by Mike Binder
“I fooled myself, sweetie. Convinced myself that what we were doing would change the history of the workers, like the original strikers back in the old days at the Ford Highland Park plant. I fooled myself … thought I had found a shortcut to greatness. Does that make any sense?”
“Kind of, but not really.”
“All it got me was sent to the back of the line.” She looked over at her father and gave him the little half smile that reminded him of a grin her mother would always deliver.
“I’m just glad you got out of jail. I hope you never do anything like that again. I was really scared for you. I never want to be scared like that.”
“You don’t have to worry. I promise.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“Can you please not be so hard on Poppa? On London? On your boss? Okay, Daddy? Mom’s happy here. Billy is having so much fun with Poppa. Mom really wants you to do well. She loves you. Go to that thing tomorrow. She doesn’t want you to blow it all. Be nice to her. Okay?”
He sat there, ruminating on how much he loved being part of his family. That was something he once never thought he’d want to be: a family man. As a young guy he always figured there was no upside in having a family, in being nailed down, being a “dad.” It sure hadn’t done anything for his father.
He had been wrong, though. It was all he cared about. Three months in prison brought that home to him. Sitting in that cell, all night, all day, waiting for a trial, all he wanted was to be with them and to somehow make Kate and the kids happy again.
“I’ll think about it. How’s that?”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, button.” They sat there in the square for a beat, listening to the wave of cars and buses in the distance, like the lull of a giant seashell, the gentle London night air blowing on their faces, the sweet jasmine scent wafting down from the trees lining the park. He so wanted it all to be over. Wanted his confidence back. Wanted to trust his intuition again, but he didn’t. He hadn’t in so long. Not since his arrest. Didn’t even trust them now, with this whole obviously sorry deal with Heaton.
He finally got up and took her hand as she continued to lean into him while they walked back to the hotel.
“I think I’m in love with Étienne, Daddy. I think this is the one.” He kissed the top of her head and answered her with great certainty.
“I can pretty much assure you it isn’t.”
“How can you say that? How could you possibly know?”
“I’m your father. It’s my job to know.”
AFTER ■ 6
Steel was through with taking the Tube. The task at hand had evolved now to a new degree of difficulty. It was time to act, and act fast. She showed up at the HGI complex on Farringdon Street in a Metropolitan Police squad car with two others behind her. She strode into the lobby with three uniformed officers, mostly for show. She wanted to know what had happened with the surviving members of the Tatum family, what Heaton knew about Adam Tatum’s past, who recruited Adam Tatum, and what Heaton and the good people at Heaton Global had to do with the bombing at Number 10, now a full five days earlier.
Once again she was given a lot of dead air. A noncommittal receptionist told her to have a seat while she got a representative to discuss the matters with her.
“Do I look like I’m in the mood to wait very long?”
“No, ma’am. I’ll be sure to let them know that you’re not. Please have a seat.” She did wait. Almost five minutes. Too long for her. She wasn’t anywhere close to the calm place she would need to be in to “have a seat.” She was even dressed differently this time, in black jeans, high black leather boots, and a Met Police parka, plus a Glock 17 on her belt, mostly for show.
She had had enough waiting. She left the uniformed officers at the front, stomped down the back lobby to the private elevators, and went straight up to Heaton’s suite. When she stepped off the elevator she was once again greeted by the young woman with the perfect hair and the pretty nose.
“Ms. Steel, hello.”
“It’s Inspector Steel. It’s not often I require the title to be used. This just seems like the perfect time.” The good-looking blonde hid a chuckle and a smile. There was something about Steel that she liked, something cute about her. She was a company woman, though, this blonde, so she played her part.
“Yes, of course. Inspector Steel. One of my associates is coming to see you right now.”
“That’s okay, I’m done waiting. I’m going in to see Sir David.”
The pretty young woman tried to talk her out of it, but Steel pushed past her, barging into Heaton’s private den. He was in the middle of a meeting with three Asian men. They looked like accountants to Steel. There were number-filled papers strewn over the couches and the table in between the couches. Heaton stood up, once again acting more than happy to see Steel, eager to banter, more than fine with how she had barged into the den. The shampoo lady tried to apologize.
“I’m so sorry, Sir David. I’ve called security—”
Heaton cut her off, as Steel knew he would. “It’s fine, Rebecca.”
He turned to the Asian men, spoke to them in Japanese. They bowed. Heaton bowed. They answered him in more Japanese. They picked up their papers, everyone bowed some more, and then they were gone.
Heaton waved a reluctant Rebecca out as well. It was now just he and Steel.
“Alone at last. Look at us. Should I order up some drinks?”
He had already gotten to Steel, two moves in. She didn’t back down, though. She torqued her normally back-row Scottish accent up to the main stage, and gave it a bit of a Glasgow street lilt.
“Don’t be smug. You know who I’m here representing and what I want to know. I’m not here to wait in your lobby or suffer your arrogant theatrics. Do you have a firm grip on that now? Do you, Sir David?”
He flashed his best “life’s a big game grin” at her.
“I do. I get it. You’re in a foul way. Don’t want to banter. What can I help you with?”
