by Mike Binder
“This one, I don’t think so. I have heard nothing. You know I would tell you if I had, but this is not something that people are talking about. They are only sad. Sad and convinced it will bring people such as yourself around asking questions.”
“Well, they’re correct, because here I am. With you. Having a kebab for breakfast. You know how I hate Middle Eastern food, so what does that tell you?”
“It tells me you are desperate for something to go on. I wish I had it for you, Davina, mostly so that I could make your struggle easier. Truthfully, I have nothing.”
After some small talk and a promise to have him up soon to her parents’ café for a “decent meal,” she took the Piccadilly line to Euston station, where she transferred to the Northern line to Old Street and walked the four blocks to the offices of Heaton Global on Farringdon Street. She could have easily been driven by a Met patrol car, but she liked the Tube. She liked to wander London on her own, outside and underground, bathed in the sea of faces, scents, and sounds that washed over her on the go. She was at her most productive then, thinking through the questions she needed to answer in her daily work.
She was reasonably sure the conference meeting with the Heaton Global officers at Number 10, two hours before the blast, was unrelated. Sir David Heaton, the chairman of the company, was as high up and connected in British moneyed society and government circles as one could get and it was he, according to the logs, who had led the meeting, bringing in nine of his company officers.
Heaton was nearly a national institution. He had even cameoed in a series of travel ads abroad, extolling reasons to come visit London. If one were into creepy rich white men who had spent their lives stepping over the less fortunate, Steel would suggest that Heaton could be your idea of a perfect man. In short, she found him repulsive. Nonetheless, she needed to speak with him, if only to get his measure on the mood and movements at Number 10 just before the blast.
The HGI complex on Farringdon Street is a twelve-story modern showpiece that sits flat and firm on an entire city block. Davina was surprised at how quickly, once having showed her badge and announced herself, she was whisked through the three-story atrium lobby, across the back side of the building, and then up into what seemed like a private elevator to the top floor and the suites that she assumed were Heaton’s private offices.
A sharply dressed, nice-looking young woman with beautiful hair right out of a shampoo commercial led Steel down the hall into a cushy den with overstuffed chairs and a small sofa. The den connected to a large, sleek office that wrapped around the back of the building, offering a nice view of the Thames a quarter mile south. The woman also smelled like a shampoo commercial, Steel decided. She also noticed that her shoes, while highly polished and cleaned, were of a slightly dated style, and the heels had been redone several times, judging by the way they sat under the body of the shoe. Maybe having an executive job like this came with pressure to dress much wealthier than one was. Obviously it took a certain resourcefulness to keep up with Sir David’s expectations.
After a short wait, Heaton came bounding into the den. He had a fake tan and wore an incredibly expensive suit, a custom-fitted tight shirt, and a smartly woven silk tie. He had an oxygenated glow to his skin, and the back of his hair was still wet, which made Steel assume he had just come from the gym—he probably spent a lot of time there, she thought, the gym and the tanning salon. He had a near-perfect set of veneers and perfect fake teeth. She knew they were fake only because she had read online that he had flown his private jet to Beverly Hills to have his teeth done by Dr. Kevin Sands, the world-renowned dentist to the stars. It was an amazing smile, but the idea of all that time and expense to have your teeth fixed left an odd taste in her mouth.
“So I figured you’d be round to see me once I had heard they’d settled on you for the lead spot on the investigation, but I didn’t suspect you’d be this quick.”
“Who did you hear that from? That they had ‘settled’ on me?”
“Oh, surely you’re not so naive as to think that I don’t have friends who were inside of the Cabinet Room yesterday?”
“What made you think I’d be round?”
“We were there, in the very room the bomb went off, a good hour or two before. Why wouldn’t you come around with some questions? Especially someone as good at what she does as you are, Ms. Steel.”
He sat down next to her, got closer than she wanted him to get. He smiled in a way that was meant to be charming, clubby. Steel had no interest in getting “clubby” with Sir David Heaton.
“Did you notice anything suspicious going on at the time you were at Number 10?”
“Of course not. If I had, I would have said something straight up. This whole thing is devastating to me. I’ve known Roland Lassiter going on thirty years.”
“What was the business of your meeting? Why was it held in the White Room?”
“I would think for the sake of the size. There were a handful of us, more than a good ten or so from the civil service side, the chancellor, the cabinet secretary. The PM just popped in for a few minutes, but there were too many for one of the offices, and I don’t think it was of a nature that was right for us to meet in the Cabinet Room.”
“What was the meeting’s nature?”
“Civil service’s pension program. We were pitching a plan to privatize. A scheme to make the pensions more valuable, to give the civil servants more retirement security.”
“And I suppose a pretty penny for your coffers as well?”
“Very good. Yes.” He almost winked at her, threw a wry grin. Steel realized he was enjoying the banter. “We don’t run a charity, you know that, right?”
“Who was in your delegation?”
“I’m sure you have a list. Everyone had to be vetted by security. We spent a chilly three-quarters of an hour at the gate, in the shack, as we came in.”
“Yes, we do have a list. I’m just trying to be certain that there’s no one in the group that you think I may need to have a chat with.”
