Keep Calm (44 page)

“You have a choice. Your gun or the door. Pick one. Quickly.”

The young man saw the iron in her eyes, turned on his bad leg, and hopped to the door and out of the flat as fast as possible. She went over to Peet, on the floor, wailing in pain. She kicked him in the stomach as hard as she could. She picked up his gun and got the other man's as well. She put them both into her belt and pulled out a set of handcuffs. She fastened Peet's good side to the radiator on the wall and then, for good measure, using everything she had, gave him another strong kick.

After dialing the Met for a backup call, she walked down to her parents' bedroom and switched on the lights. She looked at the two bundles of pillows and blankets under the oversize quilt that she had molded into her mother and father's sleeping positions and the shape of their bodies. She knew the bedding pieces were all ruined now, soiled with gunpowder and those four troublesome bullet holes, but it seemed a small price to pay.

Her mind was now on Heaton.

He wouldn't flounder the next time he wanted to lash out at her. She was sure of it. It wouldn't be as easy as hiding her parents at her uncle's place up in Biggleswade. Heaton would be coming for her with an even sharper edge in the next round. The whispering footsteps wouldn't creep past her door a second time. It was up to her now to take the fight to him.

 

TURNBULL
■
6

Georgia woke up in her bed early Sunday morning. She thought instantly about her dream—about the confession she was writing out in her office, about how real it all felt. She dressed quickly and scurried down in a pair of Sunday-morning pants and late-Saturday-night hair, quickly said hello to each security officer she passed, to each of the secretaries and civil servants who had the misfortune to draw the Sunday a.m. work card, scuffled quickly into her office, and closed the door.

It was different—a different office than in the dream. She wasn't sure how, but it was. She sat down and looked across the desk where Early had been taking his notes. She got up, walked to the door, opened it, and saw the desks and the hallway out to the lobby. She assured the two young secretaries seated at the far desks that she was fine. “No, no tea. Thank you.” She shut the office door, with herself alone on the inside.

She paced the room, thinking back to the dream—the American holding the cloth over her face, he and Jack Early standing resolutely as she stood naked while dressing. She turned to the door. She needed to open it again. She did. The two women looked up again, trying hard not to be too curious. She waved them off with a tight smile, then shut the door a second time. There was no doubt in her mind. It was not a dream, and it did not take place here.

It was Early. Early had betrayed her. It had been real. She had been tricked into a confession. Was it a fake version of the office? A replica of some kind? A movie set? Like in that Hugh Grant film? That had to be it. The American had somehow gotten Jack Early to assist him, to corner her. She had been recorded. That's what had happened. She was sure of it. This was a disaster.

It was all over. She would spend the rest of her life in prison. Her poor father. Her brothers. She would bring so much shame to them all. To her country. Her poor, poor country. What had she done? How had this happened? She wanted to scream, wanted to have someone to blame, but she had no one. She had done this. She had made a mess of her life, of it all, and now she would pay the price.

She walked over to the den and sat down on the far couch, the couch she had sat on so many nights while arguing across the coffee table with Roland. They had traded gallant dreams and brilliant schemes back and forth with each other here. They had the ability to change the world. They'd always come back to that one, so proud of where they'd come from, so much hope while looking to the future: a future that no longer mattered or even existed.

She poured herself a glass of room-temperature water and let the aching horror of the moment painfully settle in. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed the only ally she had left: David Heaton.

 

TATUM
■
6

Kate and the children had actually come to like Ryan Early. He was a nice kid. He had a pleasant, innocent disposition. He was young for his age, closer emotionally to Billy than to Trudy, it seemed. He was enthralled with Trudy, though. There was no question of it. Adam had guessed right and played it perfectly. Kate wondered if they had needed to hold the boy, tie him up somewhere if indeed his plan was going to work. Shouldn't they bind him? Gag him? She soon came to realize that wouldn't be necessary.

