The Lacey Confession

1920

Warm breezes, the scent of fresh flowers and the sounds of newborn birds ushered in the English spring of 1920, sweeping out the harsh winter that had gone before it. Frederick Lacey thought God himself had written a symphony, rising to a mighty crescendo, all the senses in celestial harmony, and dedicated it to Aminette. On the second Thursday of May, Aminette Lacey went into labor. By most accounts, her baby was not due for another two or three weeks. Her husband had prepared well for the birth of his child, as he did for everything. His wife would deliver their child in a rosewood bed, hand crafted, made in Indonesia and shipped to England to be christened by new life in the Lacey family. It traveled around the world on the flagship of Frederick Lacey’s commercial fleet, a vessel like God’s own spring, named Aminette.

Things did not go well. The doctor, the midwife and the attendants were helpless. Aminette hemorrhaged, uncontrollably. As the lifeblood drained from her slender body, she looked sorrowfully into her husband’s eyes. She knew the man who could do anything, could do nothing to save her. A smile as serene as any he ever saw lit up her face as Aminette died holding tightly to her daughter. Lacey pleaded with his young wife, as if by demand alone he could keep her in this world. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes a final time was Frederick’s face, racked with misery, contorted in tears. He named his daughter Audrey.

In less than a week Djemmal-Eddin Messadou made the arduous journey from Georgia to London. Lacey waited to bury his wife until her father arrived. Lacey was devastated. He moved on instinct alone. Djemmal-Eddin too was stricken with grief, but he had seen more death than his young son-in-law and was better able to recover his senses. And recovery was necessary. Djemmal-Eddin did not have the luxury of prolonged mourning. He held the fate of his people in his hands. The Bolsheviks had sworn death to him and to the Transcaucasian Federation of Dagestan, Azerbaijan and his beloved Georgia. The unexpected death of his daughter was a terrible blow softened only a little by the birth of his newest granddaughter. Yet, it was a blow from which he would recover. Aminette’s was but a single human life. And he, her father-although a direct descendant of the Great Shamyl, the Lion of Dagestan-his pain, cruelly suffered at her fate, was solitary. One woman, one man, they are not that important. The death of his country and his countrymen-those who put their trust, their very lives and the lives of their families in his keeping-would be far worse. He told Lacey he could not stay long. When the time came for him to leave, the two men stood together. With firm resolve they shook hands, then they each broke down and sobbed on the other’s shoulder. Those who waited on Djemmal-Eddin waited in respectful silence. No man would interfere at this moment. Two and a half years would pass before Frederick Lacey and Djemmal-Eddin Messadou would shake each other’s hand again.

Solly Joel was in London in May 1920. He had recently returned from a lengthy visit to South Africa, to celebrate his true loves-the fifty-bedroom mansion he called Maiden Erlegh House, on the outskirts of Reading, and the sport of kings, horse racing. Through his ownership of the City amp; South London Railway, Joel knew William Lacey from Liverpool. He had heard stories of the young Lacey and was familiar with his growing reputation and the prestige that came with his victories in The Great War. But it was in tribute to Djemmal-Eddin that he sought an opportunity to pay his respects. Or, that’s what he said. The evening before the Georgian’s return to his native land, Solly Joel was the only guest for dinner. The three men ate together in Lacey’s dining room, a setting that could accommodate three dozen comfortably, and had more than once. Condolences were in order, but there was another, more important purpose to Joel’s visit.

Solomon Barnato Joel, Just Solly to the powerful and powerless alike, may have been the richest man in the world. It was hard to tell, difficult to get an accurate reading on matters as personal as that in those days. Following the mysterious death by drowning of his uncle Barney Barnato, the founder of the DeBeers diamond cartel, young Solly Joel assumed total control of that vast enterprise. From his base in diamond mining, Joel branched out to gold mines and soon manipulated and dominated the world market in both stones and precious metals. A flamboyant character, who thrived on bravado and basked in the glory of public attention, Solly Joel was among the first of the great industrialists and entrepreneurs to invade popular culture. With no thought of profit, he bought up the famed Drury Lane Theater in London and established a stable of the finest racehorses in the world.

His most daring adventure, the one deal everyone speculated about, was his strange and unique relationship with the Russians. When the Bolsheviks deposed the Czar in 1917, they found themselves embarrassed to become the world’s richest diamond owners. Centuries of accumulation, an act of unprecedented rape of Russian national treasure, had now devolved to and given the Communists the world’s largest, most valuable collection of diamonds. Desperate for money, hard currency with real trade value, and ideologically burdened with the Czar’s excesses, the Bolsheviks were easy prey to Solly Joel’s machinations. In a daring stroke of international hubris, Solly Joel offered to take the Czar’s diamonds off their hands and give the Bolsheviks the enormous sum of 250,000 English pounds, the most prized currency in the world. Moreover, Joel made the offer sight unseen. He would take the entire collection, as is. The Russians, in a sign that they understood nothing about money and really did mean it when they said they would usher in a new financial age for the world, accepted. They delivered the goods-in fourteen cigar boxes-and Solly Joel dutifully transferred the quarter million pounds. Improbable as it was-a schoolboy’s logic dictated otherwise-both sides concluded the transaction with apparent satisfaction. One of them had been had, and it wasn’t Just Solly. By securing the Czar’s entire collection for himself, Joel was able to stymie any possibility of the future sale of phony pieces, paraded as secret jewels from the vault of the late Czar. Had this happened, the diamond market might have spun out of control. As well, he completely eliminated the potential for any damage that might affect worldwide diamond prices had others purchased the collection. In this way, Joel ensured that all the Czar’s diamonds would not come on the market at once. Over the coming years, until his own death in 1931, Solly Joel was able to reintroduce, as he called it, piece by piece, some of the most spectacular diamond jewelry ever made. His financial wizardry was such, he did so while increasing prices, not depressing them. Of course, the Bolsheviks had no idea what those stones were really worth. They were the proverbial Christians being tossed to the lions. They were soft food for the predator. Solly Joel bought them sight unseen because he knew their actual value was perhaps twenty or fifty times what he paid. To this day some who know the diamond trade well say that figure was closer to a hundred times what Joel paid. Just Solly rightly figured the Russians for patsies. Why not the Georgians too? The purpose behind Solly Joel’s approach to Djemmal-Eddin Messadou was to find out about the Czar Nicholas II ten Ruble coins. He’d heard that the nephew of the Lion of Dagestan had tons of them.

The Present

In the last year of his reign, Nicholas II, the Russian Czar, issued a new ten Ruble coin. Of course, it had his likeness on it-a side view, the left, the one he always considered his best side. And it was made of gold, each coin containing. 2489 ounces. The international price of gold, in 1917, was fixed at $20.67 an ounce. The Czar’s new ten Ruble coin carried a value, in 1917, that Chita had already figured at $3.10 American. At today’s prices, each coin was worth about $75. She whistled at the thought of four million of them.

She already had learned that most of these coins were minted in Switzerland. Others in France. None in Russia. When the Bolsheviks overthrew the Czar, they canceled the contracts and asked for their gold back. They had no use for coins showing the Czar’s face. Neither the Swiss nor the French were eager to comply. There were costs involved, they said. They were vague about specifics. A halt in production meant expenses would be incurred. They told their Bolshevik clients, things had to be done properly. Procedures had to be followed. The Russians-these new ones now in charge-thought simply by saying stop, they could end the matter and have their gold promptly returned to them. The Englishman, Solly Joel, had shown these Communists knew next to nothing about diamonds. Louis Devereaux delighted in telling her that story. “Well,” he confided in her, “it turned out they knew even less about gold.” So offended were they by the sheer sight of the Czar’s face, they ordered the Swiss, and the French also, to melt down all existing coins. Add it to the gold still on hand, they instructed, and ship it all back to Moscow. They had no immediate plans for the use of the raw gold. They had other more pressing matters to deal with. Although they demanded its return, the Bolsheviks failed to threaten those who delayed or refused. How could they have known? They were innocents traveling down an unfamiliar road. None of them had dealt with international bankers before. They had no idea that no one gets their gold back without the threat of bloody, painful death. How could they have been so stupid? Chita thought of herself as much like the Communists who took over the Czar’s empire. Was she not forceful, resolute and self-confident? Unmistakably, however, and very much unlike her, the Reds were also totally ignorant about money and the people who controlled it. No banker wants his throat cut. Short of that, they’ll do anything to keep what’s theirs, and what’s yours too. She knew it and feared the loss of her own fortune, the risk to her lifestyle, and had nothing but contempt for the Russians. They had no idea at all what they were up against.

