by Mike Binder
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For Diane, Molly, and Burt … as always
One ought never to turn one’s back on a threatened danger and try to run away from it. If you do that, you will double the danger. But if you meet it promptly and without flinching, you will reduce the danger by half.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
PART ONE
AFTER
BEFORE
AFTER THE BOMBING ■ 1
The bomb went off at 10 Downing Street just after six p.m. Georgia had been in the small private bathroom off her office at Number 11, trying once again, as usual, to make some sense of her hair before she met with Alistair Stephenson, the minister of education. She had just taken her third pain pill of the day. The ache in her leg was a distant irritant most times now, sporadically troublesome in the morning or after a long day of travel, but the pills made the tumult of her life easier to deal with, so she ate them gladly, like bright red rock candy.
It was a loud, booming roar of a blast that shook the walls, made the building roll, and even, Georgia thought later, lifted it as if it were just a small cardboard mock-up of Downing Street. The explosion was shadowed by an eerie moment of quiet, a confused sea of silence that washed over the building and cascaded down the halls of both Numbers 10 and 11. Georgia, the chancellor of the exchequer, stood alone for several stunned seconds. Jack Early, her private secretary, broke the hush when he ran down the hall just as alarm bells began to ring and voices could be heard shouting down the back corridors.
“Madam, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, that was devastating. Please tell me everyone’s all right. What was it?”
She was dizzy, spinning, or maybe the room was; maybe Early was spinning and not her. She grabbed the side of her large wooden desk to stay upright.
“I believe it was a bomb. It must’ve been. In Number 10.” Early was even paler then he normally was. The palest, driest-skinned man she had ever known was somehow even whiter and drier now than usual. He was shaking. Others were now gathering in the hallway outside. The two perky blondes who worked in Early’s office whispered quietly to him about plans on where and how to evacuate Georgia.
A Metropolitan Police officer, from the Diplomatic Protection Group, a tall man with a thick shock of white hair and a stern, worried look on his face, came into the room speaking in a hushed, determined tone. He spoke quickly to Early in the outer office, then turned to Georgia.
“You’ll need to come with me, Chancellor. Straight off, please.”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“There’s been a bomb. An explosion. Seems to have gone off on the second floor of Number 10. We need to move you at once.”
“What about the prime minister? Where is he?”
“It appears that the PM’s been hit, ma’am. He’s being attended to now.”
“Hit? How? Is he going to be…”
“Ma’am, all that I’ve been told is that we need to get you out of the building. Right now.”
“Others?”
“No. Just the PM. We need to go, Madam Chancellor.”
The Second Lord of the Treasury, or the chancellor of the exchequer, has with time become the most powerful office in the British government, next to the prime minister. Georgia Turnbull was the first woman to ever hold the post. She was Prime Minister Roland Lassiter’s longest-running trench mate in politics. Brilliant, steel-willed, and confident to a fault, her relationship with Lassiter was complicated and intricate. It ran hot and cold, was deeply important to both, and confusing to all others. She was Lloyd George to his Asquith or, more to the point, Brown to his Blair. They had gone to university together, had come up through the rough and tumble of party politics, won a bitter election, cobbled together a government, helped the country climb out of a prolonged triple-dip recession, twisted and tugged new life out of a broken civil service, and had even, two years earlier, survived a horrific helicopter crash together. The relationship was so intense that quite a few friends had quietly always suspected that Ms. Turnbull had secretly been in love with the extremely photogenic and very married Roland Lassiter.
Physically, Georgia possessed a brand of beauty that was all her own. The word “striking” had always been used in any description of her. She was tall, with a commanding presence and dark penetrating eyes on a radiant face blanketed with creamy alabaster skin. She had wild hair that ran afoul of any sense of direction or obedience to grooming. Even as a young woman, her drive, candor, and razor-sharp intellect had all combined to make an extremely attractive, if not run-of-the-mill, kind of beauty. She had a slight stoop that was only exaggerated with the fallout from the helicopter accident, her gait now stilted with the constant need of a cane.
People outside were running around Number 10 and Number 11 in what seemed like every direction. There was panic in the wind, sirens bouncing up Whitehall in a pack now, forming together into a single war whoop, coating the air with a blanket of fright. Georgia reached the street outside the buildings just as armored cars and SUVs screeched to a desperate stop. Men in bulletproof police uniforms hunkered down with rifles and communications gear. The entire area was transformed with lightning speed into a locked-down armored military theater. She and Jack Early were quickly and carefully ushered into an army-outfitted SUV and driven out of Downing Street past a never-ending line of arriving squad cars and a short, sturdy row of tanks that were set up in the middle of the main road. A hazmat truck barreled up to the front gate and was flagged in past all of the other vehicles. Helicopters circled overhead, both army and police. An overeager news copter was instantly forced away. As if a switch had been flipped on, a parallel chaotic universe instantly came into existence. Georgia looked back at the rush of manic movement as her vehicle hustled away up Whitehall, smoke billowing toward the sky from a fire in Number 10, her thoughts only on Roland Lassiter, not even daring to think the worst.
