Keep Calm (45 page)

“He took my boy. He was going to kill him.” Heaton took the time to puff his smoke into a rousing burn.

“Is that what he told you? He'd kill your boy?”

“Yes.”

“So you in turn betrayed the prime minister? Your country? Betrayed me?” He stared at Jack, demanded with his gaze that he look him in the eye, which he hadn't been doing.

“Look at me. Answer me, Jack.” His voice stayed smooth, almost soothing, even though his words were undercut with a building, bubbling rage. Georgia had never seen him burn quite this way.

“You do know what it is we are trying to do here, yes? Did you somehow forget how important this all was? To England? Did you forget that, Jack?”

“I didn't forget, sir, but I didn't know what else to do. He was going to take my boy's life. I couldn't see another way.”

Heaton set his drink and his cigar down on the coffee table. He took a beat to let the room settle.

“Okay. We will figure this out, Georgia, trust me. Okay? I will smooth this wrinkle. We will make a deal with Tatum. It's going to be about money. We'll lay it all down with a figure. Have Tatum walk away. Make a relocation arrangement with him. Like the US does with the Mafia. I'm sure that's what he's after. We can make it all happen.” He chuckled lightly and shrugged. “It's well played on his part, I have to say.”

Georgia took a deep breath. She sensed that maybe David was right. Maybe this could all somehow be papered over.

“In the meantime, I need to have something done, Jack, an errand run. I'll need to set the negotiations in motion with Tatum. Come with me, won't you?” Heaton headed out of the den, motioned for Early to follow, pausing only to turn on a large-screen television. “Georgia, have a drink. Some water's there on the table. Enjoy them taking the piss out of you on every channel. This won't be a minute. Jack and I will just be upstairs in the study. Give a shout if you need anything.”

Jack looked for Georgia's nod to follow, which he got. By the time he was out to the foyer, Heaton was already halfway up the grand revolving staircase that hugged up and around the circular lobby to the second floor. He hustled to catch up, but by the time he made the landing Heaton had already walked down the long, wide hallway and disappeared into one of the many rooms.

“In here, Jack. Come on.” He was summoned like a trained spaniel and he followed, not sure what other recourse there was. He was just glad to be given a way to make good on what he had done. He entered the study, a large mahogany-paneled room crammed with books, maps, and artifacts, plus rare hunting knives. It was a collector's den with shelves chock-full of trinkets, coins, and curios. One wall was made up of stacks of old steamer trunks, Victorian-era cruise ship luggage all in pristine condition, one after another, packed halfway to the ceiling. Another area had rare old hunting bugles, a good sixty of them.

“Give me a beat, Jack.” Heaton was digging in a bureau at the backside of the room—a giant burl walnut thing that Jack had to believe was priceless. When he stood, he had a pair of garden gloves in his hands and a few other odd bits, along with a long, odd-looking black metal nightstick with a leather strap and a long electrical cord. He pointed easily over to one of the dome-topped steamer trunks, one of the larger ones.

“Grab this one with me, will you please?” He went over, picked up one side of the sturdy old wooden case, and waited for an extremely confused Jack to grab the other, which he did, surprised at how much the damn thing weighed. Heaton motioned for him to follow along as he headed out to the hallway again and now farther down the way toward the back of the house, going into another even larger room. This one was not as nicely furnished at all, almost empty save for another one of the old steamer boxes and a desk against the wall. He led Jack and his side of the trunk into the center of the room and then guided him as they set it down slowly.

“Carefully, please. It's a collectible. Very old. Thank you.” The box safely landed, he motioned to a seat at the desk on the wall. It was a Hepplewhite Tambour from the 1800s, in perfect condition. “Have a seat, right there, Jack. I'm gonna have you take a letter down from me to Tatum. There are some supplies in the side of the desk there.”

