Adam left the family at “the fleabag,” as they now called it, and walked several blocks to a local printing shop that still sold Internet access. It was a blessedly foreign-owned shop whose owners weren’t tuned in to the daily blast of British politics, or the “Hunt for Adam Tatum” show that locals were still reading about regularly. He had shaved his head and grown a solid goatee, lost at least ten pounds from stress, and truly did look like another person. He felt like another person as well. The man on the television, the face flashing from newsstands, wasn’t him anymore. That was a different man, from another time and a far-off place. That man had a sense of who he was, what he wanted, a head full of dreams and goals for himself and his family. This man—this bald, goateed, skinny man with the limp from the dog-ravaged leg bites and the haunted memories of his father-in-law’s brutal death—had no dreams, no plans, and no schemes. Nothing concerned him now that didn’t deal directly with survival.
He googled “Jack Early.” One result was an entry on a wordy blog about the activities of Britain’s civil service workers. The post described a 2007 banquet in a town called Skegness. The roll call of those attending listed a Jack and Darleen Early. This was his man: a civil servant with a one-off work address—10 Downing Street.
He searched for “Jack and Darleen Early.” The names came up on several property tax roll calls in someplace called Croydon. They owned a home. He looked up the address and scrolled through estate listings on the property. Jack Early and his wife, Darleen Early, were listed as owners. He read through a mortgage history of the home listed on Dulcette Way in Croydon. The owner, this “Early,” had stated he was under the employment of the national civil service. He laughed to himself that it was so easy.
A Somali woman at the next computer over smiled his way. She was happy to see any form of joy. Her big, toothy beam warmed him for a brief second.
“Got him,” he exclaimed, not even sure why he was communicating with a stranger. “I got my man.” The woman smiled brightly once again, a vacant flash of her teeth. She didn’t speak a word of English.
He took a bus down to Croydon the next morning. He found the home on Dulcette Way and was there by 5:30 a.m., perched on a bus bench across and over from the suspected Early house. He had a full view of the door. He waited. No one came out for two hours. Then a young man, maybe fifteen, gangly and thin who looked like a younger version of Jack Early, left the house, unchained a bicycle from the front garden, and pedaled off. A half hour later the door opened again. A woman, a thick one with a curly shock of gray hair, shepherding two younger girls, maybe ten and twelve, walked out and away up the street.
He waited another two hours. Still no Early. The sun came out loud and proud, and then it rained. The thick woman lumbered back home and banged the front door closed. People came and went. He let each and every bus pass, seated diligently until it became obvious: Early wasn’t there.
He took the bus back to London. He decided he had been too late. Early leaves early. He picked up a magazine left behind on the bus and read a story about himself, about his life, his bomb-making techniques. He read about a murder he committed in Kent: Richard Lyle, his wife’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently Adam was a deranged bomber and also a jealous, scorned lover/murderer, on the run and extremely dangerous. It was all laughable fiction but read well. When he’d had enough, he turned to a story on some famous pop star’s favorite soups. It seemed to have more truth to it, so he read it through as the bus made its way back over the Thames.
The next night he caught the final bus south. One a.m. He needed to be there well before first light, before the first bus left London. He got to Croydon at two a.m., had a coffee from a place called the Two Brothers Café, which was open late, and walked the chalky streets until four thirty a.m., taking his place on the bus bench across from Early’s house to once again wait patiently.
He still hadn’t told Kate and the kids his plan. They were also waiting patiently: still numb, not a lot of talking, watching old movies, playing games on an iPad, eating takeout, quietly huddled in the musty room next door, the kids’ room, the one that Kate was now living in. He was alone, limping around on his side of the family hovel, quietly muttering to himself.
He would tell them soon. He would carefully tell them all that the plan was to kidnap one of Early’s children, to make Early help them. He would force Early to tell the truth, tell the media. The scheme wasn’t fully formed enough to inform his family yet. Kate and the kids were all he had and he would need their help, particularly Trudy’s.
At 4:50 a.m., Early came out his front door and walked across the street, straight toward Adam with purpose. He had been spotted. It was over before it began. He wondered if he should run but decided not to. He decided he wouldn’t get too far with his legs bandaged up the way they were. He would let Early confront him, then he’d bellow back, accuse him of attempted murder, treason. He would let him know that others knew. He sat firm and let his heart pound as the lanky little man crossed over to him in the cold, dark morning air.
Early sat down on the bench next to him. There was a pause. He looked over, half smiled, pulled out a newspaper, and began to do the crossword puzzle. Adam took his first breath since Early had come out his front door. He was just waiting for the bus and hadn’t suspected Adam in the slightest.
The London-bound bus came. Early climbed on and so did Adam. He took a seat at the rear and watched the back of Early’s head in the middle of the mostly empty bus as it rumbled north through Brixton. Early finally got off just below the river. Adam disembarked and followed as he went into the Underground at Vauxhall and caught the train for Westminster. On the Tube, much more occupied than the half-empty Croydon bus, Early stood holding a strap, staring out the useless windows into the fleeting black of the tunnel as the train barreled its way toward the seat of power.
Early’s gaze was vacant, Adam thought. There was nothing seriously worrying him. He wasn’t in any danger; his family was safe and warm. With a good job with the most powerful woman in the country, he had nothing to be troubled about. So big deal, he had helped place a bomb that almost killed the prime minister, had committed an act of sabotage that could have him imprisoned for life. His silly, smoky face revealed no burden of the weight of seditious activity. His kids were off to school and, according to the Google search, his mortgage would be fully paid in six years. Life was running along nicely for this “Jack Early.” He was most certainly not on the run; he had no reason to shave his head.
Adam let him go at Westminster. He didn’t need to follow on through to the final leg of his commute. That wasn’t the point. He stayed on as the Tube rocketed off. He had seen what he needed to see.