He and Trudy watched several movies together on her iPad. They played card games. She sang to him, sang “Across the Universe.” Later he asked, and she sang it for him a second time. They talked for hours, all night long, about everything: the differences in life from London to Chicago, the kids at her school, his school. He made her laugh. The time went by, and in truth, for the last ten hours or so, he could have run out into the night anytime he wanted. Kate, quietly listening in, realized that Trudy was doing a far better job of holding the boy there than ropes or a gag could ever have done.

At the crack of dawn, Adam and Trudy took Ryan home. Adam didn't say a word on the ride down to Croydon. The two teens sat together in the backseat and played another game on his mobile, his favorite game. Trudy teased him, thought it was silly and violent, “dumb,” but she played along anyway. He talked on and on about how great the game was and why, as Trudy continually teased him.

They arrived back at the Early home at around 8 a.m. Adam had called Jack when they were five minutes out. He was waiting alone on the curb, bleary-eyed and defeated. His weathered shoulders were beaten into a hunch, his wrinkled suit hanging on his paper-thin body in a way that made him look like a scarecrow posted in front of the old brick row house. The only bright moment of the long night he had endured arrived when his son climbed out of the back of the car and his father inexplicably hugged him tighter than he'd done in years.

Trudy got out of the rental alongside Adam and watched the reunion. She felt for the little British boy. She knew what it was like to be used, to be played with. Now having worked the other side of the game board, she didn't like that position any better. She knew then that she had no interest in ever hurting anyone or in breaking anybody's heart. This wasn't a game that she ever wanted to play again.

Jack asked his son to wait inside and told him how important it was not to say anything to his mother, that the story would be that he had stayed at his best friend's house last night. Ryan agreed. He wasn't sure what exactly had happened or what was still taking place, but he sensed it was best to listen to his father.

Ryan turned to Trudy before he went inside. He wanted to say so much. He couldn't summon words, so she did it for him.

“You're the first person I've ever sung in front of, Ryan.”

“I like your singing.”

She pulled him in for a long, fiery hug, and then, before she let go of him, kissed him sweetly on the mouth for what seemed to Ryan the longest, most fantastic amount of time that had ever been recorded. As he floated back inside, she went over to the car, sat in the front seat, and closed the door. Her father watched her for a beat, a surprise jolt of pride warming the cold morning air. Somehow, inside the dark vat of drama their family had been dropped into, Trudy had found and been reunited with her sweet side.

Early cracked the moment back open with news of the reality that he was dealing with.

“She knows, Mr. Tatum. Georgia. She knows.”

“What do you mean, she knows?”

“She's not stupid. She's figured it all out. Everything we did last night. Knows it wasn't a dream. Knows I've betrayed her.”

“She told you that?”

“She didn't have to. She wants me to come get her. Take her over to Heaton's place. On Hyde Park. It was in her voice. I heard it, clearly. I've been with her a long time. She knows. I'm positive of it.” Adam looked at him closely. He wasn't lying. This wasn't a trap. Early was good and frightened, spooked, unsure of what would meet him once he got to Heaton's mansion.

“I'm not sure if you quite know what you're up against with Heaton.” Adam thought it over. He knew he had an ace card in the hole. He knew he had Georgia's confession on file. He knew it was safely tucked up on the “cloud,” in a place he could always get to it.

“Go. I know where Heaton's place is. I'll be there, too. You'll be fine. Go.”

“But, he's … it's very dangerous, he's a man that…”

Adam cut him off, didn't let him finish.

“I'm not afraid of him, Jack. If anyone should be afraid, it's Heaton. Afraid of me.” He turned and hobbled off up the road.

 

STEEL
■
6

“Davina, doll, are you sure you're all right, that you're going to be safe?”