Like water when the temperature dips below 32 degrees, events freeze over just as quickly in the world of finance as they do in the often more chilly realm of politics and government. The Russians could run roughshod over their own. No one else really cared. Revolution here. Revolution there. The Communists had a firm grip on the Russian Bear. But they were impotent to influence the wild horses, the sleek stallions of international finance. By the time the Communists decided to do something, to take strong action, European bankers-Solly Joel was their hero!-had robbed them blind. The Bolsheviks, screwed out of much of their own gold reserves, were reduced to forbidding the use of Czar Nicholas II ten Ruble coins as legal tender at home. A lot of good that did. Gold is gold. Everyone knows it, especially in time of war. The coins were widely circulated and found their way into every crevasse of the Russian Empire, now property of Communists who, in their intellectual isolation, believed the means of production were now theirs.

Devereaux’s tales of Frederick Lacey, Lacey’s esteemed father-in-law and the notorious gold coins rescued from the clutches of the tyrant, enthralled her. Were the stories of the gold true? Had the Georgians trusted Lacey with that much? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t say. She wouldn’t rule it out. She wanted it, she told Louis. She wondered, was Frederick Lacey the only one who knew-the only one who knew where the gold was? Did he write that secret down in his private journal, the one Louis told her about? Was that too much to hope for? It hardly mattered, she thought. Louis kept telling her that Lacey’s confession was the key to everything. JFK was more than enough. The Czar’s gold would be a bonus, he called it, a present from him to her.

He was already on the job. That is what he told Conchita Crystal. But he hardly knew where to begin. He knew next to nothing about Harry Levine and he knew even less about what was going on, what was really going on, what sort of trouble Harry was in. Who might be after him? The guy was walking around with the truth about Kennedy, if this Frederick Lacey was for real. After their talk on the dock, Chita had agreed to meet him at his place later that afternoon.

“Bring me everything you have,” Walter told her. He meant about Harry, but he also meant she should bring the money. “Think about it. I want to know everything you know.”

Now, Walter sat in Billy’s thinking back on the events of that day, the day he went to work for Chita Crystal. It turned out she couldn’t tell him very much at all about her nephew. She found him, when his mother died, only a couple of years ago. Harry was “pleased,” she said, when he learned she was his aunt. “He was somewhat amused by it all. Not overly impressed,” she told Walter.

“There is a certain…” Walter stammered, looking for the right word.

“I know. I know,” Conchita said. “One day, out of the blue, an aunt shows up, an aunt from nowhere.”

“And she’s one of the most famous people in the world.”

“One of the richest too. Don’t forget that,” Conchita added that with a smile, her trademark smile. Walter struggled once again to keep his concentration.

Harry Levine was a “nice boy.” That’s the way she described him. Walter took that to mean he was average. He’d always associated nice with average and saw no reason not to do so here. Chita, as Walter had finally agreed to call her, had not spent much time with Harry. He was a grown-up when they met. They both had busy schedules. Fortunately her work carried her around the world. She told Walter this as they sat in his kitchen watching an afternoon Caribbean rainstorm splatter hard against the seaward side of his hilltop home. She met Sadie Fagan first, in Atlanta, not long after Elana died. She saw Harry in London. She made the trip just to meet him. There was a minimum of publicity, although a complete blackout is simply not possible in England where celebrity is more interesting than the royal family and where Chita was just as big a star as in the United States. She did her best to protect Harry. After a few days of photos, only one of them showing him clearly, she returned to America and he was not bothered further by the press. Her work, she told Walter, took her to Europe frequently, and she managed to see Harry a few times, in London and Paris as well. Once they got together in Spain. All told she had been with him perhaps a half-dozen times. Walter listened patiently, but soon Chita had little new to offer. “I’m sorry,” she said, “that I can’t be more helpful.”

The young woman who was Walter’s housekeeper brought a pot of tea and a plate of fresh fruits. She put them down on the kitchen counter, at a respectful distance from them, and offered to pour the tea.

“Thank you, Denise,” said Walter.

“She’s lovely,” Conchita whispered to him after Denise had gone.

“Clara’s niece,” Walter said, with a tone that told Conchita he hadn’t considered the fact that she had no idea who Clara was.

“Clara?”

“She was my housekeeper, my cook, my protector, my surrogate mother. She was with me here so long I can’t remember when she wasn’t.” He had a tender, hurt look in his eyes. Chita wanted to comfort him. This crusty old man, she thought, had a soft, vulnerable side too.

“She died?”

“Yes. Three years ago.”

“You miss her.”

“I miss her.”

“I can see that,” said Chita. “Denise, she does a good job?” Walter just shook his head, yes.

Conchita Crystal looked around her. It was definitely a man’s house. The television in the living room-more like an amphitheater, she thought-had the biggest screen she’d ever seen. “I didn’t know they even made them that big,” she said to him. The furniture was comfortable and, although Conchita could not pin a name or any particular style to it, it looked like quality merchandise. Perhaps, she thought, this is what they call eclectic. The floors of Walter’s house were hardwood, richly stained, gleaming, shiny and spotless. A few throw rugs were scattered about. The room, including the kitchen area, was so huge it was difficult to see it as a single room. The far wall was made entirely of glass soaring all the way to the top of the vaulted roofline. Since the glass stretched at least thirty-five feet from one end to the other, there were three double glass sliding doors that opened onto a wooden deck running the full length of the house. Part of it was covered, she could see, by a slanted roof and under it was a table with six wicker chairs. At the other end was some sort of outdoor stove and, next to it, a hot tub. The tub was covered with a blue tarp. Despite the rain, Conchita could see down the mountainside, out to the sea. She’d been privy to some incredible views, from equally incredible homes-owned a few herself-but this sight was as thrilling as any. She hoped she could stay long enough to see it when the storm passed and the sunshine reappeared.

Walter asked many questions about Harry. He wanted to learn about his character-his likes and dislikes, his habits, tendencies, inclinations, his vices. Conchita told him what she knew, and while it wasn’t much, Walter began developing a picture of Harry Levine as they talked. Not a photographic image-that she had already given him-but a psychological profile of sorts. What kind of man Harry was would determine where he went to hide. It had always been so. From decades of experience, Walter understood the more he knew about Harry Levine, the more he could decipher Harry’s motives, the easier it would be to calculate his movements and discover his whereabouts.

“Tell me about Tulane University,” he asked. She did, and when she finished, he asked about Philadelphia. But mostly Walter was interested in Roswell, Georgia.

“I don’t know that much about Roswell,” said Conchita.

“Harry grew up there.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know about my sister then. I didn’t know Harry when he was a child. You should really talk to his Aunt Sadie.”

“I will.”

“She’ll have much more to tell you than I do. Talk to her.”

“I will.”

“We don’t have much time,” said Conchita.

“Well, we’re not sure about that, are we?”

Chita reached out with her hand, much as she had done earlier in the day at Billy’s. Once again her long, slender fingers, bright red nails flickering in the reflected light, inched toward him, touched his forearm. It was the first time she had touched him since she came to his house. Her eyes caught his and held him straight and tight. Had he been a dog, she could have led him anywhere without so much as a jerk of his leash. Instead, like a fish, she reeled him in.

“It’s that I’m worried about him, Walter. You must find him before he gets hurt.”

“You know, of course,” he said, unwilling to breathe with gills, “I don’t really know what’s going on here-with Harry-what this is really all about. You tell me somebody gave him something, about somebody named Lord Frederick Lacey. Your nephew Harry has some sort of document that says Lacey killed John Kennedy. Harry’s got some kind of confession, is how you put it. Who gave it to him?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

“And you want me to find him before they do-but you don’t tell me who they are or even who they could be.”