Jack sat into the elegant French-style lounge chair with a Queen Anne leg and a frilly yellow pattern, his back to Heaton. He opened the drawer and found some stationery and a few silver-cased writing pens. He took them out and placed them on the leather blotter, preparing to compose a note. He had been drowning in dread, but now the idea of a letter detailing a negotiation with Tatum was a sign that he may be okay, that he wasn't in the level of danger that he thought he was.

The strap was around his neck before he was really sure of what had happened. Heaton pulled it tight so quickly that Jack wasn't able to put up anything of a struggle, his throat cut off instantly from air. Heaton threw the gangly secretary violently backward, causing the strap to constrict even more. He guided him over to the center of the room, his suit jacket now off. The garden gloves he had grabbed were now on his hands. The dome-top cover of the large steamer box they had carted down the hall was propped open and ready as he led the suffocating Jack over and yanked him down into it, all in one violently successful movement. The cord was off of Jack's neck now as Heaton pulled him backward and down, laid him easily inside the box. The only things hanging over the edge of the trunk were his long, skinny legs.

He was suddenly punching Early now, striking him again and again. It seemed to go on for the longest time. He gave him a savage beating and finally stopped. He let his breath catch up to him.

“You're going to sit in here for a while, okay, Jack? Sit in here and think about what there is to lose. A lot more than one little snot-nosed kid! Do you understand that?” He was almost screaming now, yet controlling himself inside the shout so as not to be heard in other parts of the house. “You're going to get real strong, real fast, or you'll lose a hell of a lot more than your kid. Do you fucking understand that?”

He swung the long solid shock-stick around from the back of the strap. The cord was now plugged into an outlet on the wall. He held the prod under Jack's left arm and pushed a button on the side. An electrical shock jumped from the end of the rod, a large blue and red visible flash violently lurching Jack's whole left side into an instant spasm. It was fast and fluid and it shut down all of his ability to move or think on the entire side of his torso. The first wave was followed with a second, the end of the contraption giving off one electrical blast after another. Heaton was slamming his thumb on the button repeatedly, sending Jack into wild, rolling, speechless convulsions of shock.

Heaton finally pulled the device away, took the gloves off, wiped the sweat from his brow, and watched as Jack did everything he could to find air. Jack's face was now varnished in blood, his eyes hidden behind small mountains of tears and battered flesh. The two men said nothing for the longest time. Heaton finally spoke.

“You act like a kid, you're going to get a time-out. You won't be hurt anymore, but you are going to learn a lesson. I promise you this. We cannot afford to have anything like this happen again. We're only as strong as our weakest link. Tatum knew that. That's why he went after you, but, not to worry, we're going to toughen you up here, Jack.”

Early managed to croak out a feeble response.

“I'm sorry, sir. I am.” Heaton nodded, seemingly took note of the apology, struggled to get his wind right, then slammed the lid shut and buckled the latches. He picked up his suit coat, which was draped carefully over the trunk next to it, gingerly put it back on, and headed downstairs to see the prime minister.

 

TATUM
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7

Adam made his way into the back side of Kensington Gardens. It was Sunday morning but the park was full. Joggers, strollers, and Rollerbladers were airily whirling by in every direction. It was a clear day; the sun was just high enough to take the chill off, but not yet bright enough to share much warmth. He walked by himself, a cap over his shaved head and sunglasses on his face, his pistol tucked quietly into his back belt under his T-shirt. He had been out there for a couple of hours now, first in front of the house, getting a better sense of the security shack, then there in the back, getting a read on the movement in the park behind the mansion. His guess was that the house was staffed pretty heavily, even though it was a Sunday morning. He counted at least five men. Now he was here, once again making his way to the back, just below the large, leafy wall that separated the rear lawn at Heaton's estate from the Kensington Gardens section of Hyde Park.

He crossed the public gardens, over the small footpath, waited until there was no one in view, and then, with as much speed as he could muster, made a go at scaling the wall. The wounds on his legs weren't helping. He was climbing vines and using a small trim pipe to grab on to while trying to ignore the searing pain from the bite wounds on his legs. It took longer than he thought to scale the ten-foot wall, and he was sure one of the park patrons had seen him, but there was no going back. He thought to himself how much better this would have been at night, his original plan, but Early's boss had sped up the schedule on him.