“Yes, Dad, I'm gonna be fine. I just need you and Mum out of the picture for a short time. It's all going to be over very soon, I promise.” She was loading her mother and father onto a train in St. Pancras railway station up to Glasgow to stay with her Auntie Laura, away from harm, out of London. She hadn't told them about the shoot-out the night before at the flat. She hadn't even told them why she had to have them spend the night up at Uncle Nigel's in Biggleswade. They just knew there was a slight, remote danger to them as a result of the investigation she was on and that she didn't want to take a chance. She promised that she couldn't tell them any more and that she was going to be all right.

“I don't like any of this, Davina.” Her mother spoke through a stifled round of heavy tears. “I don't like you in this world. Never have, and now I know for sure why.” Steel pulled her mother in tight.

“I know, Mummy, I know. But I'm here. I'm in this world. There's nothing I can do now but my job. Do you understand that?” Her mother regretfully answered yes. Davina kissed her soft forehead, hugged her father one more time, and helped them both up and onto the train.

She crossed the station and took the Underground to St. James Park and walked over to Met headquarters. She went upstairs, past the empty desks and the shuttered offices, and up the back elevator to the weapons lockup. She neatly signed her name in with her schoolgirl-perfect signature, scanned her credentials into the computer, and then proceeded to load herself up with a pair of her regular Glock 17s and a serious stash of additional weapons, including a small-size Browning A5 Stalker shotgun.

Down in the basement at the motor pool, she checked out a squad car. She filled the tank and drove away from the garage, slowly surfing the sleepy Sunday morning streets over to Kensington. Heading straight for Heaton's mansion.

 

TURNBULL
■
7

Georgia and Jack Early drove in his Ford Focus across town to the Heaton home. Once again they had snuck away, a feat that was getting harder and harder to do with each passing day. If it wasn't a Sunday morning, it most likely would have been impossible. They didn't say a word on the way over. She was livid with him, he could tell. Maybe she was more mad at herself, he thought. She wasn't one to let all the blame and guilt be used on others. He had seen her take the whip to her own back many times and he knew she couldn't be happy that she had put herself in the middle of this execrable situation.

They pulled onto the estate, past the security, and up the drive to the long, flowing steps of the giant Georgian manor. When the car stopped, he turned the ignition off and finally broke the crushing silence.

“He took my boy, ma'am. The American. Just so you know. He took my boy. I was left with no other choice.” She turned to him, her voice deep in her throat, overcome by events, by emotion.

“I figured it was something along that line, Jack. I know you too well to believe that you'd do anything like this for any other reason.”

“No, ma'am. There would be no other reason.” She nodded, looked up to the house, and grabbed the door handle.

“Well, we're in a world we don't traffic in now. We'll need this one's help. I don't relish that thought at all.” With that, she got out and walked up the steps toward the large wooden front door. Her stride was once again in proper form, the walking cane a faded memory. Fear, contempt, anger, and rage had all banded together and given Georgia her canter back.

*   *   *

IN THE PARLOR
, Heaton begged her to be calm. He was dressed already in one of his signature made-to-measure suits. Having politely offered drinks that had been politely refused, he poured himself a scotch.

“I'm historically not one to rev it up on a Sunday morning, but it seems like this isn't a normal one, is it?” He came back over to the couch they were both sitting on.

“So tell me, Jack, what exactly does Tatum have? What is it that has our dear prime minister so shackled in dread?” Early was afraid to tell him the truth but knew that there was no other way, so he did.

“He has a tape. A movie, I'd say.”

“A movie? What kind of movie does he have?” Georgia's eyes looked away.

“A movie with the prime minister confessing. Sitting at her desk. Spelling out what it is you've all done, sir.” Heaton corrected him as he reached into his maple cigar box and took out a Cohiba Behike.

“What we've all done, Jack. What
we
have all done.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Where was the movie taken? At her desk, you say?”

“No, sir. At a movie studio. In Gloucester. On a set. A replica of the office.” Heaton took it all in as he lit his ridiculously expensive cigar.

“And you took her there? To this movie set? To make this film? That's something that you did?”