Keep Calm

by Mike Binder

  She started to cry. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. She just started bawling. A couple at another table looked over.

  “What will we tell the kids?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. Right now, there’s a rental place a block from here. We’re gonna get a car. I’ll tell the kids we’re going to take a drive. We’ll figure out what to tell them on the way to the airport.”

  “We can’t just leave England, not without you.”

  “You have to. I’ll figure it out; I’ll work out another way home. I promise.” He reached across and took hold again of her hand in her lap. She was as cold as ice, numb with shock. A sudden realization caused another tear to suddenly leap from her eye, painting her big cheek with a deeper sadness.

  “My father?”

  “Yes. He’s part of it.”

  ON THE HUNT ■ 2

  Davina Steel sat on a small couch in a crowded vestibule outside the prime minister’s office, the office that Georgia was temporarily working from. Georgia was inside with Jack Early, Major Darling, Burnlee, Edwina Wells, and several of the top COBRA people. They were discussing the investigation, but in actuality they were discussing Steel. Should she be taken off the case and put onto something else?

  Steel’s outburst outside of Heaton Global had caused a major rethink up and down the chain. Could something of this importance be spearheaded by someone as emotionally volatile and obviously immature as Steel? That was the question in play as Steel sat outside on the couch, punching away on her laptop, awaiting news if she’d be pried from the case, pulled away from her unique proximity to Georgia. Maybe that would be best, she thought. Being around her had become so fraught with emotion.

  Inside, at Lassiter’s desk, Georgia struggled to think clearly. She was exhausted. It was early. She hadn’t slept once again the night before. Yesterday had been a long slog with the press demanding to know what Lassiter’s future held. Would he be back? What would the party do in a reshuffle? Would it be Georgia? Munroe had wedged in a grueling series of one-on-ones with the top papers’ editors, and most of them couldn’t have been bothered to be civil.

  The chancellor was scheduled to do a quick trip to Strasbourg to meet with top European ministers to discuss how to slow down the momentum regarding the upcoming referendum on Europe. The referendum would almost surely lead to Britain pulling from the union once and for all. Part of Georgia would have been overjoyed to let the referendum happen, just get on with it—to take it to the voters to decide. It was the only major issue she and Roland disagreed on. There was also a new inheritance tax cut bill looming that needed Treasury’s guidance, another foray into a political minefield that would come back to haunt Georgia if she did in fact take over as prime minister. All in all, the entire load was more than she could have foreseen. It was a short walk from Number 11 to Number 10, but it felt more like crossing into an entirely different dimension.

  On top of Georgia’s exhaustion and her overbooked schedule was the utterly powerful pull of the pain pills. She was down to her last few. She had tried to wean herself but had only become more irritable, less able to sleep. In her vulnerable state, she was nagged by thoughts of this young inspector. Maybe it would be better, she wondered, if she let these people talk Major Darling into benching Steel. Maybe it was too much for Georgia to process. There was nothing all that comfortable about the feelings she had for Steel. It had been years since she felt this way about a woman, not since university; Steel’s obvious reciprocal passion only made the situation more difficult to bear.

  Representatives from COBRA and DPG, along with the director of Special Branch, all implored Georgia and Burnlee to remove Steel at once.

  “She’s crossed every line there is to cross.”

  “Bringing Heaton into it is absurd—acting that way to a former minister.”

  “Threatening those two men with a gun? Whether or not she should be brought up on charges is what we should be discussing here, not keeping her on.”

  “This American, Tatum, is who we should be focused on finding, not harassing Heaton and his people. Heaton is just as concerned about this as we are. His barrister is Lord Winkle, and he’s preparing to make a formal complaint. This young girl is trouble. She needs to be taken off.”

  In spite of these arguments, both Edwina Wells and Darling still thought that Steel was the right staffer. They agreed that she had gone too far but felt certain they could rein her in. They promised to give her plenty of support and to have backup ready in case her anger were to improperly express itself again.

  As the debate raged, Georgia’s mind was drifting. She badly needed another dose. Her eyelids felt as if they were made of iron. The last thing she wanted was to fall asleep in the middle of another meeting, not after the drubbing she’d taken in the press over falling asleep in the middle of PMQs. The photo of her fast asleep at Parliament was on the cover of every single one of the dailies that morning, and not just the Murdoch-owned ones.

  In the middle of the discussion Steel interrupted by bolting into the office, pushing away the red-faced staffer imploring her to let him announce her. She had her laptop in her hand and her eyes were wide open with exuberance. She had placed another piece of the puzzle.

  “Gordon Thompson is Tatum’s father-in-law. Tatum’s married to his daughter.”

  Darling, Georgia, and the others quickly tried to process the news. It went against anything they had known at this point about Thompson, an innocuous figure at best.

  “He has a daughter, Kate Thompson. She left the country to go to school in Michigan. Met Tatum in Ann Arbor where he was a local cop.”

  Burnlee wasn’t quite making sense of it. Something was bothering him.

