Keep Calm Page 10

  “Yes, it is. He’s employed by Heaton, this one?”

  “He is, but he’s new and he has a troubled past, as we’ve discussed. The home secretary got on to the FBI, who did a very quick emergency search warrant and did a look-see at his home. They’ve come up with some very disturbing finds.” Georgia’s eyes went wide. Steel was enjoying having her paying such close attention.

  “They’ve uncovered several boxes of literature and paperwork on Mr. Lassiter hidden in Tatum’s garage.”

  “Paperwork and literature? On Roland?”

  “Yes. He seemed to be obsessed with the PM. Apparently there were many articles about Mr. Lassiter’s very public battles with the trade unions. Some of the writings that they’ve found on a cursory search of his home computer speak to something of a dark attraction to the prime minister and his union dealings over here. They’ve even found some comments he’s made on chat rooms from that computer about bringing severe harm to the prime minister, as well as some very gruesome photo mock-ups of Mr. Lassiter, dead or being tortured.”

  “Oh my God. This is true?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “I don’t know what to say. That’s all quite upsetting. How well did you say Heaton knows this man?”

  “We’re not sure of what Heaton knows or doesn’t know about Mr. Tatum at this point.”

  “Well, I would hope not too much. I can’t believe that David would be involved in any way with something like this. It seems unfathomable. I mean, he does have a dark side, that’s obvious, but not one that would play in this kind of water.”

  “Well, we’re going to get into it. We’ll have more facts on this American soon. I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as the FBI sends the complete report of his case in Michigan. It should be late this afternoon.”

  “Oh really. That soon? Will you be stopping back?” She hoped she didn’t overplay that last question. She felt like a lonely schoolgirl, needing a best friend’s company.

  “I shouldn’t think to bother you. I could just call with any news.”

  “Either way. Whatever’s best for you. Maybe I should give you my private mobile? In case anything new rears. I want to be ahead of the pack. Is that okay?”

  “Yes, of course, ma’am.” They exchanged mobile numbers. Georgia popped up again, her leg pain almost nonexistent now for some reason. They shook hands warmly, lingered there a beat longer than either one of them was comfortable with. Steel’s face went flush red again; Georgia’s breath went slightly labored. Each hoped the other had too much on her mind to notice any chemical change that had occurred.

  * * *

  GEORGIA HAD ANOTHER temper tantrum not long after Davina left. Something had gotten to her, right out there in the outer offices at Number 10, in front of a dozen staffers. It was almost a flashback of the meltdown she had let loose on Donald Stanhope, the Tory leader. Her cane had gone sailing once again, this time whacked down on a staffer’s desk. Ostensibly the outburst was over a PR mess on the motion to shelve the coming referendum on Europe, but Georgia knew that wasn’t it at all. The problem is, she didn’t know what had gotten to her. Was it Roland’s situation? The sorrow she felt for him, her horror and revulsion at this news of the American’s home search? Was it a lack of sleep? Fear for the country? Physical pain? Regret? Fatigue? Or even worse, was it just about Steel? Discomfort with the way the young woman made her feel?

  She didn’t know. She truly couldn’t sort out her emotions; she didn’t have the time or the tools. There wasn’t even a moment to relax after making an embarrassed apology to everyone present as Early and his team rushed her along and into her Jaguar, over to the House of Commons for PMQs.

  * * *

  PMQS IS A long-standing Wednesday tradition in Parliament. The opposition leader, the MPs from the opposite party, and backbenchers from the ruling party all get to ask questions of the PM for half an hour. For years it was two separate fifteen-minute segments, but for some reason in Tony Blair’s time it was turned into one long episode. Every Wednesday the prime minister shows up, makes a note of his appointments, and then begins to hear from the room. It is as unique and interesting as it is historical and heady. Sometimes it’s a snooze fest, but sometimes it’s a blood sport that refuses to let you turn away.

  Lassiter was considered a genius at the dispatch box. Some would quietly say that was due more to the fact that he had the portly and dull Donald Stanhope to go up against; others contested that he never once answered a question with a straightforward answer. He was called “the Lord of Dodge.” But in point of fact, his ease and elasticity there at the box, his way of mixing humor and honor, his smooth voice and his unique agility all made him an uncontested king of the realm. His was a tough act for Georgia to follow.

  She had filled in for him only a few times: once when he was with the American president in Israel for the peace treaty signing and once when he was off for the G20 in Vancouver. Each time she got middling to good reviews, held her own, got some licks in, and elicited a few laughs. She wasn’t in his league, though, and this Wednesday, with the PM fighting for his life and the country still numb and insatiably curious over news of the bombing, she had little room for error. The only thing she could hope, as she sat in the tightly packed, electrically charged House of Commons, was that the seriousness of the situation would force the opposition to come together and leave the knives and forks at home.

  The Speaker of the House called on Stanhope, the opposition leader, to start it off. He tipped to Georgia who stood, as was custom, and gave remarks concerning her appointments.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I have been at Number 10 this morning in meetings and conference, mostly on this most grave of matters, and will be for the rest of the day.”