“I don’t know,” Conchita said. They’d been through this before, she said. Now, she repeated it with a note of irritation in her voice. “If I knew more I would tell you. Don’t you believe me?” He’d tested her patience. She was getting pissed. Even in her anger, with her lips closed together, her mouth tighter than he’d seen it before, a frown creating tiny wrinkles in the lines of her cheeks and in the space just above her nose between her narrowed eyes, taking him in with steely resolve, even then Walter could not keep himself from thinking how beautiful she was-how much he wanted to wrap his arms around her, tell her he would do anything, whatever she wanted, anything, anything. To have her, he’d say anything.

But he said nothing.

During his first year in London, an American defense contractor requested Harry Levine’s assistance dealing with one of Lord Frederick Lacey’s shipping companies. Both U.S. and English laws contained strict penalties for the improper movement of certain sensitive military materials and Harry made sure the American company was in compliance with the requirements put in place by Great Britain. The project took the better part of a month. The vast extent of Lacey’s empire struck a chord with Harry. He read as much about the old man’s life and exploits as he could at the time. He knew something about the man, but there was so much he didn’t know.

The phone call came in on a dreary, wet and chilly Saturday morning in February, the sort of day common in an English winter. The English, to the consternation of most foreigners who hated it, seemed to have a perverse liking for this kind of weather. Most Americans preferred London in springtime. The call was received and logged in at the American Embassy shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. The weekend operator answered and, as requested, connected the caller to the Ambassador’s office. The American Ambassador, McHenry Brown, was not in. He was, in fact, two hours from London, finished with breakfast and playing tennis with a very special friend on an indoor court at a hotel known for its discretion. Nevertheless, he was listed as being on duty. The caller was Sir Anthony Wells, the most senior of all barristers at the firm of Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson. In a manner quite unusual for a man of his status and exalted position, Sir Anthony had placed the call himself.

The Ambassador’s secretary, Elizabeth Harrison, was there to take it. Whenever McHenry Brown took personal time on a Saturday, she covered for him. She said simply that Ambassador Brown was “unavailable at the moment.” Sir Anthony apologized for disturbing the tranquility of “such a fine day as this one most assuredly is.” Mrs. Harrison was keenly aware Sir Anthony had seen many winter mornings like this one in his one hundred years. For a moment she let her mind wander, conjuring up images of those long-ago days, of gas lamps, pot-bellied stoves, quill pens, tall ships and… she recovered. These days, she also knew, most Americans who’ve spent any length of time in England felt wintry Saturdays were the sort of days when absolutely nothing important could or should happen. These days were good for hot tea, newspapers, a warm fire and Mozart. She had already told Sir Anthony the Ambassador was “unavailable.” Nevertheless, he still asked. “Could the Ambassador be at my office by ten, this morning?” Elizabeth Harrison said nothing in reply and Sir Anthony continued. “It concerns a private matter,” he said. “He needs to meet me here.”

Mrs. Harrison wondered if Ambassador Brown really knew Sir Anthony. Of course, he knew who Sir Anthony was, but did he actually know the man? Had they ever really met? McHenry Brown was a very social person. Indeed, he was the American Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, a posting nearly 475 years old. Henry VIII had built St. James’s Palace. He started it in 1531 and by 1536 it was suitable for the royal family. For 300 years it was the actual home of the reigning English monarchs, kings and queens alike. It had been Victoria, in 1837, who changed that. Independent woman that she was, she picked up and moved to Buckingham Palace where she and all her successors to date have lived their lives in royal splendor. However, St. James’s Palace has never given up its designation as the official royal residence. Thus, all those who serve as Ambassadors to England are said to serve at the Court of St. James’s. It was McHenry Brown’s honor to do so as it was his job to be social, to know everyone and anyone of influence. It was also his pleasure. Sir Anthony was certainly such a person, yet she tried to recall the last time he had been seen at a public event. At his age such absence was more than understandable. It was expected.

Of Sir Anthony’s fellow named partners, Mr. Herndon had been dead for seventy-five years and Sturgis nearly half that time. Although he was twenty-five years Sir Anthony’s junior, Mr. Nelson too was sadly long departed. Only Sir Anthony survived. He became a partner in London’s most important law firm more than seventy years ago. In his day he’d been a powerful figure at the bar. To Mrs. Harrison, that was a long time ago. Everyone knew it had been decades since he was actively involved in any of the day-to-day goings-on of England’s power elite. The question of his familiarity with Ambassador Brown remained an unsettled matter in her mind. They might as easily be close friends as strangers, she thought. The tone of Sir Anthony’s voice gave no hint. In any case, Mrs. Harrison, while she preferred not to think of it, knew perfectly well what the Ambassador was doing now and what sort of activities he and his friend would surely be involved in when their tennis game ended. Meeting Sir Anthony Wells, at any time today, much less in an hour, was entirely out of the question.

Elizabeth Harrison had worked for McHenry Brown since his Wall Street days twenty years ago. He trusted her completely and with total justification. When he was named Ambassador to England, a post once held by Joseph P. Kennedy, Mrs. Harrison convinced her husband, Norman, to have his advertising agency transfer him to their London office. He did and they moved to England. Some said she would have gone without him. She was devoted to McHenry Brown’s interest and protected his privacy with a zeal and competence other men in public life admired, envied and tried so hard to duplicate. Quite naturally she replied to Sir Anthony, “Of course, Sir Anthony, ten o’clock will be fine.” He gave her special directions to an open door at the side of the building in which Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson was the sole occupant, as well as the location of his office suite. It was, after all, he said, “a February Saturday and no staff would be present to show him in. I shall be the only one here.”

“I’m sure the Ambassador will find you without difficulty,” she said.

She said that to him knowing there would be no appearance by the Ambassador, that it would not be McHenry Brown who’d pay him a visit, and in the full knowledge Sir Anthony knew it too.

After checking the morning duty roster, she called the ranking American official on the premises. “Harry,” she said, “can you come over to the Ambassador’s office right away? There’s something very important you need to do.” Harry Levine was no stranger to diplomatic speech. In that peculiar language, very important clearly meant it’s not important at all. Important alone, used by itself minus the adjective very, meant important. If something was indeed very important, it was referred to as vitally important. Should there be a potential for danger attached to the matter at hand, then it would be spoken of as gravely important. And if the danger was immediate, if the threat was clear and present, then it would be a matter of critical importance. Not only did Harry understand this, he knew Elizabeth Harrison did too.

The table of organization at the Embassy, that long list of deputies, assistants, attaches and their assistants, plus all the other titles, each accompanied by their job descriptions-both the politicals as well as the Foreign Service people-listed her simply as an Administrative Assistant. No matter, Harry was certainly aware Elizabeth Harrison was the embassy’s de facto Chief of Staff. She spoke with the full weight of the Ambassador. Nowhere in the Foreign Service manuals was it written, or listed anywhere among the rules and regulations that govern diplomacy, but it was not at all unusual for the same circumstance to exist at other embassies, all over the world. Especially American ones. Powerful American men, private as well as public, had a habit of depending on and trusting in their female assistants. A French diplomat, perhaps more intimate with his mistress than his wife, once told Harry he suspected American men spent their entire lives looking for their mother, seeking her approval. “So, what’s wrong with that,” replied Harry, to which his French friend just laughed.

Harry’s own place on that list was well down the chain of command. He was designated as Deputy Ambassador, Trade (Legal Section). Deputy Ambassador was a heady title only to those outside the loop. Harry Levine was one of two dozen such in London alone. His was not a political position. He was Foreign Service, a true representative of his country, not merely his government. His job was to provide the legal guidance necessary for American business and American businessmen to prosper in England. It was a technical post, one which mainly involved helping American interests operate within the framework of English law. A compatible legal heritage combined with a common language to help make this easy work. Despite its often-mundane aspects, he loved it as much as he loved England. He was smart enough to forego an ambition he had little of to begin with, together with career advancement he had no desire for, in exchange for a permanent place in London. He was a great success. He did a good job. American businessmen, prominent men in their fields, many with substantial political influence, liked him. When the time came, Harry was not timid about asking some of them to help him remain in his comfortable spot. After a few years he was safely immune from the fears and irregularities of Foreign Service rotation.