* * *
A FEW HOURS later, the world had been told—not in the way they had all wanted the world to be told; not in the way Georgia wanted to see it unfold; not to the liking of Kirsty Lassiter, Roland’s beloved, permanently put-upon wife, or Sir Melvin Burnlee, the home secretary, and least of all not to the satisfaction of Alan Munroe, Lassiter’s long-hovering director of communications and strategy. They hadn’t even had the chance to inform anyone at Buckingham Palace. The word was out to the world before any of them really had a clue themselves as to exactly what had transpired.
The entire government was frozen in a shell-shocked daze for more than two hours. In the vacuum, the press took the ball and ran with it. The news was leaked out in a typically tawdry modern way: a patchwork quilt of guesswork and innuendo that belittled everything about the situation, the integrity of the government, the life of Roland Lassiter, and the emotions of the British people. There was no waiting out of courtesy, no checking of facts. The press just tripped over themselves to be the first to report on the tragedy: an explosion at Nu
mber 10, Roland Lassiter on his deathbed. He hadn’t even reached the hospital when Sky News broke the story with helicopter shots of the Metropolitan Police shutting down and evacuating Downing Street, front and back.
In lieu of any substantiated information, these were the images that the entire world watched, over and over on a continuous loop for several hours. Blurry video from a God’s-eye view showed police, government workers, and military figures running to and fro in odd confusion-driven circles, like worker bees whose hive had been shot through with a shotgun blast. Number 10 was utter chaos.
* * *
LATE IN THE evening, Georgia and Early were more or less hidden in a secure COBRA conference room somewhere in Whitehall. They were with Sir Melvin Burnlee, whose brief included MI5, the Met police, the Diplomatic Protection Group, and all of the police and investigation services in matters of interior, and Felix Holmby, the deputy prime minister. Georgia had just hung up with the palace and was told she would be getting a call from His Royal Highness, the king, in a short time. She also took a call from the American president and the newly elected president of France.
Finally a call came in from Louise Bloomfield, the prime minister’s private secretary. She had traveled with Mrs. Lassiter to the hospital behind the ambulance. The only news she offered was that the PM was still unconscious and that the bomb had done serious, yet not necessarily life-threatening, damage to his midsection.
Lassiter may well survive this one, Georgia thought to herself in the form of a silent prayer. Maybe he truly does live some kind of magically dusted life, just as he always claimed he did.
“The gods are on my side, Georgia. I predict we will take South Ribble, Stafford, Ilford North, and even Elmet and Rothwell tonight. They may have history, them, but I’m one charmed bastard on a whale of a run lately, and they’ll all have to just deal with it up there.”
She thought back on that night of their first general election, the night they came to power, the night the world changed. She also remembered the morning three years later when they crashed to the sea in a giant metal army helicopter, her leg shattering into fifteen pieces, her collarbone breaking in half like a holiday wishbone, two soldiers dead from the crash, another drowned during the rescue, and Lassiter without a scratch. He walked away more or less unharmed. Maybe he was right; maybe he was of a special breed. Maybe he could survive this awful blow. Dear God, please let it be so.
* * *
BEFORE LONG IT had fallen to Georgia to make the first official public statement, to address the press on behalf of her government, her party, her country, and Roland Lassiter. She dreaded it. It wasn’t that she was press shy—she wasn’t—and it wasn’t that the press disliked her, as she felt they always had. It came with the job, and she lived with it. This was different: she was too gutted, too emotional to make a calm statement.
She normally enjoyed public speaking, got a quiet kick out of the limelight, whether she was addressing the press, the annual party convention, the G20, the Trades Union Congress, or even when she took prime minister’s questions at Commons for Lassiter. She reveled in it when she had a point of view, when she argued ways into or out of an issue. In those moments, on the stage or at the podium, she thought of herself proudly as a conviction politician, a soldier with a cause, and it lifted her above anything as petty as stage fright.
The press platform was placed out in front of the Whitehall gate on the far side of the security booths. Downing Street was shut down tight until it was made sure there weren’t additional bombs still to go off. The press camped along the front sidewalk and the lip of the driveway. Georgia, Early, and Munroe came up Whitehall in the army SUV and tucked in right behind the platform. As she disembarked from the SUV she thought that maybe she would do without the cane. It obviously spoke of infirmity, an image she wasn’t the least bit eager to put forward. In the end she decided she needed it, and the fallout if she couldn’t make it, if she needed to be walked back in after, would have been much worse than people seeing her with the cane she’d already been married to for almost two years.
She hobbled out slowly, facing the overflowing crowd of cameras, reporters, sound technicians, and segment producers. It was the biggest gathering of its kind she had ever witnessed at Downing Street or, for that matter, anywhere else. She did her best to settle at the portable podium and meet the crowd out on the avenue there with a brave resolute stance.
