Keep Calm (33 page)

“I've known this man for too many years. I underestimated him. I thought he'd stay good through to the end, but in fact there isn't the stomach there.” He got up and paced the small den, almost talking to himself, trying to figure out how he had got himself into the present fix.

“I should have done this quicker. Bolder. I should have known he'd jam the works. This needed to be all put to bed on the very night that it started. My mistake was wanting him spared. Now he'll do what he can to thwart all this and I'll pay for it from the others. I'll bear the brunt if it can't be fixed.”

He looked over the four men in the room: Peet and Harris, his two top men; and two younger men, Dorman and Childs, both tall, lithe, and coldhearted. This would be the foursome that decided his future. If they couldn't fix this now, not later, not in days or weeks but now, it would be over for Heaton. He would be a ruined man. Everything he had and more would be taken, he'd be labeled a traitor, and most likely he would spend the rest of his life in a prison cell. Four men stood between him and a personal apocalypse.

Why? Because he loved his country. That's why he'd pay. Because men forty some odd years ago had started to slowly give it away, parcel it off, soul first, body second—men his father saw as traitors, men so addicted to empire that they'd trade away country, trade it for money, for power, for Europe, for crumbs. This was what Heaton and the others wanted. They wanted England back. Were they criminals? Traitors? So be it. Lassiter clearly felt the strong winds that demanded a referendum and yet couldn't be bothered to muster up the passion to let the people vote. He had to be removed. There was no way around it.

Heaton knew what Gordon Thompson would be planning right now, working on getting his family, his son-in-law included, out of country. Heaton had resources all tethered together, all in sync, but the clock had run out. He had just gotten a quiet call letting him know that moments earlier, Munroe and Burnlee had talked Georgia Turnbull into releasing Tatum's name to the press and to the world. The odds of Heaton's men finding the Tatums before the authorities did had grown very long indeed, but he could not give up now. These four men had to understand that they were his last chance.

He took a small manila envelope off the coffee table and pulled out a photograph, a frame from a security camera.

“This is from the caretaker's lodge in Worcestershire last night.” He passed it around the den. It showed Gordon, Adam, Kate, and the two kids, getting out of a run-down camper's van.

“He went straight back up. He knew no one would be there. It's just them and the dogs. They won't stay long. He'll move west, I'm sure of it, try to get them over to Ireland, and from there to New York. You have one chance. Tonight. There's no other way. It ends quietly in Worcestershire, for all of them.”

The men nodded minimally, as a group, not one of them proud of what they were all agreeing to do, no one wishing to oversell his confidence. They all understood though: they had no room for error. Heaton nodded back. The room cleared quickly. He sat into a padded leather club chair and took a deep, wistful breath. He told himself this could all still be righted. He took another full-bodied breath with shuttered eyes and palms held out flat.
Stay confident
. Then another. In. Out.
Stay clear
. A final deep inhalation, then a vigorous exhale …
Stay strong
.

*   *   *

THE BONGO BAR
is an odd little joint in Shepherd's Bush, just off Shepherd's Bush Green. It's a trendy little watering hole for young professionals and working singles. What it lacks in volume, it makes up for in a darkened moody ambience, tailor-made to melt away the stress of a long day spent in the throes of industry. Rebecca Donton sat at the bar, her wonderful hair catching the low-wattage bulbs overhead in such a way as to give her a halo effect. Like so much of her life, Rebecca and her long waves of blond beauty looked, as she leaned against the bar sipping a martini, as if she were posing for a magazine ad.

She had come to London from South Africa. Her friends, family, and many strangers had routinely told her how much she resembled a young Charlize Theron. Growing up in the suburb of Lakeside, she was often approached with offers to model or even to take acting lessons. Some were legitimate, some were merely come-ons from local men, and some were from workers at the stable where her mother and father were also employed. She had no interest in modeling or acting. She would leave that to the performers and the poseurs of the world.

She dreamt only of business. She wanted to work in the world of fashion maybe, or sport, or even media, but all from the side of business. It was as far away as she could get, she thought, from the life of her parents who were both third-generation horse groomers. It was a chain she was determined to break.