  She sat back and let Stanhope lumber up to his side of the box.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. It is with great sadness that I stand today and I can only wish the best for a recovery to the highly esteemed and greatly respected Mr. Lassiter, while sending thoughts and prayers to his family. With that said, Mr. Speaker, would the most honorable Lady please explain to us why a full four days after this horrific event, the good people of Britain still have absolutely no idea who or what has caused this crime?”

  This brought a rousing agreement from the opposition. So much for leaving the knives and forks at home, Georgia thought to herself as she bolted to the box and faced off to Stanhope.

  “Mr. Speaker, many thanks to the right honorable gentleman for his kindly remarks on my good friend Roland Lassiter, and my warmest thoughts go out to all of you in this most calamitous time. We are all stunned, sir, we are all truly speechless, but what we are not lacking is resolve. We will find the perpetrators of this most hideous of attacks, and we will bring them to justice, and let not the good opposition leader or any member of this esteemed house think that we are not doing everything, using every facility, and employing our best minds to find the answers that we all desperately seek. To think that we would be doing any less is to truly underestimate this government, and I think that would be a mistake.”

  She got a strong response from the backbenchers and most of the opposition. The questions moved on, the majority of them concerning Lassiter’s health and some on the European referendum, the latter of which in truth she dodged. There was a question on the government’s response to the “flood and motorcoach tragedy,” and one on who was running the country day-to-day, which she handled as adroitly and humbly as possible.

  It happened while Stanhope was off on one of his long-winded tirades, toward the end of PMQs, in his last set of questions. Georgia fell asleep. Fast asleep. As she sat there, in the PM’s seat across the box from Stanhope, once again she dozed off, sitting straight up, and as before dreamt she was in her bed at 11. Holmby, the deputy PM, gently woke her as the entire room waited after the Speaker offered her a chance to rebuke, and it was painfully obvious she was fast asleep. Holmby gently jolted her again as her eyes finally popped open, at firs
t not sure, as before, how she had gotten from her bed into the House of Commons. The room was suddenly awash with wild comic energy, all aimed at Georgia. Stanhope hopped back up to the box to throw in a zinger.

  “Mr. Speaker, it’s not a great time for any of us, and I believe that the chancellor deserves a good rest as much as the next one, but one would hope it doesn’t have to be while I’m speaking.”

  This got a nice laugh from the House, mostly to ease the tension. Georgia perked up quickly and made her way to the box, locked and loaded, ready for bear.

  “Mr. Speaker, I do apologize to my esteemed colleague; as he has said, the matters at hand are pressing and we’ve been round the clock these days at Number 10, as has all of government. With that said, I am most certain that I’m not the first woman who has fallen asleep mid-speech on Mr. Stanhope, and I surely won’t be the last!”

  She brought the house down with that one. It was a tremendous save of face, and a much-needed laugh in a troubled time. The Speaker of the House let the ruckus fly for a moment, then finally settled the room down for more of the business at hand.

  * * *

  LATER THAT NIGHT, up in her flat at Number 11, just as Georgia was about to finally get some sleep, her mobile rang. It was Steel. She saw the incoming name and found herself more than excited to take the call. Steel was calling from her family’s two-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury, just down the road from her parents’ restaurant.

  “I hope I haven’t disturbed you, ma’am. You had said you wanted to be in the front of the information line.”

  “Not at all, Ms. Steel. Please, call whenever you feel a need for me.” Did that sound wrong? A need? What could that possibly mean? she nervously wondered.

  “Do go ahead, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. It’s the rental car. The one the American rented in Mayfair. It’s been found on a back road in Kent. In a thicket of woods, just below Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Kent? And the family? Have they been taken in?”

  “No, ma’am, the car was deserted. The search for the wife and the kids in the area is active as we speak, but a dead body was found in the back of the car, under a tarp. A man. A wallet was found, with a Michigan driver’s license, and they’re running the DNA and fingerprint samples up the pole with the FBI. He’d taken quite a severe gunshot wound to the head.”

  “Is it the American? Is it this Tatum?”

  “Yes, Madam Chancellor. At this point we’re fairly certain that the dead man is in fact the American, Adam Tatum.”

  BEFORE ■ 5

  It was a quiet night. They had caught a taxi back from Shoreditch after lunch with the McCalisters and had a leisurely afternoon, then a light dinner from room service. Trudy went on a walk, and Kate and Billy were taking in a movie in the room. Adam watched her in the darkness, across the suite snuggled in with Billy, patiently viewing an animated film she had no interest in. He wanted to tell her he planned on informing the HGI representative assigned to him that he wouldn’t be attending the conference at Number 10 in the morning. He knew that Kate would once again explain that it was a horrible mistake and wouldn’t want him to cancel. He couldn’t make her understand that he didn’t trust Heaton, that something seemed off about the entire affair, so he finally gave up on any notion of even trying. He quietly left the room.

  He needed some fresh air, needed to think.

  The lobby was empty and calm. For the most part the guests were all checked in and up in the rooms for the night. The freshly mopped floors smelled like disinfectant and overly scented floral soap. There was a young man, Ronnie, a clerk at the front desk—a South African, nicely dressed in a suit and tie. Ronnie inquired if there was anything he could do to assist Adam. Adam explained that he was just going for some air, and he left the hotel, crossing into the tree-lined square.

