Keep Calm

by Mike Binder

  They tucked into Bloomsbury Square. A tiny, authentically square patch of unhealthy green nestled alongside a tall office block and a row of old homes. It was dark and forgotten. The trees were not large or full enough to hide drug use or illicit sexual encounters, and there was no real place for shelter or sleep, so it sat quietly at night, waiting for the morning and the pedestrian traffic or the first rumble of the parking lot buried below it. Early hung back and gave Georgia the privacy he knew she would never have again. Georgia and Davina instinctively found a nest of small trees to shade themselves from the moonlight.

  They kissed, softly and carefully, neither sure who had initiated the embrace. Steel went weak in the knees. She didn’t want it to end, wanted to pull her even closer, but instead pulled herself back and looked at Georgia. It was a razor’s edge, what she was feeling. It was lust, love, bile, and hate, all in a perfectly wrapped bow. She did what she could to mask the dread. She wasn’t here to confront her. She wasn’t after drama. She was hunting truth. She knew she needed to keep the flame on the front burner. She stroked her cheek, teased her.

  “Madam Prime Minister. What must that be like? You must be so thrilled.” Georgia chuckled in reply.

  “I don’t know what I am. I really don’t. I’m a bit adrift, if you must know. I’m taking it all on a minute-by-minute basis. So much of it doesn’t seem real. Does that make any sense?” Steel nodded, yes, and spoke in a gentle whisper.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about so much—about us, but also the investigation.”

  “Have you uncovered anything new? Is there a break?” She led Steel over to a bench. They sat down holding hands.

  “No. It’s more of what I thought, though. Even clearer now that someone very high up is involved. The murders in Tewkesbury last week of the DPG agents—” Georgia cut her off with a concern that Steel knew was inauthentic.

  “The drug bust?” Steel struggled again to stay in the light, to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “Yes. But it wasn’t a drug bust. It was murder. Heaton’s men were responsible, and it took place on the grounds of his Dorrington property.”

  “That’s absurd. It seems to be a cut-and-dried case of a drugs bust. I read the report.”

  “I was there, Georgia. I saw it all with my own eyes. I watched Edwina die.” The blood drained from Georgia’s face. “Heaton is a monster. He’s behind all of this. He’s murdered that Gordon Thompson, the American’s father-in-law. He tried to murder Roland Lassiter. It’s him. I’m sure of that now.” Steel’s eyes went cold. Georgia saw the change and held her hand firm.

  She wanted to tell Steel everything, let the truth escape from her soul, fly out and up, right there over Bloomsbury Square, but she knew that she couldn’t. She’d be revealing herself not to a beautiful young thing who had somehow stolen her heart, but to an investigator dead set on the truth. She wanted to tell sweet Steel how badly she had been duped, how sick she was with it all. She wanted to confess and collapse right into her arms, to hear young Davina tell her how right it all was eventually going to be, how much she was going to do to protect her. Each breath she took as they silently held each other’s hands brought her closer to releasing her burden—to confession.

  Steel somehow sensed it, somehow gleaned through the old wool coat and the now pushed-back scarf Georgia’s desire to open up to her. She tried to prod the conversation along to her benefit.

  “Do you have any idea who in the government he could have aligned with him, any sense of it?” She looked deep into Georgia’s eyes, begging her to volley back with the truth. Georgia sat there for a loaded moment, waiting for a response to percolate, praying for the right combination of words to come together. What should she protect? Her life? Her job? Her freedom, or her heart? She finally spoke, stroking Steel’s hands as she did.

  “No. No. I have no idea who he’s colluded with. I couldn’t even begin to think who would stoop to that. I wish I had an answer, love. I do.”

  They spoke just a while longer. Georgia laid out promises about uncovering it all—about them finding a time to be alone together, in some safer version of privacy, nothing, though, that had a sincerity to it. It was time to move on—they both knew that. They kissed gently once more, held each other in small fits of warmth, and then Georgia left. Early walked her back to Rimple’s car.