Whatever Elizabeth Harrison had in mind for him, no matter how unimportant it might be, Harry was ready and willing. He was, Saturday joke or not, the senior man on the premises. It was what he was there for.

“I’ll be right there,” he said.

Harry took a cab instead of an embassy car to Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson. Usually, he walked wherever possible. He liked London better than any city in the world. It was a city for walkers. The safety and friendliness of its streets ranked high among the many reasons he preferred it to other capitals. It wasn’t that the streets of Roswell, Georgia or Atlanta didn’t hold warm memories for him. They did. New Orleans too, of course. He frequently missed being there. Philadelphia he could take or leave. It hardly mattered. Law school had been more of a bore than he expected, a necessary experience but not one he’d like to do a second time. London was what he had been looking for. Of course, he didn’t know it until he got there.

When he joined the Foreign Service, Harry got a first-class introduction to cruel city streets. His initial posting was to Ankara, Turkey, where he spent two difficult but interesting years. Then he was sent to Cairo where he stayed another two years. When he was reassigned from Egypt to the Embassy in Paris, Harry Levine had survived four years in, if not the Third World, something close to it. Out of sheer necessity he had become expert in navigating their crooked, often nasty alleys. Being in France was so different-like being on holiday. Everything was so clean, including the Frenchmen he encountered in carrying out his duties. Unlike the Turks and Egyptians, the exchange of money was not a requirement of a routine transaction. Not all of them, anyway. And then, when he was posted to London, for the first time as an adult, he felt at home.

He found a flat in Soho, just off Regent Street, within walking distance of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. He spent much of his free time casually strolling about in the small streets of London’s neighborhoods, among the ancient buildings that had withstood the centuries and the bombs. Often, he would lazily browse the stacks at Foyle’s or Blackwell’s bookshops in Charing Cross Road or the tiny, crowded stores in Berwick Street near Oxford Circus that featured old and rare recordings. Harry came to think of London as his city, a place where he felt as eternal as Westminster Abbey, as strong as the ancient Tower and as stable as Buckingham Palace. It was the only city in which he was ever truly serene.

When transportation needs meant a ride was absolutely necessary, when walking was out of the question, he liked to take cabs, not embassy cars. Taxis held a special place in Harry’s life, in his sense of himself and his maturity. As a young man in Atlanta and later in New Orleans, as well as during those three cold years in Philadelphia, a taxi meant freedom and privacy. He could get in a cab, tell a stranger where to go, then sit back, alone, undisturbed and unperturbed. In those years, he recalled, there was no other place in his life where he exercised such total control, enjoyed such liberation and felt such anonymity, momentary and temporary as it may have been.

He brought that aspect of his character overseas. In Turkey and Egypt he was thought foolhardy for rejecting embassy cars in favor of local taxis. At a hotel, restaurant or cafe, he frequently hailed a passing cab and off he went. More than once he was told how dangerous this behavior was. One senior official in Cairo actually accused Harry of “putting all Americans in Egypt in jeopardy” just by taking a cab ride. He never did figure that one out. It wasn’t until Paris that his liking for cabs went unnoticed. Of course, everything about Harry Levine seemed to go unnoticed at the American Embassy in Paris. Now, finally in London, getting from place to place was simply not an issue.

The cabbies of London were like the grown men who drove cabs in the big cities of America many years ago. It was a real job, one for men with wives and families. If not a profession, it was a full-time occupation, something you could be proud of, if that’s what you did. Harry liked it that London’s cabbies were polite- “Where to, sir?” they would ask. If they offered conversation at all, it too would be polite. Not like the cab drivers in America. Harry remembered them well. So many were Africans, men with poor language skills and no sense of direction. If they were white and spoke English, chances were all they talked about was “the fucking niggers” this, or “the fucking niggers” that. When they finished those filthy diatribes they always had to add something like “you know what I mean?” and Harry would be forced to reply, “Just drive.” England provided him many wonders, not least among them the return of his freedom, privacy and the sense of independence and security that waited for him in the back seat of a London taxi.

Arriving at Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson, Harry found the small side door to the old five-story building and presented himself at Sir Anthony’s office exactly at ten o’clock. “Come in,” said Sir Anthony. “Please be seated. Do pour yourself some tea. I am Sir Anthony Wells.” He spoke with simple ease, aware that no one to whom he introduced himself could have been unaware. “And,” he said, “while I’ve not met you, I am pleased to see the duty officer was not a young lady. I hope that doesn’t offend you. I’ve nothing against young ladies. Quite the opposite in fact. It’s just…” and then he seemed to drift off, his attention sort of floating away on a gentle breeze, or maybe caught on the tide of some unseen ocean. His eyes even got kind of watery.

Sir Anthony’s office was smaller than Harry expected, older and darker too. All the light in the room was provided by a single lamp on his desk. The building which housed this venerable law firm was probably three hundred years old, but the offices were new and modern, some obviously renovated recently. Not Sir Anthony’s. His suite of rooms was probably as it had been for a century or more. The outside office, his secretary’s, was by any reasonable description, tiny. Her desk-Harry pictured Sir Anthony’s secretary as an older, very proper woman-took up nearly all the available space. Behind that desk, hung upon the shiny oak paneled wall, was a large oil portrait of Sir Charles Herndon, the firm’s founder. Sir Anthony had actually seen him once in the summer of 1927 when Sir Charles, then in his late eighties, paid a final visit to “my place” as he called it. He died a few years later, just before Christmas. To Harry’s right, as he stood in the outside office, was what should have been the office used by Sir Anthony’s clerk. The door was halfway open and it appeared unoccupied, unused. No doubt, he had no need for a clerk any longer. To Harry’s left was Sir Anthony’s office. His walls, also oak from floor to ceiling, were completely lined with bookshelves, filled with law books and journals bound in special binders embossed with small letters. Harry couldn’t make out the citations identifying these volumes, but guessed they were very old and not much use to a working attorney today. The far wall was interrupted by a small fireplace in which no fire presently burned. The large window to the right and behind Sir Anthony’s desk looked directly out on the front of the building apparently near its center. Between the window and the fireplace was a glass table with no chairs and on it an elegant silver tea service for four complete with what appeared to be crackers and toast. Sir Anthony Wells sat behind a massive mahogany desk, far too large for an office this small. Two matching visitors’ chairs faced it head on. Harry poured himself a cup of tea, as his host requested, and sat down directly across from Sir Anthony. He looked at the old man closely. It was not often he met someone 100 years old. Sir Anthony was a small man, hard to measure sitting, but surely not more than five feet six inches. He was extremely thin in the way only very old people sometimes get. He wore an expensive gray wool suit that looked fairly new to Harry, and he had on a shirt with an old-fashioned collar, one that almost covered the knot in his tie. As Sir Anthony’s attention drifted, Harry thought he appeared ancient, delicate, probably breakable to the touch.

“My name is Harry Levine. I’m in the Trade Section, sir. It’s a great honor to meet you, Sir Anthony. And I’m a lawyer. Like yourself.” He added that as if it might be a comfort to this old man. Harry stood, reached down and carefully shook the outstretched hand. Such an incredibly old and special hand, he thought. Meeting celebrities came easily with the Foreign Service, the worldwide adventure that was embassy life. Harry had met, and on occasion even worked closely with, a number of famous people. And, of course, there was his Aunt Chita. But this old hand, shaking his own, had known the shake of Kings and Queens, dictators and saviors. It held in its frail and aged palm almost all the history of the twentieth century. “How did you know,” asked Harry, “the Ambassador would not be coming himself?”

“Yes, well, we do know your Mr. Brown attends to certain matters of a personal nature most Saturdays.”

Harry was truly puzzled. “Then, why did you…?”

“I had no choice. Which brings us right to the private matter for which I’ve asked you here.” Again the old man seemed to drift away, somewhere far off. For a moment he was no longer Sir Anthony Wells. He looked like any frightened, old man. Harry was struck with his use of the term “private matter.” What could the American Ambassador or, in his place, what could he, Harry Levine, possibly do for Sir Anthony Wells? And whatever it might be, in what way could it be called private?

