Keep Calm Page 13

  “It’s all going to be fine, sweet girl. I promise. You’ve done a wonderful job. I’m very proud of you.” She stood up and broke free in one perfectly timed beat before Early opened the door.

  BEFORE ■ 7

  “I just don’t see why you can’t get your head past the fear and the spy talk and get into the excitement of the fact that you’re going to 10 Downing Street, why you’re not over the moon that you’re going to meet the prime minister of England. Do you have any idea how many people would love to be in your shoes today, Adam?”

  Tatum took a deep breath. She had given him a version of the same line about six times already that morning. He couldn’t make her understand the trepidation he was feeling, couldn’t quite clue her in to the danger he knew lay ahead. Her father wasn’t helping. It was obvious that Gordon knew that he had Adam speeding along into nothing but trouble, was well aware something wasn’t on the up-and-up, but he surely hadn’t said anything to that effect to his daughter.

  Kate helped him tie his tie and once again kissed him good-bye at the hotel room.

  “You look perfect. Just put a smile on. You’re going to remember this day for the rest of your life.” He took the steps down to the lobby.

  Gordon was waiting, as always.

  “Looking every bit the part today, young man, I must say.” He tried to make small talk. As usual, Adam wasn’t interested.

  “I don’t know what this is about, Gordon, but I know if I were smart I’d go right to the police here. Something’s up. I know you know that. At the very best it’s fraud.”

  “Well, then, I leave that to you. If you think going to the police is your answer, then you should go ahead and do that. If it were me, I’d get into the limo once it comes for you.”

  Adam wanted to slug him. He wanted to beat the old man’s head into the wall. He bit his tongue and walked out of the lobby and to the curb. Gordon waited for the other HGI execs to come down from their rooms.

  Outside, Adam took a deep breath of the midday air. He watched a flock of birds glide over onto the roof of the empty former US embassy. Crews were getting ready to rework and remodel the lonely old eyesore now that the inhabitants had all moved into the newly built embassy on the south side of the river. As he looked back, he saw his daughter and Étienne getting into a taxi. He was about to stop them, call to them, when Étienne’s mother, Elise, came up behind him.

  “They’re going sightseeing. Your wife has okayed it.”

  Adam stepped off the curb. “Well, I haven’t. Not today. Someone needs to go with them. Maybe tomorrow…”

  “Adam, you need to listen to me. I don’t want to do this any more than you do. These men, they are very serious. We need to take them seriously. Okay? I, too, am not sure. I just want to do this, then go home to Paris with my son. Okay?” She was scared. Spooked. Adam saw a resigned, jumpy, fatalistic fear in her eyes. He wondered if he was making it up? Was he overthinking everything?

  He saw one of the HGI Mercedes behind the cab. He wasn’t making that up. Heaton’s two bodyguards, the redhead and the bald guy, were inside and preparing to follow the taxi. He called to the taxi but was too late. It headed off up Brook Street, and the Mercedes shadowed it. Elise, thin with a mild shake to her, in a Prada business suit, gave him a strained version of a smile.

  “It’s okay. They will be watched today. And I will be at the conference, watching you.” She flashed her mobile phone at Adam. “Don’t worry, if there is a problem, they will let me know right away, and of course I can let them know if there is a problem on our end.”

  The threat wasn’t even close to veiled. She was reading lines off of a blatantly sadistic script.

  “I’m sorry, Adam. I have no choice. I can’t let them hurt my son.”

  Two HGI limos pulled up behind her and Heaton stepped out, straightening his suit. The French woman walked over, nervously kissed his cheek, and quickly climbed in. Heaton nodded to Adam and pointed to the backseat of the limo. Adam walked over and got right into Heaton’s face.

  “You think you can pull shit like this? Threaten my daughter? You’re lucky I don’t drop you to the ground right now.”

  Heaton didn’t miss a beat. “Very heroic. I promise you, Adam, your daughter, your son, your wife, yourself: you are all fine. You’re overreacting. I just need you to keep calm.”