  Steel watched as the government vehicle lumbered off. She had had this one chance to get Georgia to confess. It hadn’t happened. It was over between them. She was sure of that.

  She knew Georgia had cleverly held her tongue. She was sure, as well, that she’d never get as close to her again. It was all now past tense between herself and the new PM. Steel stood alone in the frigid night air on the vacant, sterile, concrete street. She opened her coat and ripped out the useless recording device she had taped to her chest.

  TURNBULL ■ 3

  Heaton wanted Georgia to call for an emergency session at the party conference scheduled that weekend. He wanted her to propose and implement an up-and-down referendum on leaving the European Union. They were in Georgia’s office at Number 10, once again locking horns. She was in as foul a mood as he could ever remember. She had grown to despise Heaton now. “Hate” was too weak a word. She could feel a flame in the back of her throat every time his name or even the thought of him arose. His cologne made her retch; his careless, classless cackle was like nails on a chalkboard; and his incessant demands had been taken to a new level in that they were now voiced openly as orders.

  It had been a full week since she had addressed Parliament and accepted her party’s call to form a government. It had been one long, never-ending series of meetings, dinner parties, and conferences. It felt like it had been a year or more, not anywhere close to a mere seven days. She was tired but she was stronger. She had been off the drugs for almost two weeks and was already standing firmer, sleeping better, and even eating full meals again. She wanted to stand up to Heaton but wasn’t yet sure of just how to do it. She needed to keep him as close as she could until she could strategically end their affiliation.

  “The time is right, Georgia. Now. Not later. The public is ready. They’ve experienced drastic change and it hasn’t been the end of the world. You’ve overseen a smooth transition, Roland is going to survive, and so is all of this.” He waved his arms around the finely crafted room with the ornate souvenirs.

  “We are ready to move on and ready to reclaim what’s been lost. I’ll tell you there’s a majority of the Tories ready and waiting to anoint you with the mandate to do this, you’ve got all of the UKIP vote, and Andrew Bate-Hydely at party policy tells me that he thinks a good third to almost half of our party is ready to take the plunge. Even some of the damn libs are on board. The stars may never line up like this again.”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s time. Not yet. I’m not saying to wait much longer, but Roland was very vocal and public on his not wanting a referendum, on choosing a series of protections and amendments. His white paper stands as record. The ink isn’t dry. I’ll be seen as a provocateur taking advantage of his misfortune.”

  “You’ll be seen as a heroine, the woman that brought England to its senses! Every poll we have done tells us it’s more than feasible.”

  She turned away. “I won’t do it. Not now. We’ve already done enough damage. I need to let the dust settle and run the government. We have other fish to fry here, David. It isn’t all about your grand scheme. I have an agenda to discern from this convention and I need to put together a team to put it in place. We have holy hell still brewing in the Middle East, a crime rate on the ladder up, and unemployment ticking high again for the first time in three years. Give the people a chance to catch their breath. Give me a damn chance to catch my breath. I’ll not be pushed this quick.”

  There was a slight knock on the door. It opened quietly and Sir Melvin Burnlee entered. He reminded her of a tall gray distinguished spruce. Dapper, dignified, and perfectly elegant, Burnlee was a l
ast link to another kind of Englishman. He had been in government or service his entire life; so had his brothers, his father, and his father’s brothers. There were very few families in Britain that had roots and rivers that ran as deep and as true as Burnlee’s did.

  Georgia was shocked to see the home secretary there. He wasn’t one to come by unannounced. It wasn’t his way. He was a “by the books,” old-fashioned sort who would have meetings on preset attendance; even phone calls were scheduled and calendared.

  “Are you with him on this then, Sir Melvin?”