“For many years,” said Sir Anthony, once again himself, “I have been the lawyer for Lord Frederick Lacey. You may be familiar with Lord Frederick.”

“Yes, I am of course,” Harry said. “Everyone knows… I mean he died just a few days ago.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Anthony. “Tuesday last.”

“I’ve read a few things about Lord Lacey. In fact, I assisted a client, an American company I mean, a few years ago and I had to do some research on Lord Lacey. A remarkable man.”

“Yes,” said Sir Anthony. “Remarkable.”

“I never associated his interests in any way with this firm, Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson. ”

“Quite right. Quite right. Never did such an association exist. I, however, have been, or rather-was-the private lawyer for Lord Frederick going back many years before he was Lord or anywhere near it for that matter.” Sir Anthony paused a moment, a small but warm smile crossing his aged lips. “We were young together.” He reached across his desk to his right and removed a stack of file folders that covered a large metal box, a box with a lock, a box more than a foot high and three feet long, a box of the sort found in a safe deposit vault. He needed to stand to open it, turning it sideways to make room on his desk for the long top which he promptly raised up and folded flat back. From inside it Sir Anthony withdrew a packet of legal-size papers which Harry took to be a will, plus a second thick document, which looked at first sight to be handwritten on regular size paper or perhaps personal stationery. Sir Anthony needed both hands to lift it.

“Lord Lacey liked to keep his varied interests separate from each other.” Sir Anthony went on. “And he treated his private affairs likewise. I never handled any of his business work and I saw to his personal affairs apart from my duties and obligations in this firm. Family things, from time to time. His wives. His daughter. Audrey, poor Audrey. And his will. I did his will. You know, Lord Frederick Lacey’s was the largest non-royal fortune in the whole history of Europe.” Sir Anthony’s voice, weak and frail like the man himself, cracked and wavered. The old man stopped and Harry didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

“I was twenty-five and he not much older when he first came to me,” Sir Anthony continued. “He had a great deal of money even then. Of course it wouldn’t be quite so much now, but it was an awful lot for 1930. I did his will then and every change since. I don’t do much now, surely you know that.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“I’d never hand over his work to another lawyer. And, of course, he wouldn’t have allowed it either. With that in mind, you should know the last time I did anything for him was many, many years ago, not since June 1968. That spring Lord Frederick instructed me to make some changes in his will. He came in, signed it, sealed it himself, in this envelope.” He held it with two hands. “Right here in this office. He sat just where you are now. Rather strange, but I recall it quite clearly. He placed my document, the will, together with his own, wrapped in a large, sealed package, in this very lockbox, shook my hand and clasped my shoulder rather like an old friend bidding farewell. Then he left and never set foot in this office again. I saw him, from time to time after that, but never again professionally. Given the enormous size of his estate, I did wish to certify the continuing validity of the will and, over the course of time, I would have him sign a letter simply stating there was no other will. It was all done by post. The last such letter is right here, signed by him, dated eight months before his death.” He stopped. Harry had the feeling Sir Anthony did not want to continue. What he had said Harry found fascinating; however, he had yet to say anything even remotely relevant to the American Ambassador, or his personal representative, who Harry was.

“When Lord Frederick Lacey died,” Sir Anthony resumed, “he left a will, a copy of which you see before you. While it serves to distribute an amount of money even some modern heads of state are not used to dealing with, his wishes are really quite uncomplicated and frankly not very interesting at all, not titillating, if you know what I mean. Lord Lacey lived to be a hundred and seven years old. Quite old, indeed. He’d outlived his brother, his sisters, his wives and his only child. He did not involve any of his relatives in any of his business interests. Although he leaves substantial sums of money to the surviving members of his family, no matter how distant, their share represents a tiny fraction of the real value of his estate. The bulk of his personal fortune will go to various foundations and charitable organizations. Its disposition will be private and, I assure you, lacking in any controversy. I suspect the news media will take no interest. For all his youthful celebrity, in the last half-century of his life Lord Frederick was really not well known. Private as were his financial affairs in life, he had no wish for them to be otherwise in death.” With that, Sir Anthony pushed aside the will and once more put his hands on the handwritten pages in front of him.

“Now, you do need to know why you’re here, don’t you? Lord Fredrick was quite plain. My instructions have been clearly conveyed. I was to open the sealed package that contained this document exactly four days after his death. That I did this morning, with the document as I said, still within its sealed envelope, its contents totally unknown to me until today, only a few hours ago. I knew he liked to write his thoughts down. Many more people of our generation did that than do today. He’d make notes, even in the midst of conversation. You got used to it. I suspected he kept a private journal of some sort.” Sir Anthony pushed the loosely gathered, handwritten document across the desk in Harry’s direction. It was, Harry could make out, written on personal stationery paper and looked more like the first draft of a manuscript than anything else.

“A document of substantial weight, as you can see. There’s no doubt it’s the work of Lord Frederick Lacey. The handwriting is his. I attest to that. From start to finish. There’s a cover page, also in his hand, and it instructs me to read this document, which as lawyers,” he said to Harry, meaning the compliment quite sincerely, “we understand is to make public.” Sir Anthony said that, lightly tapping the pile of handwritten pages. “I am to do so in a public forum, on the first business day following the fourth day of his passing. As today is Saturday, that would be Monday, the day after tomorrow.”

Harry looked at the top page of the document, only inches away from his fingertips. He read only the first few sentences. He read them again, then a third time and yet again once more.

“Quite shocking,” Sir Anthony went on. “Indeed, a great deal more than that, isn’t it? I haven’t read it all, by any means, but the page I have given you here is more than enough. I’m sure you’ll agree. God only knows what else is in here. There are so many things he did in his life, so many places, so many prominent people, famous and infamous. God only knows, Mr. Levine.”

“Why,” asked Harry, “would he do such a thing? What possible reason… could there be?”

“Frederick Lacey was a special man, Mr. Levine. A very special man. Not like you and me. He came as close to real power in this world as one can get and you will find his mark in many places. Yet still, his legend-rumor, innuendo-true or false, as you have it-challenges if not exceeds the reality of his remarkable life. Only he knows why. Only he knew. I can’t answer why any more than you can. Under our law, however, I’ve no alternative but to make this document public not later than about fifty-nine hours from now. You understand I have no choice other than to continue as faithful servant to my client, even in his death. Especially in his death. I do think, however, the Prime Minister has the ability to intercede and authorize postponement of such a reading for a period of time to be determined by Her Majesty’s Government. I, however, am rendered helpless in this matter, unable to ask the PM, or anyone else, even the Queen, whom you shall see may have ample reason herself to keep this journal in darkness. For me to do that would create an unethical conflict of interest. Nonetheless, the Prime Minister could be appropriately approached, and he might take the necessary action, at the special urging of the American President. The ramifications of Lord Frederick’s unfortunate disclosures-that which we see here and now, with our own eyes, and others I’m certain a careful reading will discover-appear quite unacceptable. And who knows?” he said, tapping the pile of pages he had yet to read as if they were some sort of bomb. “This is why I called your Ambassador, why I’ve no choice but to share this with you, allowing for your country’s appropriate obligation and response, and why I suggest you get this document to your President without delay. Otherwise…”

Harry’s mind raced. Sir Anthony’s words faded to background buzz. He stared, in disbelief, at the page Sir Anthony had put before him. It began…

I killed the Son Of A Bitch. Goddamn him to Hell forever, so far away from my sweet, dearest Audrey.

After Conchita Crystal had gone back to her hotel, Walter remembered sitting alone on the deck. The rain had stopped. The late afternoon sun was high and hot again, like it had been earlier that morning on the dock. Sailboats were afloat, drifting calmly off the shore of St. John, some of them headed out toward St. Thomas. Others gently rode the breezes in, out, and around the small, uninhabited, hilly islands that lay off in the distance to the north. The intense humidity, that always hugged the rear end of a rainstorm, was the best part. Walter knew some people didn’t like it that way, but he was not one of them. The moist, heavy air was like dessert to him, something sweet and delicious. It was a faithful reminder of how much he loved the Caribbean and it was something he missed when work took him much farther north. A good sweat was always satisfying, especially if it took no obligation, no commitment in the way of exercise to bring it on.

