kate wasn't sure yet what to make of it all, what colors she wanted to show to this new rendition of her father, but inside, in her heart, she was smiling for the first time in over a week.

 

ON THE HUNT
■
8

In yet another meeting in the Cabinet Room the next morning, Munroe and Burnlee wanted Georgia to agree to allow Munroe to release Adam Tatum's name and likeness to the ravenous press corps. It was high time to tell the whole story and hopefully tighten the net around Tatum and his family. The minister of communications was convinced a loud bang to the announcement would make it not only almost impossible for Tatum to move around, but even more difficult for anyone to quietly dispose of him. Burnlee agreed.

Steel sat in the row against the back wall of the Cabinet Room behind her boss, Major General Sir Donald Darling, who was noncommittal, almost quietly mumbling to himself. He seemed to be taking the hardest brunt of the nine days since the bombing, and the fact that Tatum was still out there, he and whomever he was working with, thwarting the ex-soldier, the decorated Gulf War vet. They were razzing their noses at Darling with each day he was left twiddling his thumbs. He sat in the chair fuming, his close-cropped hair almost melting into his forehead. No one could feel the major general's helplessness like Steel could.

Steel was, of course, also strongly attuned to Georgia's tension. She looked across the table and thought the chancellor appeared at times to be underwater with the weight of it all, almost drowning. She sounded different than she did with her on the phone last night. Last night before she passed out, she had a vibrancy to her voice. The conversation gave her an energy and a vitality that her tone didn't seem to regularly have these days, or even this morning. Last night at the height of their talk Georgia seemed to have a strength that was bigger than all of the problems at Number 10.

“Have we covered ourselves with the Americans? With the White House?” Georgia asked. Burnlee nodded. He was a pro. Always several steps ahead. “I had a long talk last night with Elliott Anderson, the president's new chief of staff. He called me early this morning. We're on the same page. They just want to be kept up to speed.”

“Do I need to call the president?”

“No. She's well aware of where we are at.” Georgia took it all in. If she was going to be the prime minister, she was going to need to start out on the right side with America's historic female president. She didn't want to kick off a new relationship on a sour note, yet at the same time, she needed to find this Tatum. It had already gone on way too long.

“Good. Let's go then. Inform the public on everything there is to know about Adam Tatum. I want his picture on every TV show, website, magazine cover, storefront, and smartphone in Britain. Enough is enough. Let's put the people to it. Let's find this man.”

As the conference room dispersed, Georgia couldn't help herself any longer. Knew full well she was in full view of Burnlee, Darling, Early, and other staffers, yet she was well beyond being in control of herself in matters pertaining to Steel.

“Inspector Steel? Might I just have a quick word with you? In my office?” Darling looked over with a question mark embossed on his face. Georgia answered before he could move his lips. Before either he or Burnlee could form a pair of complaints.

“I'd just like a moment alone with the inspector. Nothing pressing. Just a girl thing.” She smiled and casually walked out of the conference room.

Steel looked over to Darling and the others with a shrug, trying as hard as she could to look as if she had no idea what this could possibly be about.

*   *   *

ONCE IN THE
PM's office, as Davina followed her in, as she closed the door behind Steel and her palms broke into a sweat, she turned back to Steel, hoping she could remain calm.

“I just wanted you to know, Davina, that I so, so truly enjoyed our phone visit last night.”

“As did I, Madam Chancellor. The time just flew by, didn't it?”

“Georgia. Please.” She playfully scolded her. “When we're alone, ‘Georgia.' Okay, Davina? I told you, I really do love to hear you say my name.”

“Of course. Georgia.”

“Thank you. These are loaded times, aren't they?” Georgia stepped closer to her. “Loaded days. Everything is so full of peril. Laced with purpose. Sometimes, just to talk, just to not say anything important for once, it's invigorating.” She hadn't planned to, but she was stroking Steel's hair now, gently pulling a strand down the soft side of her face. Steel responded with a noticeable deep breath. She gently touched Georgia's arm, and before either of them could check the moment for sanity, Georgia leaned in and kissed her.

She sweetly brushed their lips together, then thankfully, Georgia pulled away. They just looked at each other, for what seemed like the longest time. The moment was broken by a small knock at the door and the head of one of Early's perky blondes who had come in with a sheath of papers.

“Excuse me, ma'am. I have the notes from Treasury's meeting this morning.”

Georgia barely turned to her, hardly took her gaze off Steel.

“Yes, thank you. Just place it on the desk.” The staffer did as she was told and quickly made an exit.

It was just Steel and Georgia again, the only difference being the half-opened door. It was enough, thought Georgia. She had said what she had wanted to say, had done what she wanted to do. She and Steel nodded to each other. They took each other's hands, squeezed them both together. Steel turned and left as Georgia leaned against her desk, trying to figure a way to get her head wrapped around the job at hand.

*   *   *

NOT MORE THAN
an hour later, in Heaton's den atop the Farringdon Street HGI complex, Sir David sat quietly with Harris, Peet, and two others. Rebecca, his office aide, brought in a tray of drinks on a Lucite cart, along with a plate of scones. Heaton had been in Strasbourg in the evening and his new home in Switzerland after that, and then quickly back to London. The long day and night of constant movement had taken its toll. The whole week was bringing him down, deflating his normally swelled-out chest. He hadn't slept in four nights. His frustration had boiled over. Harris and Peet knew it. The two, never ones to waste words either, had none to offer. They had both thought the job at hand would have been much easier than it had turned out to be. They knew Heaton well enough to know that bad had turned worse. They were rarely, if ever, brought into the den like this.

“Gordon Thompson has gone underground. He was supposed to have come down from the farm; I had him up there with the dogs as the caretakers are in Zurich opening my house for the season. He was to be here yesterday, to make a statement to the police. It was set up through Darling and the DPG. He was a no-show. It means he's left the squad. I'm sure of it.” The men in the room nodded. They understood the severity of what Heaton was saying.