“Good evening. As you may already know, we have had a most cowardly act visited upon our house. We are all in a state of shock, to say the least. Our hearts and minds are steadfastly alongside Roland Lassiter and his brave family today. Our prime minister, our friend, our leader, has suffered greatly … yet I am pleased to say that though he may be slightly weary from the events of today, his gentle smile and his renowned faculties are all intact and will soon be ready to once again be put to service by us all.”
Her speech went on, giving details where she could, in as plainly personal a way as she felt comfortable. She reminded herself that she was there to calm. She tried desperately not to show the fear and the dread she felt, so she spoke clearly, looking into each of the different cameras, hoping not to transmit the doubt she was choking on.
It was the final line of her statement that both she and Munroe knew would get the largest share of ink, would stir the most emotion: a bellicose warning, wrapped in her sharp Scottish accent—a shot across the bow to the perpetrators of the act.
“In short time, as the dust settles, we will piece together the events of this dark day and then, with the warm light of a clear morning, we will come for you, we will find you, and I promise, on behalf of our United Kingdom, there will be hell to pay.”
Her statement read, she turned and burrowed her way back inside the SUV. As the press shouted a barrage of questions to her, she ignored them all. She just kept moving into the truck where once inside she slumped into her seat, settled her body in, and then, as they pulled away from view, quickly and energetically, she began to weep.
BEFORE THE BOMBING ■ 1
The best thing about living in Wilmette, Illinois, was how easily Adam Tatum could get to the train station and then to downtown Chicago to his office at Heaton Global Investments, or HGI as it was known in the eleven nations where it had offices. This job, the first he’d ever held that had required him to wear a jacket and tie, still baffled him. How he had gotten it, what they saw in him, what he was supposed to do, and if he was going to be any good at it were still unanswered questions, even after he’d been there for eight months. The only things that made any sense to him were the forty-minute train ride into Chicago and the moments every morning when Kate, his wife, and Trudy and Billy, his two children, all dropped him off at the little redbrick Wilmette train station.
They had previously lived in Michigan before being uprooted by this new job. He had been born and raised in Michigan. He and Kate had met in Ann Arbor when she was a student at the University of Michigan. The gods had somehow sent her to him from London. He was a first-year member of the Ann Arbor police force, three years older than her, nice-looking, quick-witted, and charismatic. He was a cop; he started as a patrolman and had gone on to quickly climb the ranks of the police department and had been made detective in record time. He had spent his life overcoming every obstacle en route to every single thing he wanted to achieve.
In truth, he never really loved being a cop. He became one because his father and his father’s five brothers were either cops or reps for the policemen’s union. He had floated along in the wake of his family, happy to just do what had been done, to excel in the arena that Tatums had always excelled in—until he met Kate. Kate changed everything.
She was in Michigan studying art and running away from either someone in Britain or Britain in general. She was an answer to a dream he hadn’t remembered having, a prayer that had been granted before it had even been solicited. They dated, fell in love, started a family, and built a life—a life that just two years earlier
he had stupidly done his best to smash against the rocks.
* * *
HE KISSED HIS wife and kids good-bye and settled into a seat on the second level of the aging passenger train. He watched as Kate’s Jeep Wagoneer tucked into the morning traffic going out of Wilmette Village, into a line of nice cars driven by all the other moms who looked like they’d been pulled straight out of the background of one of those old John Hughes films: all pretty and relatively thin with bobbing hair and brightly colored Banana Republic wool sweaters, smiling wearily in the morning light as they dutifully dropped their husbands at the train station.
Not Kate. She was no background character. She was the exception. She had star billing in whatever it was she did. She was one of a kind, his Kate: blond, buxom, and sturdy; British to the tee; a stunner; thirty-seven years old, with bold blue eyes and hardened opinions that could bend solid steel.
Adam’s sight was locked onto her and the Jeep as the train pulled away, the village traffic letting up at the same time. They drove along side by side, just for a moment, until the road forked off. She didn’t feel him staring; she was too busy arguing with Trudy, their perpetually heartbroken sixteen-year-old, to notice her husband watching her lovingly and longingly from the second story of the old Amtrak runner. She couldn’t see the want in his eyes, the desperate wish he was making that he could somehow will it all to be better for them, to somehow make her understand that the hell he’d put them through these last two years was truly over.
As the train barreled south and the quiet commuters read their papers, watched their iPads, and sipped their travel cups, he thought again about his job, toiling away at the biggest financial services company on the planet, just one of the many things he’d said yes to Kate about during these last tumultuous two years. He would do anything to make things right. Even take a job in a city and a state in which he knew no one, and in a business which he knew nothing about. Every day he put on the pants, jacket, and tie, boarded the train, went downtown to Heaton Global Investments off the Dearborn Street Bridge, and tried like hell to fit in and to learn—all for Kate and the kids.