He had made a promise to Jack that he'd be there for him and he would, but, more important, he liked the idea of having Heaton and Georgia in one place together, of confronting them both at once. He made it over the top and threw himself to the yard below, into the back of Heaton's property. He hit the ground in an awkward slant, his foot having gotten slightly wrapped in a vine on the way down.

The force of the fall knocked the wind right out of him. As he slowly pulled himself to his feet, two security men ran across the manicured yard, speeding toward him. They were coming on at full tilt. Adam woozily stood, raised his hands, and spoke in a fake drunken slur, which was not hard to imitate considering how rattled he was from the tumble he'd taken.

“Whoa, whoa, it's cool … it's cool. I was just trying to impress my girlfriend that I could climb the wall and fell over. I'll go back, dudes, I'm sorry.… Not looking for trouble.” The two security men, both in cheap business suits, slowed down to listen. Adam recognized one of them. He was the shooter from up in the woods at Dorrington, the one who had murdered the young police officer with the long-range rifle. Whether they believed his drunken park-goer story or not, they both had sized him up as less of a threat, more of a nuisance. They came on him as a unit and drew close as one of them punched Adam square in the face. The other answered with a sharp kick to the midsection. One of them even laughed. They both came back in for more. Adam stood once again, doing his best not to lose consciousness. They grabbed him and were about to take the beating to a new level, both truly seeming to be enjoying the task at hand.

Neither of them saw the pistol come out. The initial shot was their first inkling of how much trouble they were in. The first bullet tore into the taller one's leg from an inch away. Adam was sure the man's femur had shattered into pieces. The second bullet pierced the second guard's hip straight on. He purposefully held the muzzle right against his body so as to dampen the sound as much as possible. Both men collapsed to the ground, rolling in pain. He saw a set of plastic restraints on one of their belts. He took it, and after a small struggle that got the Dorrington shooter pistol-whipped across the head, he managed to link them together, fastening them to the piping along the back wall. He took their radios, shattered them against the brick, then took their guns and headed up the back lawn.

He crept up the side of the lushly landscaped mansion and waited for other security staffers to follow or an alarm to go off. It didn't happen. He moved tenuously along the west wall, peeking his head carefully into each window, doing his best to be mindful of the security cameras. Finally, as he peered into the fourth window, a den on the first floor, he saw Georgia Turnbull on the couch watching a large television on the far wall. The volume was up loud enough so that Adam could hear it through the window, loud enough so that there was no way he would be able to hear what anyone in the room was saying.

Jack Early wasn't in the room. Neither was Heaton. He wanted to know that Jack was safe. He had played along well, Jack, and Adam had come to like his son, even to like Jack a bit. He pulled back slowly, needed time to figure out how best to make an entrance and confront both Heaton and Georgia with his digital file of Georgia's confession, how to start the process of forcing them to clear his name and face the police, the press, and the public for what they had done. He needed to find out where Jack was. He was inside that house someplace and Adam was pretty sure he wasn't having tea and cookies. If he were Heaton, the first thing he would do, he thought, was to shut Jack up in a permanent fashion. This poor pompous rich prick had a lot to lose.

He pulled back, not sure what to do. It might be best to wait and get a better sense of the situation, to figure out which of the big double doors would be the best way into the house.

He tucked into the safety of a large row of bushes, still trying to keep himself from being viewed on any of the security cameras. He had an idea that the two guards he had just shot had simply spotted him and weren't sent from the security shack. If they had been, more help would be coming, and none was.

There was a vine-covered latticework running from the ground floor to a second-story patio outside one of the upstairs rooms. Adam hated the idea of doing any more climbing, of wrenching open his barely healed wounds any further, but he needed to get into that house. He sucked it up and started to pull himself to the second story. He made it halfway up when his wounds demanded that he stop. His legs were on fire. He needed a short break from the pain.