She told him quite an amazing story. Conchita Crystal, the Conchita Crystal herself. She said her nephew, Harry Levine, had called her from London. He was frantic. He had come into possession of something-“evidence,” he called it. She said that to Walter. She called it evidence. She said that powerful men would kill to get their hands on it, to prevent it from seeing the light of day. The nature of the “evidence” was explosive. Harry had the confession of the man who assassinated JFK. She named the killer-a Frederick Lacey-but it made no difference to Walter. He’d never heard of the guy before. He grilled her about why this man Lacey might have done it, but Chita had no idea. If Harry knew, he hadn’t told her. Where did Harry get this confession? brought the same reply. She said she didn’t know. Who gave it to him? How did Harry Levine come into possession of such a startling, original document? Again, Chita pled ignorance. What she did know was that Harry had left London, taking with him whatever it was that put him on the run. “He’s afraid,” she said. “He knows they’re after ‘it’ and that means they’re after him.” She told Walter where Harry lived, where the Embassy was located in relation to his flat, and she mentioned Harry’s well-known dislike for official transportation. “He’ll be on his own,” she said. “He walks. He has a bicycle and, if I remember, he had one of those little scooters in France. I’m pretty sure of that.”

Again, Walter questioned her. “What’s he going to do about this? He can’t simply hide forever.”

“I don’t know,” Conchita said. “But I do know they’ll find him. That’s why you must find him first.”

This was the story she told him on the dock, and she had nothing more to offer later that afternoon, no more details of the confession that had put Harry Levine in mortal jeopardy. When Walter realized she either didn’t know any more or-for some reason he had yet to decipher-wouldn’t tell him more, he encouraged her to talk about Harry’s life in general.

That was his way. Move quickly from generalities to specifics. Don’t linger on speculation. Concentrate on facts. Gather information. Walter worked on instinct more than method. It had always been so. His mother told him that as a youngster he was the one she turned to to find her car keys when she’d misplaced them. He never lost things the way other kids did-socks, shoes, homework. And when his friends, even into high school, forgot where they parked their car, plunked down their wallet or put the beer they’d hidden from their parents, it was always Walter Sherman who found these things. In Vietnam, he found people because… well, just because. Sure, there was a reason why he did it, but no real method or system to guide him. He seemed to sense the direction he had to move in. When he began doing the same thing for a living, he found many similarities among his targets-that was the word he came to use for the people he was hired to find. He used it unemotionally and without any hint of violence or aggression. No judgment was attached. Those who hired him were clients. Those for whom he searched were targets.

In forty years, Walter’s instincts were highly developed. He refrained from pointless guesswork. He tried to deal exclusively with evidence. That didn’t mean he didn’t think about things, didn’t project his target’s future actions. It just meant his conjecture required a rock-hard foundation of existing fact. Talking to Conchita Crystal about Harry’s life and personality, he hoped to begin constructing that foundation. That’s how he began with most of his clients, usually a photograph, a sad tale of despair and woe, a plea for help. And always, in the background, the unspoken monster, the client’s fear of failure. Because the rich, the famous and the powerful face possible disaster from the goings-on of almost anybody close to them, his clients often told Walter far more than he needed to know, burdened him, in fact, with details so personal and so irrelevant to his pursuit. Walter saw it as an indication of their vulnerability and it frequently showed him things about them they had not meant to reveal. He looked for those qualities, those hidden secrets, those unintended disclosures in Conchita Crystal. It worried him that he found none. But he listened to her. After all, he needed to start somewhere.

Europeans drink more tea than coffee. While in Turkey and Egypt, Harry had a hell of a time finding a decent cup of coffee, American coffee. How he loved it. After smoking since he was a teenager, he quit at 30, but never cut back on coffee. Some addictions were better than others. The six-cup electric percolator he bought in Philadelphia his first year in law school sat in his London kitchen, still working.

Finding the right beans, the kind needed to make a cup of coffee like Harry could get in any of a thousand roadside Waffle House restaurants scattered throughout the South, was a challenge in Europe, even in London. This was so despite coffee’s long history in England. As best Harry could determine, Edward Lloyd opened London’s first coffeehouse, in Tower Street, in 1637. It was still a famous establishment today, albeit while keeping its founder’s name, it long ago stopped selling coffee and began instead arranging commercial insurance. Other coffee shops played an important role in England’s industrial revolution. The once popular Jonathon’s Coffee Shop eventually became the London Stock Exchange. Harry knew that, just as he was aware that today coffee was the second most traded commodity in the world, surpassed only by oil. When he finally discovered exactly the blend of beans he was looking for, at Monmouth’s Coffee House, he bought in bulk and stored it in his freezer. Harry was like that. His pantry always had a month’s supply of things like toilet paper, napkins, garbage bags, toothpaste, the sort of stuff people might run out of if they weren’t careful. And, he also had an extra supply of socks and underwear, dress shirts, flashlight batteries, shaving cream and those little things people dropped in their toilets to make the water blue. He kept it all stashed away, neatly stacked, ready to use when needed. He was very careful, very neat, very thorough.

He thought about his meeting with Sir Anthony as he prepared the coffee. The gurgling noise his percolator made was a sound he’d grown familiar with, a sound as real to him as language. He anticipated, as if by some mysterious feel, when its silence would announce the coffee was ready. Once done, he reached for the sugar bowl putting it down next to the milk he had already taken out of the refrigerator. After inhaling a deep smell of the fresh brewed aroma, he poured the coffee into his mug, adding the milk first, then the sugar, and stirred. From the living room he heard a Vivaldi violin concerto playing on the BBC.

Before taking a sip he reached across the small table in his kitchen and pulled the document toward him. I killed the Son Of A Bitch kept running through his mind. He closed his eyes and said it to himself- “I killed the Son Of A Bitch.” He was amused by his awareness of the cultural divide separating Frederick Lacey and himself. No American, certainly no modern American, would have written Son Of A Bitch. It would be sonofabitch! Then he said it, out loud, softly, slowly with his eyes still tightly closed, both hands clutching the warm mug. “Sonofabitch! Lord Frederick Lacey killed President John F. Kennedy.” A shiver crossed his shoulders. Harry opened his eyes, took a long drink of his coffee and let the idea, fantastic as it was, settle in his mind. Lord Frederick Lacey killed President John F. Kennedy. “Holy shit,” he added aloud. Then he began reading the document, shuffling pages, searching for the ones about Kennedy.

Harry was drained, worn down by the adrenaline rush of Lacey’s revelations. His confusion and bewilderment were compounded by the simple sight of the document he had been reading, lying on his kitchen table. It rested there, next to the morning Times and today’s mail, as harmless as if it were any set of papers. Just a pile of old paper? he thought. No, it was a bombshell, scheduled to explode the day after tomorrow. Harry had rushed through Lacey’s confession, looking for the Kennedy names, but there were others as well. Skimming through the pages he saw many familiar names-Churchill, Hitler, Roosevelt and Stalin. Czar Nicholas II was mentioned on more than one page, together with many others. Some Muslim names were strange to him. A big Billy Joel fan, Harry was particularly taken with a name he saw on a page that seemed to be about 1917-Solly Joel. Who was he, he wondered? He made a mental note to come back to that page later. Lacey was apparently fond of writing down interesting or useful quotes. Harry saw them, on pages here and there, in quotation marks with the author’s identity. They stood out because he wrote them in all caps. “MORAL INDIGNATION IS JEALOUSY WITH A HALO” -H. G. Wells. Harry chuckled when he read that one. Did Lacey see himself in that nugget of wisdom? He noticed the names of Chaim Weizmann and Sir Herbert Samuel. He knew who they were. And he wrote down a quote from the Latin for further reference, one for which Lacey gave no attribution. “UBI DUBIUM IBI LIBERTAS.” He wasn’t sure of the meaning, but Harry couldn’t help thinking of Roy Orbison. He was getting punchy. He’d been reading too long. Hey! he scolded himself. This is serious business. This is the confession of Lord Frederick Lacey. He killed John Kennedy!