“First off, I want to know how much you personally knew of Adam Tatum’s past?”
“Very little. I’m learning more and more every day. In truth, the whole thing disgusts me. The fact that we—inadvertently—could have had something to do with all this. I had no idea of his prior criminal history until sometime yesterday. Neither myself nor anyone else at the company had any idea of what he did or, for that matter, what he was capable of doing.”
“And you have no knowledge of who killed him? No knowledge where the rest of his family is or what happened to them?”
“Of course, I do not. I didn’t even know he had been killed until just now.”
“How is it that he came to be working here? Who here hired him?”
“I’m looking into that. As soon as I know, I’ll get that name to you. As I’ve told you before, we have many thousands of employees.” He sat back down for the first time since she’d come into the den and motioned for her to take the couch opposite, to get comfortable.
“I’m not staying long enough. Not this time.”
“I am sorry to hear that he’s dead. If he indeed was involved in the bombing, I’d have liked to see him stand trial.”
“I’m sure you would have. In the meantime, I need to know who his connection was here at the company. We want to find his family before any harm comes to them, find out how much his wife knows about his involvement.”
“Of course. I’ll have that name to you by the time you reach the front lobby, Inspector.” Steel turned to leave. He wanted to play some more. He was almost snickering. He called to her with a cackle as Rebecca and her head of great hair led her back to the elevator. “Burst in anytime, Davina. I’m going to make myself always available to you. How’s that?”
She stopped dead in her tracks and turned back, her eyes glaring at him with an intensity he hadn’t seen from her yet.
“I’m here under the direct authority of the head of the DPG and the home secretary him
self. I’m investigating the attempted assassination of the prime minister. Our lead suspect was a member of your staff. There should be nothing about this that you find funny. That’s the last time I’m going to tell you this quite so nicely.” Heaton kept his grin in check as much as he could and nodded sincerely.
“I’ll take that as a fair warning.”
As she left, she looked down the hall. She saw Harris and Peet on either side of her. She recognized Peet from his time following her. She wanted to laugh, to let him know how incompetent she found his work, but decided to let her unplanned outburst be her last words. She walked past Rebecca down to the private elevator and left.
At the front lobby desk she was given the name and phone number of a man named Gordon Thompson, an employee of HGI there in London. Thompson apparently had the day off, but Steel was told to call him at her earliest convenience regarding any information she needed on Mr. Tatum.
BEFORE ■ 6
Barry Saffron was in Chicago in his office overlooking the river. It was five in the afternoon. Three plasma TV screens silently played ESPN, CNN, and CNBC. His cell phone rang. It was Tatum, calling from London. Saffron did the math: it must have been one in the morning there.
“What’s up, Forrest Gump? You having any fun playing with the prime minister and that crowd yet?”
Adam was calling from a back hallway in the Millennium Hotel. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t figure out who to talk to about the meeting at Number 10 in the morning. Saffron was the closest he could come to the name of someone he could trust.
“Barry, listen, I’m stuck here. I don’t know what to do. I need some help. I’m out of my league.”
“No shit, you’re out of your league, you fucking yud-yud you. I could’ve told you that before you left Chicago.” Adam could hear in his voice that Saffron was teasing, was in a good mood, that the sting of being passed over had passed over and now he was just having fun.
“Barry, I don’t think this thing is on the up-and-up. I don’t trust Heaton. I don’t know how much you know about him, but I think he’s dirty.”
“Dirty in what way?” Saffron stood up, shut off CNBC. Adam had his attention now as he paced the office.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know what way yet. I just know something’s up. You know about my troubles, right? We’ve never talked about them, Barry, but I assume you know.”
“Everyone knows, Tatum. You’re a legend. You’re the nut job that went full idiot at the Michigan governor’s mansion. What about it?”
“I think that’s the only reason that I’m here. Why I was picked to go to Number 10.”
“Well, there had to be a reason, didn’t there? What the hell does being a moron and getting landed in a jail cell have to do with Heaton Global business at 10 Downing Street? Explain that one to me.”
“I’m not sure I can. I just know that I’m here to be the fall guy in case something goes bad. He’s admitted that to me, Heaton.”
“The fall guy for what, Tatum? Start to make some sense here, please.” He went over to his remote, turned off ESPN, walked to the door, closed himself off from the rest of the office, and waited for a reply.
“The story he gave me doesn’t make any sense, Barry. Something about the dossier they accepted was wrong, a number was off. I was going to replace it so they wouldn’t be out a billion something a year. ‘No one would ever know.’ I’d make out with a contract. Worse comes to worst, the lawyers would all settle it. It was a lot of mumbo jumbo. It was bullshit.”
“Sounds like it to me. I mean I never even met the guy, so I can’t give you much advice. I have heard from some London people that he’s gone a little scary these last few years or so … but that’s all second- and thirdhand.”
“I think he’s up to something. I think he’s setting me up for something bad.”
“Maybe you should call the police? Has that brilliant thought come to your mind yet?”
Adam explained to him in detail the events with the call girl and the police station. He laid out the whole trip up to then so that Saffron understood how going to the police in London was a waste of time. Heaton was too dialed in. Adam was too on the outside.