  Heaton got into the car. The entire group waited as Adam decided what to do. It was obvious. The game had been played. Adam had been set up. He had no moves to make. He got into the limo. He was going to Number 10.

  * * *

  A SMALL GREEN building, a security shack similar in shape to an old cabman’s shelter, sits just off Whitehall. It’s the final hurdle to enter Downing Street. It took nearly forty-five minutes for the group of ten to go through the tiny shack. Even Sir David was checked and double-checked. As the Heaton Global execs were processed, their gear, books, handbags, and papers were put through a series of scanners and searches. Adam felt a measure of relief that nothing in the belongings set off any bells or whistles. It gave him a sense that whatever Heaton had planned wouldn’t be so dire as to include any kind of weapon or banned device. He quickly thought about turning out of the shack and running, tearing away up Whitehall, maybe making a scene, screaming at the top of his lungs, stopping the whole conference from ever happening.

  He thought about his daughter, about what kind of call the French woman would make, about what would happen to him in the bowels of any police station he was taken to. He thought about Kate, about how badly she wanted him to recover and rebuild his life.

  As they came out of the shack, now inside the gates of Downing Street, the group headed up the road with the famous front door to Number 10 on their right and the Foreign Office on the left. Heaton made sure to catch up with Adam. He whispered into his ear as they walked.

  “Our meeting will be upstairs in the White Room. As soon as you walk in, someone will hand you the new brief we want to leave with them. You’ll sit as close to the front of the table as possible; when Louise Bloomfield, Lassiter’s private secretary, retrieves the logged-in binder, you’ll figure out a moment to slide the one you’ve been given across to Ms. Bloomfield and replace it. Elise will make it her responsibility to take the one of record with us as she leaves.”

  He didn’t wait for Adam to respond. Once finished talking, he picked up his pace to make his way to the head of the pack as it reached the front door of Number 10. As soon as Heaton hit the stoop, the door almost magically opened from inside. Once through the front door, past the brass plaque reading FIRST LORD OF THE TREASURY, they were met in the front lobby by a contingent of civil servants. Leading the welcome party at the front of the line was Georgia Turnbull, the chancellor of the exchequer.

  Heaton and the chancellor locked in a warm hug. Obviously they were old friends. David Heaton was comfortable with everyone there and with the home itself. Everyone else was in awe; to Heaton it was another day at the office.

  Adam had seen the chancellor on television before and knew she was very important in the British government, but he didn’t really know how or for what reason. He had no idea what a “chancellor of the exchequer” did. The truth was that he recognized her mostly for the cane she leaned on. He’d seen her using it before, maybe on the news at a visit to the White House or the UN. She was nice looking, he thought. There was something kind of sexy about her wild head of hair.

  The chancellor and Heaton led the group up the stairway, past the photos of long-gone prime ministers, and into the White Room, a large, well-lit, ornately presented room that until the 1940s had been part of the prime minister’s private family residence. Since Clement Attlee’s time, during the postwar period, it had been used for staff meetings and later, starting in Harold Wilson’s tenure, television interviews.

  Adam was one of the last in of ten HGI members and another eight Downing staffers. As soon as he entered the room, a man about his age in an ill-fitting suit thrust an identical version of t
he HGI dossier into Adam’s arms. Once the man had surreptitiously given Adam the binder, he quickly disappeared from the room and into the hallway. The binder was heavy, much heavier than the one he had perused in Heaton’s library.

  Adam tried to make some sense of its weight as the group was seated on floral couches nestled around two large mahogany coffee tables. There was a smartly done antique wooden cupboard against the back wall underneath a painting by William Marlow, of St. Paul’s Cathedral and Blackfriars Bridge. Another wall had an oversize portrait of Lady Thatcher staring down at the room, begging them to remember at all times that they were all inherently British.