  “Why wouldn’t he tell us this? It seems like an easy enough thing to eventually find out. I mean, it’s a strong case to be made for Heaton to be involved—the fact that one of his people, an old friend, is related to the bomber. It’s sloppy. Almost too sloppy.”

  Steel agreed. She’d thought that through, though.

  “Maybe Thompson is another player who’s only in the game to be taken out. Maybe the point will be for the trail to go cold after he and Tatum accidentally turn up dead one day. He seemed shaken to the nub when we were talking to him. He’s likely made out the same story line. He’s more than a bit spooked, that much was obvious. It’s odd I know, but in truth nothing really makes much sense and we still haven’t the faintest clue who the dead man in the back of the Tatums’ rented car is.”

  They were good questions, all of them, yet the newest puzzle piece did nothing but dislodge others. They answered no questions, only raised more; pointed further toward Heaton, but also made Steel wonder why a man at his level, with his clout, would put himself so close to the blade on something like this. It didn’t seem to hold any water.

  It was obvious to Steel that Georgia felt the same way. The connection to Heaton made it all the more confusing. The way some of the others were quick to not let any blame land on Heaton, the fervor that was building to have Steel stand down—it gave the air an uncertainty that she didn’t need, not with all of the other inconsistency floating around her life at the moment.

  “No. Steel will stay on. All information from here on in will come through me, through this office.”

  Burnlee stood. He objected to this course. “Georgia, it cannot be done that way.”

  “It can and it will. I want Inspector Steel to keep me as close to all this as possible. I want her to have as much access to me as possible.”

  Jack Early’s head bobbed in recognition of his marching orders. With various shades of reluctance, Burnlee, Darling, and the rest of the group more or less acquiesced. Georgia and Steel shared a quiet nod with each other across the crowded office, neither of them certain if closer access to the other was the healthiest of personal choices.

  ON THE RUN ■ 3

  The rental of the car from the Avis at Brown Hart Gardens was uneventful. Adam calmly chartered a Ford
station wagon while Kate and the kids waited outside. Trudy begged her mother to explain what was going on. Even little Billy was concerned enough to pull his face out of his portable electronic toy.

  “What about Poppa? When are we going to see Poppa?” the little boy implored Kate with his big, innocent brown eyes. “What if he thinks we’re still at the hotel and he comes there to see me? We were going to feed the ducks in the park. Won’t he be sad? Poppa and I are special friends. That’s what we said.”

  “No, sweetie. Poppa will be fine.” Even talking about her father brought about a stabbing emotional pain. She didn’t want him in her head. She was too mad, too sore, too angry. Her father had conspired against her, put her whole family in danger. It was a blend of burn that she couldn’t deal with, a hurt she felt for her young son who thought he had finally connected with his long-lost mythical “Poppa.” He had no sense of what a colossal shit the old man really was.

  Kate spoke to them both in clustered wisps of careful words, doing everything she could not to burst into tears.

  “Your father’s had a very rough day with his business, kids. He badly needs our support. We’re going to take a ride and help him calm down. I want you both to do whatever you can to just let Daddy relax. Please? Right now is not a good time to argue with him about anything.”

  Both of the children reluctantly agreed to be on their best behavior, both taking Kate at her word that very soon she would give them an explanation for everything that was happening.

  * * *

  IT WAS QUIET in the car as it snaked down below Hyde Park and out onto Cromwell Road, following the A4 until it became the M4. Adam stared ahead, resolutely moving forward, driving without saying a word, only occasionally speaking to honk or swear at a cabbie or a truck driver who had cut him off. Trudy repeatedly asked her parents where they were going. Neither of them would answer. Every now and then Kate would start to weep and then catch herself. Billy kept asking what was wrong, only to be told again and again with a softly whispered tone and a motherly pat that all was fine. The little boy was on the verge of tears himself now; at one point in the backseat he mouthed the word “divorce” to Trudy, who nodded affirmatively. That could be the only answer.

  Sometime later, as the Ford wagon wound its way along the bottom lip of Gunnersbury Park, a little more than halfway to Heathrow, Kate’s cell phone rang. It was Gordon. She picked it up, part instinctively, part purposely, wanting to lash out. Once she did answer, however, in that very second, she realized how few words there were to say, not only how little she could discuss in front of the children but also how utterly and completely he had devastated her. She spoke quietly, in measured tones.

  “What is it that you could possibly want?”

  “I need to speak with you, love.”

  “I have nothing to say to you. You disgust me.” Adam looked over and caught her eye. He took her arm and motioned for her to cover the microphone. She did.

  “Do not tell him where we are going. Do not say a word. He’s going to ask. Tell him nothing.” She nodded, silently agreeing. She listened as her father prattled on about his innocence.

  “I had no idea what was happening. Please know that, Kate. I thought this was a simple white-collar crime that would have no bearing on anything other than Adam making a lot of money for taking a stupid risk. I was told they would cover all the downside. I was told nothing of a bombing until it was too late—nothing whatsoever. I promise that to be the truth.”

  Kate wasn’t letting him off the hook, not even a little. She kept her voice down to a whisper, yet her words were couched in a sharp, decisive cadence. She wanted him to know there was nothing he could say to convince her of anything other than that they would never speak again.