  “I am. Have been all along. Yes.” The wind left the room for Georgia. Heaton had often waved the idea of the “others” in the scheme, how deep the mine had been dug, the pedigree of his pals, but for some reason she never suspected the prim and proper Burnlee to be one to ride along with the strong scent of new-moneyed cologne that Sir David embodied, but apparently he did. He stood right next to Heaton, now firm and proud.

  “It’s time to get on with it, Georgia. We’ve come a long way. There’s no turning back.”

  This was a body blow. If Burnlee had come along, then there were surely others. The party was aboard as well. This had all been planned, consecrated, and anointed by a cabal with incredibly rooted ties. On one level she felt safer, not as alone, more sure-footed in terms of being able to ride along and complete any cover-up. On another, much broader and more profound plane, she felt thoroughly saddened for her country, for what they had done, for the trust they had squandered, obliterated. Yes, they had their patriotic reasons—they yearned for a true referendum above the reach of politics, to “let the people speak”—but they had done it in a way that was beyond sinister. It was malevolent and ultimately nothing shy of unfiltered evil. They must have all, on some level, known that and decided not to let it stop them.

  Burnlee nodded to her. She had no response. He left the office. Heaton looked back once more to Georgia. He seemed to want to say more, maybe even to comfort her. He knew her well enough to know that now wasn’t the time. He kept his head low and made his exit.

  She let Jack Early know that she needed a break. She went wordlessly up to her flat at 11, closed the door, and tried to stop herself from spinning. She went to the bottom of her drawer and pulled out a small Dopp kit. She fished out the bottle, backed over to the bed, tried to breathe as she sat down, and popped open the bottle. She didn’t even fight herself, knew that it was useless. She swallowed two of her little “candy” pills.

  TATUM ■ 3

  Adam left the family at “the fleabag,” as they now called it, and walked several blocks to a local printing shop that still sold Internet access. It was a blessedly foreign-owned shop whose owners weren’t tuned in to the daily blast of British politics, or the “Hunt for Adam Tatum” show that locals were still reading about regularly. He had shaved his head and grown a solid goatee, lost at least ten pounds from stress, and truly did look like another person. He felt like another person as well. The man on the television, the face flashing from newsstands, wasn’t him anymore. That was a different man, from another time and a far-off place. That man had a sense of who he was, what he wanted, a head full of dreams and goals for himself and his family. This man—this bald, goateed, skinny man with the limp from the dog-ravaged leg bites and the haunted memories of his father-in-law’s brutal death—had no dreams, no plans, and no schemes. Nothing concerned him now that didn’t deal directly with survival.

  He googled “Jack Early.” One result was an entry on a wordy blog about the activities of Britain’s civil service workers. The post described a 2007 banquet in a town called Skegness. The roll call of those attending listed a Jack and Darleen Early. This was his man: a civil servant with a one-off work address—10 Downing Street.

  He searched for “Jack and Darleen Early.” The names came up on several property tax roll calls in someplace called Croydon. They owned a home. He looked up the address and scrolled through estate listings on the property. Jack Early and his wife, Darleen Early, were listed as owners. He read through a mortgage history of the home listed on Dulcette Way in Croydon. The owner, this “Early,” had stated he was under the employment of the national civil service. He laughed to himself that it was so easy.

  A Somali woman at the next computer over smiled his way. She was happy to see any form of joy. Her big, toothy beam warmed him for a brief second.

  “Got him,” he exclaimed, not even sure why he was communicating with a stranger. “I got my man.” The woman smiled brightly once again, a vacant flash of her teeth. She didn’t speak a word of English.

  He took a bus down to Croydon the next morning. He found the home on Dulcette Way and was there by 5:30 a.m., perched on a bus bench across and over from the suspected Early house. He had a full view of the door. He waited. No one came out for two hours. Then a young man, maybe fifteen, gangly and thin who looked like a younger version of Jack Early, left the house, unchained a bicycle from the front garden, and pedaled off. A half hour later the door opened again. A woman, a thick one with a curly shock of gray hair, shepherding two younger girls, maybe ten and twelve, walked out and away up the street.