  A woman who Adam came to realize was Louise Bloomfield, Lassiter’s private secretary, went into the wooden cupboard and pulled out a copy of the file in a binder exactly like the one Adam had been handed by the man at the door. This was the version that had been previously accepted by Treasury. Ms. Bloomfield sat on a couch across from Adam, setting the “logged-in” version on the table right in front of her, just opposite Adam.

  The chancellor began the meeting, thanking Heaton and the group for coming. Heaton made a small speech about the work all the members of his group had done, thanking them and then throwing a nod to the present members of the Treasury for their contributions. He talked of the proud history of the civil service, of the importance in making sure the pensions of its esteemed employees were healthy, secure, and, equally as important, fruitful.

  Henri Despone, a small, well-briefed Frenchman, stood and gave a quick rundown of the package, of what was in the report, and what the long- and short-term goals were on the Heaton Global side. Amos Harrison, the Texan who had gone with them to the high-end whorehouse, gave a report on the transition period between the civil service running the pensions and HGI assuming management. Adam looked over at the chancellor. She looked bored but not nearly as lost in the numbers and figures as he was; she seemed to be familiar with every aspect of the deal.

  The prime minister came in. He made a strong, sturdy show of an entrance. Everyone stood as the chancellor introduced Roland Lassiter. As they did, with all eyes on Lassiter, Elise, the French lady-scoundrel, quietly pulled the binder in front of Ms. Bloomfield toward her. Ms. Bloomfield was too busy listening to Lassiter greet the others to see what she had done. Elise now turned to Adam and motioned for him to switch the dossiers.

  Adam knew it was a mistake. He knew he’d regret it. He paused and again considered getting up, walking out, excusing himself, and finding the head of security downstairs. He tried to make sense of it all. The French woman read the lines on his face; he read the dread in hers. She quietly flashed her mobile phone to him to let him know very clearly whom she intended to text if there was a problem.

  As introductions to Mr. Lassiter and the others finished up, Adam carefully slid his weighty version of the binder across the coffee table in front of Ms. Bloomfield. She never noticed the change. The deed had been done. Once the room settled and everyone took their seats, the PM made a quick, funny, warmly taken speech praising his “very good friend” Sir David for all the hard work that he and the Heaton Global staff had done for the government.

  Adam was taken by Lassiter’s looks. He was a handsome man on television, but in person he was truly striking, with vibrant skin, an incredible head of radiant hair, and a large set of twinkling brown eyes. There was a sadness to him as well, one that could only be sensed up close. A weary kind of broken layer beneath the practiced politician’s smile.

  The PM finished with a nod to his chancellor for her work on the endeavor, and then he was on to his next appointment. He was a star, Lassiter. Playing a room like this was second nature to him. Other than Georgia, no one there realized the emotional pain he was in ever since the helicopter accident almost two years earlier. He was that good of a showman.

  As the prime minister was about to leave, Heaton grabbed his friend and whispered something into his ear. Lassiter looked back, across the couches and coffee tables to the cupboard, and nodded. With one more slap on Heaton’s back, he was off, and with that the meeting was over. Louise Bloomfield unknowingly took the binder that had been slipped to her over to the cupboard, piled several others on top of it, and then made a face and a remark regarding the weight of them all. No one responded—she didn’t expect them to; she was more or less commenting to herself as the others said their good-byes and made small talk, sharing anecdotes about Lassiter and Number 10.

  Sir David and Georgia Turnbull walked the HGI group downstairs and out the front door. Just like that, the field trip to 10 Downing Street ended. Adam had a sickening suspicion. That file was too heavy, way too weighty. He once again hoped he was overthinking, prayed that he was wildly off base, and that the file was just that, a file.

  AFTER ■ 8

  At six thirty a.m., Cabinet Secretary Phyllis Dryden called all ministers to an emergency cabinet meeting. The heads of Scotland Yard, Special Branch, MI5, SO15, the foreign secretary, the director of COBRA, and even Stanhope, the leader of the opposition, had been summoned. The Cabinet Room was “standing room only.” All hands were on deck. All staffers knew something was up—something big.