She earned a degree from a small university in Johannesburg, and with money borrowed from her aunt she traveled to London. After a long year working in a Pret A Manger, she managed to get an interview for an executive assistant position at HGI. It wasn't until her fourth interview that she realized she was being sussed out to be the new first assistant for Sir David Heaton, the world-renowned CEO of Heaton Global.

Once hired her life became, to her, a true fairy tale. If it hadn't turned out to be exactly “high finance” in the sense of what she'd learned at university, the cool factor of having a fold-down seat on the bus alongside Sir David Heaton's larger-than-life reality more than made up for it. There were private planes, dinner parties, and exquisite celebrity luncheons. Yes, she was the “help,” and more than often out in the hallway waiting for Sir Paul McCartney or Sir Bob Geldof to leave Sir David's office, but she was there inside the whirl, living a movie montage of an existence.

Heaton was a taskmaster. She was on call at all hours and was expected to have no life. He rarely showed any interest in who she was or what her opinions were on anything. He paid her more than amply, was always respectful, and although he constantly had a starlet or a model floating in his jet wash, she was never called to take a place under his arm or in his bed. In the early days he had been nothing but professional with her, even on long trips in exciting situations where she would have maybe welcomed a call up to his suite for a champagne ride in his Jacuzzi. It never happened and was never even joked about.

Later, when she had come out to him, in a time when she was in a relationship with a woman she had met at Wimbledon, he was nothing but respectful and supportive. It was a dream job. It had been the best four years of her life. It broke her heart that it would now be over, but she absolutely had no choice.

Inspector Steel arrived at exactly half past eight, as she had said she would over the phone. She ordered a drink for both of them as they took a private booth in the back of the restaurant. They had a run of idle conversation. Steel wasn't exactly unaware of Rebecca's beauty. Under the warm light of an overhanging lamp in the center of the rounded booth, she looked even more radiant than she did in the HGI executive suite. Steel, not usually one to spend too much time or concern on her own looks, had no idea how alluring she herself looked to the young South African. They doubled down on the chitchat, life in London, the differences between London and Johannesburg, and Rebecca's flat nearby in Shepherd's Bush. Steel comically described her life living with her parents and her desperate need to get her own place.

More drinks were ordered. Rebecca considered accidentally dropping the “her” in a story of the relationship with the tennis fan that had just ended, a shot into the air that she was a lesbian, that she was single, but she knew there was serious talk to have, talk that would quash any leanings toward romance, notwithstanding the fact that Rebecca didn't really size Steel up as a woman who would find other women attractive.

It didn't matter. Steel sensed that Rebecca was a gal's gal, not that Steel was herself as a rule. Georgia Turnbull was the third woman she'd had strong feelings for, and the first two were both just more or less fun weekend playdates. Both of them maddeningly adorable, she had immensely enjoyed their quick company, but before Georgia she'd never felt anywhere near close to what she was feeling now.

She could easily see this Rebecca as a plaything, someone who would be fun to giggle and cuddle and tease with if it weren't for Georgia. Georgia had her heart now. She wasn't interested in anyone else, no matter how perfect her hair and teeth were.

“Why don't you tell me why you called, Rebecca? You said it was important.”

“It's more than important. I actually feel cheap making small talk. I'm just nervous.”

“What is it that you're nervous about?” Rebecca finished her martini and looked around. A young man sat at the bar, in a suit, by himself. She was sure she was overreacting but felt he was watching her; a common occurrence, yes, but tonight she felt a different kind of naked than she normally did when strange men were observing her.

“Could we leave? Go for a walk?” Steel sensed her fear, wanted her comfortable.

“Yes. Let's get out of here.”

They walked through Shepherd's Bush. It had rained while they were in the bar but had conveniently let up. The streets glistened sweetly, the moon dancing happily in the reflection of every surface that would have it. The small trees on the roads dripped with tiny drops of a mildly pleasing spray.