McHenry Brown was off somewhere. Harry had no idea where, or how to reach him in an emergency. Jesus Christ! This was an emergency. The whole thing agitated him. He paced about his apartment, walking from the kitchen into the living room and back again a half dozen times, wondering what to do, his mind becoming a shambles.

He heard it on the BBC Noon News. “… Sir Anthony Wells…” He heard the name but couldn’t make out the rest, not from the kitchen. He ran into the living room where he heard the BBC news reader saying, “… beaten to death in his office earlier this morning; however, the official cause of death has yet to be released by the Police. Sir Anthony was apparently alone. Authorities said they knew of no appointments on his schedule for today.” Harry’s mind raced crazily. He felt lightheaded. “… said they were unsure as to a motive. While his office was found in total disarray, it appears Sir Anthony was not robbed…” In the bathroom, Harry splashed cold water on his face. Holding his hands over his eyes he let the water drip down his neck. Slowly, he regained the sense of control he had lost. He returned to the kitchen, picked up the telephone and called the Ambassador’s office. He got the Embassy operator who put him through to McHenry Brown’s Administrative Assistant.

“Elizabeth, it’s Harry Levine. Is this a good line? Can I speak openly?”

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, with a cool composure comparable to the best an Englishwoman could muster. “Where are you calling from?”

“I’m home.”

“How important is it?”

“What?”

“How important is it,” Mrs. Harrison repeated.

“It’s important!” Harry yelled. “It’s critically important!”

“Let me call you back,” she said. “Hang up now.” A moment later the phone rang. Harry answered before the first ring finished. Elizabeth Harrison told him they were now on a secure line.

“What is it, Harry?” she inquired.

“When can I talk with the Ambassador? How soon?”

“Well, it’s just after noon. I don’t expect him… Harry, what is it?”

“I can’t tell you Elizabeth, but I must speak with Ambassador Brown and I need to talk to him right now.”

“You won’t be able to reach him until early this evening. He’ll be returning, not here, but to his home. He should be there by eight-thirty or nine o’clock.”

“Isn’t there a number, a way you can…”

“No, Harry. Not today. I don’t have a number to call him. He didn’t think anything would come up,” she said. “Not today.”

“What? Are you saying you don’t have a number to reach him? I thought that was standard procedure.”

“He didn’t leave one,” she said coldly.

“I don’t… understand…,” said Harry. “How could he not leave a number? Where is he? This is important, damnit!”

“Harry.”

“Yes?”

“You don’t know about Ambassador Brown, do you?”

“What? Know what?”

“You really don’t know,” she said, more to herself than to him, with what seemed to Harry to be a touch of amazement in her voice.

“Elizabeth, what are you talking about?”

“The Ambassador… how can you not know?”

“Elizabeth…”

“McHenry Brown is gay.”

“Jesus!” Harry said. “So what?”

“On Saturdays he meets his ‘friend.’ They play tennis and… go off together… somewhere. I don’t know where. Sometimes he tells me where he’ll be, if he’s expecting something or someone, you know. But mostly he just goes… and today in particular… nothing’s supposed to happen today.”

“Give me the special number for the White House. The hotline, or whatever you call it.”

“Harry, that’s a communication link for extreme emergencies, to be used only by the Ambassador and the President of the United States.”

“I know that. That’s exactly why I need the number. I’m going to have to talk to the President. I know it’s early in the morning there, but I can’t wait until this evening. I’ll turn this all over to the Ambassador when he gets back, but I’ve got to do this now, right now.”

“Are you sure?” asked Elizabeth Harrison. Now the tone of her voice reminded Harry of his Aunt Sadie. It made him feel very uncomfortable. Harry spoke so firmly it chilled Elizabeth Harrison, to the bone.

“This is a matter directly related to my meeting with Sir Anthony Wells, whose murder has just been reported by the BBC. This is a matter of critical importance. I need the special number and whatever calling instructions go with it. Have I made myself clear?”

He entered the numbers in the exact order called for. Elizabeth Harrison had read the entire instructions to him and he followed them precisely. To his surprise, there was no ringing on the other end. Almost as soon as Harry pushed the last number, he heard…

“Please identify yourself.” It was a man’s voice.

“Who am I speaking to?” asked Harry.

“Please identify yourself,” the man repeated.

“My name is… no wait a minute. Who are you? I placed this call and I want to know who you are.”

“Please identify…”

“Hold on!” Harry shouted in a voice dangerously near the breaking point. “I want to speak with the President of the United States. That is what this telephone is for. Who the hell are you?”

“You are speaking to Lawrence Albertson. I am a special assistant to the President and it’s my job to handle this communication link. Will you please identify yourself and state your location.”

“My name is Harry Levine. I’m calling from London, from the American Embassy, to speak with the President.”

“That’s not a credible response.”

“What?”

“Your reply is incorrect.”

“What the hell are you talking about! I am Harry Levine from the American Embassy…”

“No sir, you’re not calling from the American Embassy in London.”

“No, no, no. You’re right. Wait a minute,” said Harry. “I’m not calling from the embassy. I didn’t mean to say that. What I mean is, I’m from the American Embassy. My name is Harry Levine. My job is.. .”

“I know who you are, Mr. Levine. Where are you calling from?”

“I’m home. My flat. My apartment.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Thank you. How did you get access to this link and what is the purpose of your communication?”

“I need to speak with the President.”

“How did you get this number, Mr. Levine?”

“Who did you say you were? Lawrence who? What the hell’s going on here? I called this number to talk to the President. How I got this link and what my purpose is, is none of your goddamn business. Now, you will please put me through to the President of the United States at once.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Levine. My name again is Albertson. Lawrence Albertson. My responsibility is to take the details of your communication and report them to the President’s office and wait for a response. That response may be a written reply, which I will read to you, or it may be a message or other instruction for you, or there might be no response and, in that event, I will advise you to terminate this communication link.”

“What about the ‘response’ that brings the President on the line?”

“Mr. Levine, in my experience I’ve never encountered that response. Although I’m sure anything’s possible. If you will tell me what this is about we can get started.”

“I’ll talk only to the President of the United States,” said Harry.

The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office in the midst of a tough decision. Pencil in hand, poised to mark the appropriate box, unconvinced which way to go, he pondered the question-can Georgetown cover eleven points against Temple? It was the only game he hadn’t picked on the White House weekend college basketball pool. The games were starting in a few hours and his entry was already a day late. They’ll wait, he thought, not to begin the games of course, but for his entry sheet. I am, after all, the President of the United States. These difficult deliberations were interrupted by his secretary’s voice on the intercom.

“Mr. President, Lawrence Albertson is on ISCOM.” That meant the green phone in the upper right-hand portion of his desk, the one near the small lamp he brought with him from the Governor’s mansion. It was the phone designated International Special Communication. Therefore, ISCOM.

“This is the President,” he said picking up the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Albertson?” There followed some head shaking up and down, and “un huh” three different times. “Is that all he said?” the President asked. Another “un huh,” and then, he laughed robustly, “‘None of your goddamn business.’ He said that? Well, okay, okay Albertson. Let’s do it.”

The next sound Harry heard was the well-known, high-pitched, raspy, half-hoarse voice of the President of the United States. “What is it?”

“Sir, my name is Har…”

“I know all that already, now why am I talking to you?” As he spoke, the President decided to take Georgetown and give the points.

“Mr. President, this deals with a matter…”

“You misunderstand me,” interrupted the President. “I want to know why I am talking to you and not the Ambassador.”

“He’s not available,” replied Harry.

“It’s a long way from McHenry Brown to Harry Levine. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I realize I’m not the Ambassador…”

“No kidding? So do I. Well you know, doesn’t matter if you were, I don’t get a lot of calls even from ambassadors on this line. This is a pretty important telephone hookup and I’m still trying to figure out what I’m doing talking to a Deputy in the legal department of the Trade Section. Can you answer me that?” demanded the President of the United States.