  Georgia stood and addressed the room. Major Darling and Sir Melvin Burnlee flanked her. Steel was seated against the wall across from her with a direct view of Georgia.

  “People, thank you for your prompt arrival. Six days ago this house was violated with a most hideous and disgusting crime. It has rocked this building, shaken our people, and saddened our souls. We have not stood idly by, as some have suggested; rather, with the good work of MI5, SO15, the DPG, Major Darling, and Inspector Davina Steel, today we have some answers. We have a suspect. He is an American. His name is Adam David Tatum. He is from Chicago. He has a history of subversive, aggressive behavior, and, it seems, a misguided inclination for violence as a tool for change.”

  There was a small murmur from the room as it was revealed that an American was the prime suspect. The “special relationship” with the United States had endured a few tough years starting all the way back during George W. Bush’s disastrous foray into Iraq and on into the long, painful years of the battle with ISIL in the Middle East. Many in the British government had come to distrust the United States and Americans in general, and in fact the British public as well could be called “more than concerned” about the United States and its role in the world. The fact that they would now be turning west, looking at a US citizen as a possible perpetrator of this intimately horrible act, brought a new weight and a somber bass line to it all.

  As the chancellor spoke, dossiers of Adam were passed around the shocked, silent, crowded room, one for each person. They contained his mug shot, a photo of the break-in in Michigan, and press clippings on the “Lansing plot.” Georgia continued with her recap.

  “His motive would seem to be that he is some sort of union activist, a man willing to do anything for his fellow workers. I will say there are many among the investigative team who aren’t quite ready to believe that to be the case. They don’t believe it possible or plausible that this was the work of one lone man. Some here feel he is part of a larger plot—a plot and a motive that we are still not sure of. Some fear very much that we may well be in treacherous waters today, that in fact this American’s life could be in danger; the people who put him up to this would do well to kill him, to silence him. At one point we thought him dead already. This is not the case. He is very much alive. He is on the run.”

  Photos now passed around the room showing a gruesome shot of a dead body in the back of the Ford wagon that Adam had rented. As the photos circulated, Georgia and Steel made eye contact. Steel was so proud to be on her team and adored how strong and alive Georgia looked as she spoke to the assembled group.

  “This man must be found. Every resource of our government must now be used to bring him in and to uncover where and to whom the trail behind him leads. His details and photos must be sent to the attention of every station house, border crossing, a
nd police officer in and around every corner of Great Britain. The press should not have his name or any, I repeat, any knowledge at this point of his or this potential scheme’s existence. We don’t want them to know we are on the hunt just yet. We’ll hope Mr. Tatum thinks himself free to roam and makes an unfounded move.”

  Her back was straight now, her chest out, and her voice clear. She was morphing, Steel thought, right before everyone’s very eyes, into a true leader—a powerful figure, a Churchill even. Steel was crazy about her. It was clear in that moment, right then and there: she was head over heels nuts about Georgia Turnbull. How could she not be?

  The room was thick with concentration, every eye riveted on the chancellor, her passion evident, the import, the severity, the calm resolve in her voice mesmerizing to the ministers and civil servants.

  “This will be stopped. If it is in fact a plot, it absolutely threatens the very future and fabric of our nation. It could well bring along irreparable repercussions. It will not bear fruit. It will not pay dividends.” She was speaking at the top of her voice now. “Our goal from this moment on is to shut down this island, to put eyes on every train, every plane, every boat, lobby, café, and shopping plaza. It is now, from this second on, job one of this government to use all of our powers and summon all of our convictions to locate this American.”

  With that, she sat down under the Walpole portrait, in the chair always left cocked to the table, and turned the room over to Major Darling who had more information on Tatum. As Darling spoke, Georgia looked over and saw young Steel looking at her. Her gaze brought Georgia comfort she badly needed—she had never once in her entire life been as frightened as she was at that moment.