“They were all my people. My top pensions specialists. Most from the Paris office. Some from Texas.”
“All people you know well, I presume?”
“Yes. Surely. All people I have worked with in this side of the business for years. The best.” He remembered something then—she saw a flash go by his eyes. He wanted to move on, figured it wasn’t relevant. She wanted to deal with whatever had just crossed his mind.
“Each of them? You knew them all by name?”
Heaton stopped now and took a quick beat with his answer for the first time.
“No. Actually, not all of them. All but one. An American. He’s new. I don’t know him. Don’t even know his name. He’s from the Chicago office.”
“Why was he involved? Why was he in the group?”
“It’s a good question, that. He’s a strong salesman, I believe. I think someone in the company is pushing him along. That’s the sense I had. I think he’s what we call a ‘closer.’ Very smooth. Lots of personality.”
“Why would they need that when they have you, Sir David?”
Heaton liked her. He liked her cheek. He might have even liked the fact that she didn’t seem to like him and didn’t feel the need to hide the dislike.
“There’s a good question, too. You’ve got yourself on a roll, Ms. Steel. Nevertheless, someone wanted him at the table, someone felt he’d be a strong asset, and in the end it was fine with me.”
“Someone who? Can I get the name of the person who wanted him at the table?”
“I will get it for you. I don’t have it on the tip of my tongue. It was someone in retirement services. You do realize I have three thousand people working for me, right, Inspector?”
Steel didn’t volley back. She wanted to let him sit for a beat and wondered if this was anything, thought that maybe he was playing with her, having his idea of fun. Heaton just stared across at her, smiling, beaming, trying hopelessly to be charming, she assumed.
>
“And you don’t have his name? The American? His address in the UK?”
“No. But my office does. You can feel free to get it on the way out. Even though I don’t know his name, you can rest assured I didn’t bring a terrorist into Number 10. It’s not my style.”
“I’m just doing my job, sir.”
“Of course you are. From what I hear, you do it quite well. Make sure you let me know if I can help in any way. Okay?” He leered at her now, openly checking out her figure. “Feel free to call me anytime, Inspector Steel. I’m going to make it a point to leave my door always open to you.”
She headed down to the private elevator.
There was something about people like Heaton that she couldn’t stand. The odds were, she was sure, that he was clueless as to what had happened at Number 10, but a side of her wished he wasn’t. She wished she could pin the whole thing on him. As ludicrous as it was, a smile came to her mouth just thinking about it as the elevator door closed.
* * *
THE PRESS WAS packed a good twenty people deep around the entrance of St. Thomas’s Hospital when Georgia’s Jaguar pulled up for her visit to Roland Lassiter. Poor Jack Early got out too fast, tripped on the curb, and fell straight onto the cement, picking himself up quickly as the cameras flashed and whirled. Georgia was sure this would be on the nightly news. It was typical Jack Early, though, and she didn’t even mention it as he opened her door and got her through the noise and the nonsense into the hospital.
His Majesty, the king, was scheduled to visit, too. The palace had arranged for him to pay his best wishes and to make a public appearance with an early morning call in Lassiter’s hospital room. It wouldn’t do much good: they had the PM sedated and unconscious as they monitored his body and tried to ascertain which of the several courses of surgery were going to be most useful. It had been a full thirty-eight hours since the blast had opened him up, and the best the doctors could come up with was to keep his organs still for a few more hours and watch his vitals. No one was in too keen a rush to do extensive surgery. There wasn’t a doctor on staff who could be sure that his broken body could handle any more trauma.
Georgia was there to await the king. She had managed earlier to get a minute with Lassiter as well, but there truly was no point. She sat by the side of his bed and spoke softly to her old friend.
“I’m so sorry, Roland, so sorry this happened to you. I beg you to please pull through, for your family, for me, for the country. Please, Roland, I suspect you can hear me. Please fight on.”
There was no response, just more bleeping from the bank of machinery to which he was now coupled. She tried to get through to him anyway.
“You know, Roland, there’s been a candlelight vigil for you in Whitehall for the last two nights. You’re quite loved, it seems. The country is gutted—you should know that.”
She was telling him the truth. It had been a shocking two days for the people of England. The news on television and radio spoke of little else. Even in America, the twenty-four-hour channels had churned it up as it became the biggest news event since 9/11. The Americans loved Roland—he had a higher approval rating than any president had had since the elder Bush threw Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait—and they wanted to know every detail as soon as it happened. There had even been a US network nighttime special report the previous evening that had preempted the finale of Dancing with the Stars and had broken all kinds of long-standing ratings records.
Meanwhile, at home, the borders, bridges, rail stations, and airports were all on a version of lockdown. Every line moved in the country like molasses as the authorities did their best to know who everyone was and where they were going. There was a manic frenzy at Downing Street, Whitehall, and New Scotland Yard to arrive at some sense of who had done this and what their next move would be.
Georgia leaned in closer to Lassiter’s bed. She took his hand and held it in hers. “It’s been quite a ride these last two years, hasn’t it, my friend?”