“He's involved. I'm sure you must know that.” Steel stopped in her tracks. Her heart pounded as the South African beauty slowly began to weep.

“I've known something was up for a bit now. He's been so sullen. There has been so much whispering. So many quiet meetings. Not business meetings. Meetings with men that he uses for his … security. Shady characters. You know?” Steel nodded. She knew quite a bit about Heaton's shady characters.

“He's been different. For the last three months or so. On edge. All the time. I travel with him less. Never really know his schedule anymore. Then, a week ago, after the bombing at Number 10, about the time you started coming around, he withdrew completely. I knew. I knew. I could tell.” She looked deep into Steel's eyes.

“Today, he was in the den. With all of his security. I brought in a snack. He'd been traveling. He needed to eat. I set the tray down, on the coffee table. The edge of it, I didn't know it, but it had rested on the phone. On the button for the intercom. When I got to my desk, I heard them all, clearly. Was going to get up to let him know, to move the tray, when they started talking about doing this. I couldn't stop listening. I couldn't pretend anymore. I couldn't be around this anymore.”

“What is it, love? Tell me. You can. I promise.” Rebecca nodded, wanting Steel to know that she trusted her.

“I can't hold this back anymore. I need to tell someone. I don't think they're safe. Any of them. Not even Mr. Thompson.”

“You're talking about the Tatums?”

“Yes. Yes … I think they're going to kill them. They know where they are.”

“Where are they?”

“Up in Worcestershire. At Sir David's farmhouse in Tewkesbury. Dorrington. They're not safe.” Steel nodded, her eyes trained on Rebecca's.

“I hope I'm wrong. I could be wrong.”

“No, no. You're spot-on. They're not at all safe.”

“Can you help? Help them?”

“Yes. I think I can. In fact I'm going to give it everything I have.” Rebecca broke out in a sliver of a smile at Steel's confident response. Her eyes brightened as much as they could under the circumstances.

Within another fifteen minutes Steel was in a patrol car with Captains Andrew Tavish and Edwina Wells, heading to the London heliport, bound for Tewkesbury.

 

ON THE RUN
■
9

Gordon pulled into the winding driveway onto the two-hundred-fifty-year-old estate and rolled past the main house, down a long tractor road, to the caretaker's lodge at the north side of the property. As the shaggy fishing van snaked back toward the cabin, a chain-link fenced pen came into view. It was alive with the rabid energy of eleven catch dogs. Large, angry Cane Corsos, snapping at them as they drove by. Adam thought the beasts looked hungry. Gordon knew full well that they were. In his race to retrieve Kate and the kids, he had forgotten to feed them. He made a mental note, once the family settled into the back lodge, to quell the pack with food.

The caretaker's lodge was sparse, cool, and calm. The steady bark of the hounds was the only sound from outside. The place seemed to be shut down for the season. Gordon explained that the caretakers were in Switzerland opening Heaton's summer home. He had been the only one up here for the last month or so, only to feed the dogs and walk the property, scouting for any problems to report to the maintenance crews down in London. He had come to like the lonely, quiet work. In the last six months, as Heaton and his world grew increasingly crazed, Gordon preferred the solitude nestled inside the three hundred acres, with the stars in the sky at night and the birds in the trees come morning—just the dogs and him.

He had stocked the kitchen in advance of bringing Kate and the grandkids up. He showed them around the sparsely furnished maintenance lodge. He gave Kate and Adam the nicest bedroom suite and told them to get some rest while he organized his plans to get them over to Ireland and then back home. He had Adam stow the fishing van in a garage by the dog pound while he backed out a new Mercedes station wagon that they would load in the morning and take to the west coast. He was trying desperately, with actions rather than words, to show Adam that he had been played as badly, if not worse, than Adam himself had been.

Something about the way that Adam went along with the preparations told Gordon that his son-in-law seemed to understand, if not condone, the actions Gordon had been forced to take. The ice was still there between them, but perhaps it had begun to thaw. He hoped he'd soon feel the same energy from his grandson and, even more important, his daughter.