  He paced leisurely on the dirt walkway that wrapped around from leafy corner to corner. Halfway across he looked ahead and saw two young people passionately embraced, making out on a park bench. It was quite romantic, backlit in fact, and would have been like something on a postcard if only the young lady weren’t his sixteen-year-old daughter.

  “Trudy?… Trudy? Hello?”

  He headed over to the bench. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with at that point. Trudy and the young French boy quickly uncoupled, as if they had each been told the other one had leprosy.

  “Daddy. Hello. Hi … you know Étienne?”

  “No, I don’t think Étienne and I have had the pleasure.”

  He was an incredibly handsome young boy; he actually looked older than a teenager. He was nervous; his voice cracked as he stood and shook Adam’s hand. He had a warm, thick accent and spoke a cute, almost comical version of broken English.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I believe that you and my mother are working in the same company, yes?”

  “Yes, I believe we are.” Adam towered over the young man and enjoyed the height advantage he had. He wanted the boy to be afraid of him. “Why don’t you run back into the hotel, Étienne? Find your mother. I’d like to speak to my daughter alone.”

  “Yes, of course. I will do that. Again, it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tatum.” He was gone as fast as he could possibly move his body. Trudy wouldn’t look her father in the eye. She was too upset. Adam sat down on the bench with her.

  “That was rude, Daddy.”

  “Good. It’s my job sometimes to be a little rude.”

  “Yeah, well, you acted like you enjoyed it.”

  “I didn’t. Trust me. I get no joy out of seeing you behave like that. You’re too young, Trudy. I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry to grow up.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She was sullen, still not looking at her father. She had her mother’s beauty, the same blue eyes and glowing skin. She had a way about her that made her sometimes appear older than a teenager, but she wasn’t: she was a baby as far as he was concerned. A talented, bright girl, she had a wonderful singing voice that no one ever heard because she was too shy to sing in front of people. She had done well in school, well in her studies, at least until the last few years when she turned inward, wasn’t as warm and open as she used to be, and she began to be focused on boys to the exclusion of anything else. He was crazy about his little girl.

  They sat there in silence. He finally turned to her and spoke in a tone to let her know he needed her on his side of any argument he was in with her mother.

  “Trudy, I want you to stick close to us while we’re here in London. I’m not sure what’s going on. I know your mother doesn’t agree with me, but for a variety of reasons that I can’t go into I don’t feel safe here.”

  “What are you talking about, Daddy? Don’t be silly. London’s the safest city in the world.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. We’re safe. Grandpa’s looking out for us anyway, him and the whole ‘company’ or whatever.”

  “I just need your help right now. I need you to stay close.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Yes, you do, Trudy. You do. You are one incredibly bright young lady. You know what I mean.”

  “Mom says you want to leave. Quit your job. Get out of that thing tomorrow. The thing you came here for. She says you hate Poppa. Is that all true?”

  “No. I don’t hate Poppa. That’s ridiculous.”

  “She thinks you’re not all there sometimes. Because of what you did, what it did to us, she says you’re paranoid or something.” He moved a little closer, put his arm around her. She leaned back and slid into his side, resting her head easily on her father’s shoulder.

  “I’m not mad at you, Daddy. I never really was. I just never understood it. I was sad for you, but I was never mad.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot to me.” They sat there quietly again, breathing in the gentle calm of the foggy night air.

  “Why did you do it, Daddy? I know you didn’t really want to
hurt anyone. I know that, I do, but why did you get involved?”

  In all the time, before, during, and since his troubles, he and Trudy had never had a private talk about them. He really didn’t like to discuss them. He was tired of the whole subject, but she deserved an answer—he knew the weight she had had to bear for his transgressions.

  “I had quit my job the year before, as you know. I had too much free time. I got involved with union politics, spent too much time at the protest rallies.”

  “I remember. Mom said it was a phase, that it would pass.”

  “When the governor wanted to pass a law that would basically weaken union power across the board, weaken the worker, the very group that made Michigan the great state it was, I was in shock. I really was.”

  “I know all this. What I mean is, why? I know all about it. I even know you only were trying to scare the governor, who was a new guy in politics and someone who you and the other union guys thought would buckle under if you scared him. I know all about that. I read it all online and Mom has told me all of that. What I don’t get is really why you did it. It’s so not you. Why would you do something so dangerous? So illegal? Did someone want to give you money or something?”

  “No. It wasn’t about money.”

  “Then what was it about?”

  It was a good question. He had asked himself that one, too. He had answered it with so many lies. “Tales of stupidity,” “alcoholic consumption,” “false bravado,” “following the crowd,” but they were all lies. If he was going to tell anyone the truth, he was going to tell Trudy. Finally.

  “I wanted to be special. I wanted to do something special.”

  “You are special, Daddy.”

  “Maybe I didn’t feel special. I want to be more than just a dumb Ann Arbor detective, more than my father. I wanted to be part of history, someone who would and could live or die for the things that were important to him. I wanted to test myself, Trudy. Test my character.” He stroked her hair softly as he spoke; she nestled further into his side.