Keep Calm

by Mike Binder

  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. Spel
ling 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?”

  “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 ■ 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.