  He waited another two hours. Still no Early. The sun came out loud and proud, and then it rained. The thick woman lumbered back home and banged the front door closed. People came and went. He let each and every bus pass, seated diligently until it became obvious: Early wasn’t there.

  He took the bus back to London. He decided he had been too late. Early leaves early. He picked up a magazine left behind on the bus and read a story about himself, about his life, his bomb-making techniques. He read about a murder he committed in Kent: Richard Lyle, his wife’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently Adam was a deranged bomber and also a jealous, scorned lover/murderer, on the run and extremely dangerous. It was all laughable fiction but read well. When he’d had enough, he turned to a story on some famous pop star’s favorite soups. It seemed to have more truth to it, so he read it through as the bus made its way back over the Thames.

  The next night he caught the final bus south. One a.m. He needed to be there well before first light, before the first bus left London. He got to Croydon at two a.m., had a coffee from a place called the Two Brothers Café, which was open late, and walked the chalky streets until four thirty a.m., taking his place on the bus bench across from Early’s house to once again wait patiently.

  He still hadn’t told Kate and the kids his plan. They were also waiting patiently: still numb, not a lot of talking, watching old movies, playing games on an iPad, eating takeout, quietly huddled in the musty room next door, the kids’ room, the one that Kate was now living in. He was alone, limping around on his side of the family hovel, quietly muttering to himself.

  He would tell them soon. He would carefully tell them all that the plan was to kidnap one of Early’s children, to make Early help them. He would force Early to tell the truth, tell the media. The scheme wasn’t fully formed enough to inform his family yet. Kate and the kids were all he had and he would need their help, particularly Trudy’s.

  At 4:50 a.m., Early came out his front door and walked across the street, straight toward Adam with purpose. He had been spotted. It was over before it began. He wondered if he should run but decided not to. He decided he wouldn’t get too far with his legs bandaged up the way they were. He would let Early confront him, then he’d bellow back, accuse him of attempted murder, treason. He would let him know that others knew. He sat firm and let his heart pound as the lanky little man crossed over to him in the cold, dark morning air.

  Early sat down on the bench next to him. There was a pause. He looked over, half smiled, pulled out a newspaper, and began to do the crossword puzzle. Adam took his first breath since Early had come out his front door. He was just waiting for the bus and hadn’t suspected Adam in the slightest.

  The London-bound bus came. Early climbed on and so did Adam. He took a seat at the rear and watched the back of Early’s head in the middle of the mostly empty bus as it rumbled nort
h through Brixton. Early finally got off just below the river. Adam disembarked and followed as he went into the Underground at Vauxhall and caught the train for Westminster. On the Tube, much more occupied than the half-empty Croydon bus, Early stood holding a strap, staring out the useless windows into the fleeting black of the tunnel as the train barreled its way toward the seat of power.

  Early’s gaze was vacant, Adam thought. There was nothing seriously worrying him. He wasn’t in any danger; his family was safe and warm. With a good job with the most powerful woman in the country, he had nothing to be troubled about. So big deal, he had helped place a bomb that almost killed the prime minister, had committed an act of sabotage that could have him imprisoned for life. His silly, smoky face revealed no burden of the weight of seditious activity. His kids were off to school and, according to the Google search, his mortgage would be fully paid in six years. Life was running along nicely for this “Jack Early.” He was most certainly not on the run; he had no reason to shave his head.

  Adam let him go at Westminster. He didn’t need to follow on through to the final leg of his commute. That wasn’t the point. He stayed on as the Tube rocketed off. He had seen what he needed to see.

  STEEL ■ 3

  Steel visited Edwina Wells’s grave in Hoddesdon. There was a light rain that fit the occasion. She was buried next to her father, a former officer of Scotland Yard, and her sister who had died of leukemia at age nine in the 1960s. The family graves were on a slight hill behind a large stone church.