Saffron turned off CNN. All three screens were dark now. He went over to the window and looked out at the river ten floors below as he listened to Adam explain his situation over the phone. A pleasure boat had broken down or was out of gas on the waterway. The hapless driver and his wife were trying to get a rope to bystanders on the riverwalk to help him before the current took them for a nasty ride. A commercial boat was coming through the Dearborn Street Bridge. Saffron knew enough about boats to know that the big one wasn’t going to be able to stop on a dime. There was a strong chance the maritime incident would end in tears. He was just as powerless to help Adam as he was to help them. The distance was similar. All he could do was peer through the glass and pray for the best.
“I don’t understand any of it, Tatum. You may be dead wrong, for all I know. You’re not all that bright to begin with so I don’t put it out of the realm of possibility, but if you’re at all right about any of this shit, if it’s even close to what you’re saying it is, if it were me, I’d turn in the opposite direction and I’d run like the hair on my balls was on fire.”
AFTER ■ 7
Bloomsbury goes dead quiet at night. The museums, shops, cafés, and luncheonettes all shutter early. The office buildings empty out by six, and other than the occasional hurried pedestrians coming to or going from one of the very few residences in flats above the shops, the sidewalks at night become lonely country back roads. The late-night wind whips louder than the distant traffic; the few streetlights left on twinkle softly.
The Steel family flat, just eight doors down and across the road from the café, on Theobald’s Road, is one of very few residences on the block. It is a tiny two-bedroom pocket of London that no one even bothers to crane their necks up to see as they hustle on toward the city.
Davina’s mother, Sheena, half German and half Scottish, and her father, Cawley Danaid Steel, were modest, quiet, and humble to a fault. They kept their heads low and lived their lives grateful for all that they had, all that they had built. The flat was bare-bones simple, but it was home. Warm with wear, the walls housed scripture framed for sharing, the carpets proudly boasting the scent of a thousand pots of homemade soup.
Steel sat at dinner with her mother and father. She was picking at a lamb stew, a plate full of marinated cabbage, and a piece of chocolate cake for dessert. Her parents both wanted to talk about the case she was working on. After all, it was the only thing anyone in the café was discussing. Steel did her best to change the subject. Her father seemed to get it before her mother, who kept on with the questions. Her dad finally, gently, took her mother’s hand and ended it.
“She can’t talk about it, lady. Don’t you get it? It’s not hers to discuss, so leave it be. Let her have a meal.”
The truth is she could have spoken about it, could have carefully picked out bits to share, could have given them a pleasing earful. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t have it in her to engage them in small talk about a case this important.
Later in the evening, as her father watched the TV news on the bombing, while she and her mother cleaned up from the meal, she wanted to apologize for shutting them out. She wondered why she couldn’t bother to be nicer to them, or at least think nicer thoughts toward them. But she couldn’t, and that made her profoundly sad and even angry because she loved them both so very much.
* * *
DAVINA WOKE SUDDENLY from a deep sleep in her bedroom in the middle of the night. Her eyes popped open, having felt something pressed down on her face. She fell back blissfully asleep before she could figure out what it was that had been pushed down across her nose and around her mouth.
When her eyes opened the next time, what seemed like a few hours later, she realized that a man was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at her. It was pitch-dark in the ro
om; she couldn’t make out anything about the man, his face, his height, or his weight. He was there on the bed beside her, that’s all she knew. She felt his presence more than actually saw him, felt the way his weight dipped the mattress’s edge as he perched there on the side of her bed. She realized that she couldn’t move her arms or her legs at all. They were locked in place somehow.
It was when she decided to scream that she realized that there was a gag in her mouth. She couldn’t make a sound and she couldn’t move her limbs.
She began to struggle but the man leaned into her, put his finger to his lips, gently and sternly at the same time, motioning for her to be quiet.
He lit a match. The room awoke with a dancing orange flickering curtain of light, revealing that it was the redheaded stocky man who worked for Heaton, the one she saw in the hallway outside Heaton’s private suite at the Heaton Global building that afternoon. The match gave off just enough flare to illuminate the outlines of another man behind him, sitting in the one chair in the tiny bedroom, up against the desk. It was the bald man. He was there, too. The flickering flame also told enough for Steel to see that her arms were firmly bound to her bedpost with heavy duct tape. She assumed that was the case with her legs as well.
She twisted against her restraints. She wasn’t going to go without a fight. She squirmed and wriggled, cursing at them both even if she could only grunt or groan through the gag. The match went out. The blackness snapped back on. She continued to flail. The man on the bed left her to her battles, confident in the confining tape.
After a beat, there was a knock on her bedroom door.
“Davina? Darlin’, are yous good?”
It was her father. She stopped twisting. The redhead lit another match, the flame and its shadows dancing around the walls, almost laughing at her. She had the clarity now to see the bald man with a shotgun walk slowly, carefully, toward the door. He held it right to the spot on the door opposite her father’s head. The redhead slowly took the gag out of her mouth. No point in words. Steel knew exactly what she needed to say.