Georgia and Jack Early drove in his Ford Focus across town to the Heaton home. Once again they had snuck away, a feat that was getting harder and harder to do with each passing day. If it wasn’t a Sunday morning, it most likely would have been impossible. They didn’t say a word on the way over. She was livid with him, he could tell. Maybe she was more mad at herself, he thought. She wasn’t one to let all the blame and guilt be used on others. He had seen her take the whip to her own back many times and he knew she couldn’t be happy that she had put herself in the middle of this execrable situation.
They pulled onto the estate, past the security, and up the drive to the long, flowing steps of the giant Georgian manor. When the car stopped, he turned the ignition off and finally broke the crushing silence.
“He took my boy, ma’am. The American. Just so you know. He took my boy. I was left with no other choice.” She turned to him, her voice deep in her throat, overcome by events, by emotion.
“I figured it was something along that line, Jack. I know you too well to believe that you’d do anything like this for any other reason.”
“No, ma’am. There would be no other reason.” She nodded, looked up to the house, and grabbed the door handle.
“Well, we’re in a world we don’t traffic in now. We’ll need this one’s help. I don’t relish that thought at all.” With that, she got out and walked up the steps toward the large wooden front door. Her stride was once again in proper form, the walking cane a faded memory. Fear, contempt, anger, and rage had all banded together and given Georgia her canter back.
* * *
IN THE PARLOR, Heaton begged her to be calm. He was dressed already in one of his signature made-to-measure suits. Having politely offered drinks that had been politely refused, he poured himself a scotch.
“I’m historically not one to rev it up on a Sunday morning, but it seems like this isn’t a normal one, is it?” He came back over to the couch they were both sitting on.
“So tell me, Jack, what exactly does Tatum have? What is it that has our dear prime minister so shackled in dread?” Early was afraid to tell him the truth but knew that there was no other way, so he did.
“He has a tape. A movie, I’d say.”
“A movie? What kind of movie does he have?” Georgia’s eyes looked away.
“A movie with the prime minister confessing. Sitting at her desk. Spelling out what it is you’ve all done, sir.” Heaton corrected him as he reached into his maple cigar box and took out a Cohiba Behike.
“What we’ve all done, Jack. What we have all done.”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Where was the movie taken? At her desk, you say?”
“No, sir. At a movie studio. In Gloucester. On a set. A replica of the office.” Heaton took it all in as he lit his ridiculously expensive cigar.
“And you took her there? To this movie set? To make this film? That’s something that you did?”
“He took my boy. He was going to kill him.” Heaton took the time to puff his smoke into a rousing burn.
“Is that what he told you? He’d kill your boy?”
“Yes.”
“So you in turn betrayed the prime minister? Your country? Betrayed me?” He stared at Jack, demanded with his gaze that he look him in the eye, which he hadn’t been doing.
“Look at me. Answer me, Jack.” His voice stayed smooth, almost soothing, even though his words were undercut with a building, bubbling rage. Georgia had never seen him burn quite this way.
“You do know what it is we are trying to do here, yes? Did you somehow forget how important this all was? To England? Did you forget that, Jack?”
“I didn’t forget, sir, but I didn’t know what else to do. He was going to take my boy’s life. I couldn’t see another way.”
Heaton set his drink and his cigar down on the coffee table. He took a beat to let the room settle.
“Okay. We will figure this out, Georgia, trust me. Okay? I will smooth this wrinkle. We will make a deal with Tatum. It’s going to be about money. We’ll lay it all down with a figure. Have Tatum walk away. Make a relocation arrangement with him. Like the US does with the Mafia. I’m sure that’s what he’s after. We can make it all happen.” He chuckled lightly and shrugged. “It’s well played on his part, I have to say.”
Georgia took a deep breath. She sensed that maybe David was right. Maybe this could all somehow be papered over.
“In the meantime, I need to have something done, Jack, an errand run. I’ll need to set the negotiations in motion with Tatum. Come with me, won’t you?” Heaton headed out of the den, motioned for Early to follow, pausing only to turn on a large-screen television. “Georgia, have a drink. Some water’s there on the table. Enjoy them taking the piss out of you on every channel. This won’t be a minute. Jack and I will just be upstairs in the study. Give a shout if you need anything.”
Jack looked for Georgia’s nod to follow, which he got. By the time he was out to the foyer, Heaton was already halfway up the grand revolving staircase that hugged up and around the circular lobby to the second floor. He hustled to catch up, but by the time he made the landing Heaton had already walked down the long, wide hallway and disappeared into one of the many rooms.