Only Georgia, and most likely his wife, Kirsty, who was off getting the kids to school, trying to keep their lives on as normal a track as possible, really understood how rough a time it had been. She, Kirsty, and all the closest ministers and secretaries had done their best to shield the public and the press and other members of government from the truth of how much the helicopter accident had beaten him. Yes, he had walked away physically unscathed, but emotionally he had never fully recovered. He had refused to fly again: the G20 and any other summits he had some control over had all been on the continent where he could take the train, or else he found some clever way to cancel or to send Georgia. He had suffered from horrible nightmares and anxiety attacks, sure that something catastrophic was next on the horizon. He often broke into a sweat for no reason and was overly sentimental about everything. Worse, it had been like pulling teeth to get him to take a solid stance on any of the projects they had worked on for so long.
This was all kept under wraps and known to a very select few. For the most part he had held up fine, was as popular as ever, but, very much like Georgia, unknown even to her, the crash had also put Roland on a steady diet of the rock candy pain pills.
She pulled closer to the bed, softly stroked his full head of hair, gently adjusting the tubes coming out of his mouth.
“You’re going to make it through, Roland. I have no doubt. I know that as surely as you knew we would take Elmet and Rothwell.”
She leaned back and stared at her old running partner. He seemed so peaceful, so still. Even if he did pull through, this would only make him all the more fragile, all the more skittish. No matter how lucky he was, notwithstanding any medical miracle that he hopefully would have visited upon him, she couldn’t help but wonder if Roland’s time as PM had come to an end.
* * *
A CONFERENCE ROOM at the far side of the hospital had been fitted out as a room where Georgia could greet and speak with the king. The palace would want as much information on the crime as she had but, more important, it was set so the press could report that the government and the monarchy were in constant contact throughout the crisis. Georgia had met the king only a few times before at state dinners, during a visit that he and his wife had paid to Downing Street when Roland had first formed the government and, of course, at this very hospital, when he and his wife and brother visited them both after the helicopter accident. Roland met with the king at Buckingham Palace on a semiweekly basis, but even when he couldn’t, due to travel or health problems, she had never been asked to substitute for him in those sit-downs.
The king’s valet, Andrew McCullough, a rigid man in his late seventies with a Victorian-era beard and a boulder-shaped potbelly, waited with Georgia outside the conference room. When he was signaled, he nodded solemnly to Georgia that it was time and carefully opened the door, motioning her to follow into the room. The king stood in the room’s center, ready to be received. Several aides perched firmly by the windows, waiting for their next orders. She bowed in a curtsy. He dropped his head for a half nod and held his hand out. Georgia wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to do next. Do I bow again? Nod some more? Do I come to him? I completely forget the order of things I’m supposed to do. I can’t believe this. I feel so damn feebleminded. She moved forward and took his hand gently.
“Your Majesty.” The king, tall and lean, with a smooth, pleasant face, seemed appreciative. None of his courtiers attacked her. She assumed she must have done it all correctly so far.
“Once again we meet on a somber morning, Ms. Turnbull.”
“Yes, sir, we do. I am told, though, that he is holding steady. He is a fighter, as you know.”
“I do. I know that, and I can only hope he summons all he has now.” He was genuinely concerned for Roland. It was obvious, Georgia thought. The two men got along well, saw the world in many similar ways. Roland had forged as strong a friendship as one could form with the king of England.
“I’m told we have little firm in the way of answers
here. Is this your assessment, Chancellor?”
“It is, sir. But, as you know well, we’ll have all the pedals pushed to the floor. We’ll have clarity soon, I can promise that.”
“I’m sure everyone is fully invested. I have no doubt of that. This is a nightmare. Truly dark days.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. They surely are.”
“If he isn’t to pull through? What is the plan then, Madam Chancellor?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t one just yet. We are all hoping he will come through. In the meantime, the government is functioning. I’m at Number 10, in contact with all branches as well as the opposition.” She made sure to look the king squarely in the eye on that, wanted to convey confidence to the monarch. He took the answer in with a gentle nod.
“Will you be able to form a government in the event of the worst?”
“We haven’t gotten there yet, Your Highness. But, yes, I believe if it comes to the crown having to ask me that question, I will be able to answer to your satisfaction.” He let the report roll around in his royal brain for a beat, his back still stiff and his feet firmly planted as he weighed out the severity of the moment.
“Very good. Please keep me informed, won’t you?”
“I will, sir. Of course.”
She half bowed again, wondering if that indeed was the proper way to say good-bye as she backed slowly to the door behind her, knowing well enough not to show the monarch her backside. She almost tripped over a chair and found the door. She nodded, bowed again, and quickly backed out of the room.
BEFORE ■ 3
Adam lay on the bench in the musty jail cell for another hour or so. The old drag queen was gone. A Haitian man was brought in for a short time and then taken away, and he was by himself once again, alone with no idea what had happened. No real sense if he really had beaten the little blond call girl, as the man in the dress had said he did. He had never hit a woman in his life, had never even been accused of anything like that, yet he honestly didn’t know what he had done or not done. The soreness in his battered hands wouldn’t go away. He was sure someone must have put something in his drink. He was also reasonably certain that Heaton was to blame, or at least one of Heaton’s bodyguards.