  “I don’t believe you. How’s that? And if I did, I’d be agreeing to the fact that I now understand that you’re stupid and foolish beyond belief—a malleable old buffoon who has put everything I love and care about into serious jeopardy.”

  “Listen to me, Kate. It’s much more complicated than you know, than I could ever have known. This is deep water here. We need to keep close now. I need to help you. Your man, even you and the children, could be in a serious predicament.”

  “You think? Really, Daddy?” she snapped at him. She had not the slightest hesitation in cutting him off at the knees at every turn the conversation would take. If the kids weren’t in the car, the sword would really have been unsheathed. She was boiling over: she so wanted to let him have it for years and years of being a petulant, cowering, simpering, and whimpering fool. She desperately wanted to take out her rage and anger over this whole horrible debacle on him, but she held back with the kids behind her. Instead she sat low in her seat and covered her mouth as she whispered another dark blast of invective.

  “Who do you think put us in this predicament? Who can be blamed for all of this? What were you thinking? What could possibly be in your mind? How much were you paid for this? Does he own you that much, this man, so much so that you’d do something this cold and callous to your own family?”

  There was silence on the other end. She could hear Gordon struggling. She could hear his mind trying to form the right combination of words to make her understand whatever flimsy version of an excuse it was that he wanted to convey. Finally he just leaked out a short, lifeless query.

  “Where are you right now? Where are you going?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  She looked over at Adam. His eyes burning into the windshield, trained on the open road—on an unknown, perilous future. She turned to her kids in the backseat. Billy was watching her, Trudy, now oblivious, was tooling on her iPhone, playing a game or something, she figured. She returned her gaze up front, whispering quietly to Gordon.

  “I don’t want to ever speak to you again, as long as you live. Don’t ever call me.”

  She hung up the phone, staring ahead to that same rocky version of a murky road that Adam was heading into.

  A moment later Adam’s cell phone buzzed. It was Gordon. He showed the phone to Kate. She hit ignore. Another minute later the old man started texting him.

  “I must speak to you, Adam. Urgent.”

  “Call me right away.”

  “Urgent.”

  “All of your lives are at risk. Call me straightaway. I know you are upset but so am I. We must speak.”

  Adam looked at the phone and decided that it could only be used to track him. He would have to get all of the phones away from the rest of his family. They would be closing in on them fast.

  He would be the one who the police would turn to once the shock of the bombing settled down: “the American,” “the Michigan radical, attempted murderer.” He thought now about the noises he heard in his garage and in his living room that winter. He realized he wasn’t out of his mind. They were in his house, planting evidence: maybe an Internet trail of him buying the materials, a convenient e-mail speaking of his plans to kill their prime minister. Who knows what they planted? It all made so much sense now: how he got his job, the reason he was picked to come to London, why Heaton had such an interest in him. The clues would fall like dominoes once they started looking into him. It wouldn’t take long for their version of the FBI to come after him. Heaton and his people would probably very quickly make sure the authorities were aware of the “nut job” they may have accidentally let into Number 10. They would think they were geniuses, the British police or Scotland Yard or Sherlock fucking Holmes, whoever it was that they sent to find him, not realizing that they were being spoon-fed fake clues. All this would take time. He just wasn’t sure how much time. He hoped at least enough time to get Kate and the kids on a plane and out of the country.

  He rolled down his window and quietly put his hand out into the open air, in a very leisurely way, so that the kids couldn’t see what he was doing. He dropped his cell phone onto the highway and watched in his side-view mirror as it hit the pavement and bounced onto the shoulder as they headed on
toward Heathrow.

  What Adam and Kate didn’t know, couldn’t know, was that Trudy and Étienne had been texting each other since Brompton Road.

  “I miss you, Trudy.”

  “Me, too. My parents are both going crazy. It’s insanity right now.”

  “Why? What is happening?”

  “I don’t know. My parents are both freaking out. I think they’re getting a divorce. It’s gnarly.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure. Everyone’s freaking. My parents are both so dramatic.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In a car. We rented a car. We’re driving somewhere.”

  “Where are you going? I need to see you. You aren’t leaving, are you? Leaving England? I can’t let you go. I’m in love with you, Trudy, you know that, right?”

  “I feel the same way. You are everything to me. I want to spend my whole life with you. I know you may think that is childish or stupid, but it’s true. I want to be with you. For the rest of my life.”

  “I feel the same way. I don’t think it is childish at all. Where are you? I want to come see you. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to hold you tight and kiss you and not let you go forever. For my life as well, Trudy. I want to come see you. Right away.”

  “Not poss. I am in a car on some highway. No idea where we are going.”

  “Can’t you ask your dad where you are going?”

  “I just tried. He isn’t answering. They’re both in the weirdest moods. Such losers sometimes.”

  “I know. My mother, too. She is in a bad mood over something. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Étienne.”

  “Ask again where you are going.”

  As they pulled onto the Tunnel Road turnoff, as the signs started guiding traffic to Heathrow, Trudy realized they were leaving the country and started to cry.