“In here, Jack. Come on.” He was summoned like a trained spaniel and he followed, not sure what other recourse there was. He was just glad to be given a way to make good on what he had done. He entered the study, a large mahogany-paneled room crammed with books, maps, and artifacts, plus rare hunting knives. It was a collector’s den with shelves chock-full of trinkets, coins, and curios. One wall was made up of stacks of old steamer trunks, Victorian-era cruise ship luggage all in pristine condition, one after another, packed halfway to the ceiling. Another area had rare old hunting bugles, a good sixty of them.
“Give me a beat, Jack.” Heaton was digging in a bureau at the backside of the room—a giant burl walnut thing that Jack had to believe was priceless. When he stood, he had a pair of garden gloves in his hands and a few other odd bits, along with a long, odd-looking black metal nightstick with a leather strap and a long electrical cord. He pointed easily over to one of the dome-topped steamer trunks, one of the larger ones.
“Grab this one with me, will you please?” He went over, picked up one side of the sturdy old wooden case, and waited for an extremely confused Jack to grab the other, which he did, surprised at how much the damn thing weighed. Heaton motioned for him to follow along as he headed out to the hallway again and now farther down the way toward the back of the house, going into another even larger room. This one was not as nicely furnished at all, almost empty save for another one of the old steamer boxes and a desk against the wall. He led Jack and his side of the trunk into the center of the room and then guided him as they set it down slowly.
“Carefully, please. It’s a collectible. Very old. Thank you.” The box safely landed, he motioned to a seat at the desk on the wall. It was a Hepplewhite Tambour from the 1800s, in perfect condition. “Have a seat, right there, Jack. I’m gonna have you take a letter down from me to Tatum. There are some supplies in the side of the desk there.”
Jack sat into the elegant French-style lounge chair with a Queen Anne leg and a frilly yellow pattern, his back to Heaton. He opened the drawer and found some stationery and a few silver-cased writing pens. He took them out and placed them on the leather blotter, preparing to compose a note. He had been drowning in dread, but now the idea of a letter detailing a negotiation with Tatum was a sign that he may be okay, that he wasn’t in the level of danger that he thought he was.
The strap was around his neck before he was really sure of what had happened. Heaton pulled it tight so quickly that Jack wasn’t able to put up anything of a struggle, his throat cut off instantly from air. Heaton threw the gangly secretary violently backward, causing the strap to constrict even more. He guided him over to the center of the room, his suit jacket now off. The garden gloves he had grabbed were now on his hands. The dome-top cover of the large steamer box they had carted down the hall was propped open and ready as he led the suffocating Jack over and yanked him down into it, all in one violently successful movement. The cord was off of Jack’s neck now as Heaton pulled him backward and down, laid him easily inside the box. The only things hanging over the edge of the trunk were his long, skinny legs.
He was suddenly punching Early now, striking him again and again. It seemed to go on for the longest time. He gave him a savage beating and finally stopped. He let his breath catch up to him.
“You’re going to sit in here for a while, okay, Jack? Sit in here and think about what there is to lose. A lot more than one little snot-nosed kid! Do you understand that?” He was almost screaming now, yet controlling himself inside the shout so as not to be heard in other parts of the house. “You’re going to get real strong, real fast, or you’ll lose a hell of a lot more than your kid. Do you fucking understand that?”
He swung the long solid shock-stick around from the back of the strap. The cord was now plugged into an outlet on the wall. He held the prod under Jack’s left arm and pushed a button on the side. An electrical shock jumped from the end of the rod, a large blue and red visible flash violently lurching Jack’s whole left side into an instant spasm. It was fast and fluid and it shut down all of his ability to move or think on the entire side of his torso. The first wave was followed with a second, the end of the contraption giving off one electrical blast after another. Heaton was slamming his thumb on the button repeatedly, sending Jack into wild, rolling, speechless convulsions of shock.
Heaton finally pulled the device away, took the gloves off, wiped the sweat from his brow, and watched as Jack did everything he could to find air. Jack’s face was now varnished in blood, his eyes hidden behind small mountains of tears and battered flesh. The two men said nothing for the longest time. Heaton finally spoke.
“You act like a kid, you’re going to get a time-out. You won’t be hurt anymore, but you are going to learn a lesson. I promise you this. We cannot afford to have anything like this happen again. We’re only as strong as our weakest link. Tatum knew that. That’s why he went after you, but, not to worry, we’re going to toughen you up here, Jack.”
Early managed to croak out a feeble response.
“I’m sorry, sir. I am.” Heaton nodded, seemingly took note of the apology, struggled to get his wind right, then slammed the lid shut and buckled the latches. He picked up his suit coat, which was draped carefully over the trunk next to it, gingerly put it back on, and headed downstairs to see the prime minister.