“Look,” said Harry, trying not to breathe too fast or too hard into the phone. “This morning I was given a document detailing the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and, at the same time, I was notified that this document will have to be made public this coming Monday.”

“Huh? You what?”

“I was given a document…”

“I heard that the first time. You were ‘given’ a document which. .. Are you serious?”

“Earlier this morning, sir, I was called upon to meet with Sir Anthony Wells who showed me a document, a confession really, prepared by the man who planned and was responsible for carrying out the killing of…”

“I don’t believe this,” the President said, his voice trailing away as if he had taken the phone and was holding it out away from his face. Harry envisioned the President reeling back holding the phone outstretched in his hand, looking at it, his brow all wrinkled, biting his lower lip, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look here, whatever this is about, you wait for your ambassador to make himself available, whenever that may be, and you talk to him about it. You just let Ambassador Brown handle everything. And as for you…”

“Mr. President, this morning I was instructed to meet with Sir Anthony Wells, the senior partner in the firm of Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson. He gave me a document, upon which I am at this moment resting my hand as I speak to you. He gave it to me to give to you. This document is, among other things, the handwritten, detailed confession of Lord Frederick Lacey that he killed President John F. Kennedy. What you also need to know is Lord Lacey was responsible for the death of Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. And, sir…” Harry tried to catch his breath, to calm his racing heart. “He killed Bobby Kennedy too.” Harry swore he could hear the President utter something, an involuntary, guttural, primal sound. He continued. “Shortly after meeting me, Sir Anthony was murdered. News reports said his office was torn apart. I believe whoever killed him was looking for this document. There are other things in it people would not want known. This is not a joke. I’m not a crackpot. Time is of the essence and this can’t wait for McHenry Brown. I’m scared, sir.”

Years of training, often just pretending, had prepared this President to act in an emergency. Once he recognized it as such, he treated it accordingly. As if by command, his respiration and heartbeat slowed, the muscles in his shoulders, back and arms relaxed. His voice lowered and his bowels constricted. “Tell me everything that happened,” he said, “starting from when you received your instructions until you placed this call to me. Take your time, son. Leave nothing out.”

“Some of the greatest, they never retired,” said Billy. He looked to Helen, who was shuttling back and forth from the kitchen to the bar. For reasons unclear to him, Walter or Ike, she stopped and looked at Billy.

“Who?” she asked.

“Like Sinatra, right?” Billy waited for confirmation, some positive sign he felt he had every right to expect from the woman he lived with. “He never quit. ‘The Chairman of the Board’ kept singing until the end, right?”

“That’s true, Billy,” she said and waltzed back into the kitchen, showing little regard for, and even less interest in, whatever it was he was talking about.

“See,” Billy went on. “I told you guys. There’s plenty of the best who never give it up.”

“What about Joe Louis?” asked Ike, belching smoke from his mouth and nose. An unforgiving breeze blew it straight back at him. He looked every bit a smoldering fire and showed not a wit of concern about it. “The man never should have come back.” He followed that with a cough. Ike was coughing more than ever, thought Walter, who made little effort to hide the concern he felt. The hacking sound coming from Ike inspired Billy to berate him for the millionth time.

“Damn! For the life of me I don’t know why that shit hasn’t killed you already.” Ike paid no attention to either one of them. He just took another long drag and this time exhaled quite smoothly. No grimace. No wheezing or coughing. Victory was his. A big smile crossed his wrinkled face while his mind spun in sweet circles drenched in nicotine, inspired by the sudden increase of carbon monoxide in his lungs and heart and brain and everywhere else.

“Joe Louis retired a champ,” he said. His chest back to normal, he picked up where he left off. “Top of his game. Then, when he came back, couldn’t do it no more. Rocky whatshisname, beat up on him real bad. Beat up on his legend too. You hear that, Walter?”

“Willie Mays, too,” Billy added. “Quit and came back. Had nothing left. Punks who couldn’t get guys out in the Texas League were striking him out. Should have stayed retired.”

“Willie Mays only retired one time,” said Helen, not looking up at all. None of them had noticed when she came back into the bar from the kitchen. “He never came back either,” she said.

“You sure?”

“Am I sure, Billy? I am sure. He never tried to come back.”

“Well, he should have quit sooner then, because he had nothing in the tank at the end. A real shame.” Billy went back to wiping down the counter next to the old cash register. He was careful to move the rimless chalkboard and put it back in its designated spot when he was done.

“Sinatra didn’t have much left either,” said Ike. “Just a ghost of himself. But that didn’t stop him. People kept paying to see him. That’s why they call it show business, you know that. But it’ll keep for another time. I’ll go with the Brown Bomber. Quit. Came back. Shoulda stayed quit. Shoulda kept his money too, like Sinatra.”

“And I’m sticking with Willie Mays,” proclaimed Billy. “I don’t give a shit if he retired or not.” He glanced at the kitchen door looking for Helen who wasn’t there. “The Say Hey Kid was no kid anymore and all that ‘Say Hey’ was say-gone. You know what I mean?” Billy was satisfied with that. They both waited on Walter. But he said nothing. He just sipped his Diet Coke and continued reading The New York Times. At least he looked like he was reading it. They knew he heard every word. Finally, without looking up from his paper at either of his friends, he said, “Winston Churchill. Retired. Came back. Retired. Came back again. Saved the world from the fucking Nazis. Not bad for an old man.”

“How old was he, Churchill?” asked Billy.

“Just a kid,” laughed Ike. “No more than-how old are you, Walter?” Walter laughed too. Ike knew Walter wasn’t as old as Churchill. “‘Saved the world from the fucking Nazis,” said Ike. “That’s good. That’s very good. I like that. Had some help, though. I oughta know.”

“You want me to write it up?”

“Yes sir, Billy,” said Ike. “You write it. Walter? You see any Nazis around here? You want to check the men’s room? Maybe they all at Caneel Bay.” Again the old man laughed and this time he began coughing again.

Billy looked to Walter for the go-ahead. Walter nodded, and the pale-skinned, stubble-jawed bartender grabbed the chunk of blue chalk and wrote-Louis/Mays/Churchill-on the blackboard.

Just then, Helen opened the kitchen door, directly across from Walter’s seat at the bar. She emerged carrying a large plastic bottle filled with a pink liquid. She needed two hands to hold it. She put it down under the bar, near the small ice maker and cooler, looked up at Walter, like she knew something he’d overlooked, and said, “She’s got a great ass, but she’s no German.”

When the phone rang-even The Phone -he picked it up and answered with a simple, “Yes.”

“Hey Louis,” said the President of the United States. “I got to see you. Get over here right away.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Louis Devereaux replied, careful not to say anything more. At 54, he was a thirty-year veteran at the CIA. His current job title, Assistant Director for Regional Operations, was a bogus title. He’d had a dozen or more similar ones over the years. The Act that created the Central Intelligence Agency in 1949 exempted the agency from having to disclose its table of organization, job descriptions or even the number of people who worked there. Devereaux had begun with a real job, as an Analyst, but as he gained reputation and authority his job titles became less reflective of his real duties. It was doubtful more than one or two Senators would recognize the name and even they might scratch their heads and say something like “Devereaux. Devereaux… I know that name… just can’t seem to place it exactly…” Not a one of his titles required their consent. Within a small group at the CIA-those who really know the speed and direction the wheel spins, those whose hands actually guide its progress and call its turns-Louis Devereaux eventually became a leader. By the time the President called him that day, he was the unquestioned top at CIA. Of course, he was not the Agency man who dutifully appeared to testify before committees of the Congress, or on the Sunday TV news shows, and surely not the bureaucrat who served as chief administrator. Louis Devereaux made policy, for the Agency, for the country, for the world.

The thirty-nine rich, white men who met privately in Philadelphia in 1787 to write the Constitution favored “Your Excellency” when referring to their new creation-the President of the United States. Perhaps George Washington’s greatest contribution to the budding republic was his resolve to be called Mr. President. He saw that title as an indicator of common citizenship. Washington was well aware that in a representative government, a government of laws not of men, separating the man from the title was essential. He meant Mister to be the most simple of callings. Many of those men, gathered in Philadelphia, thought the office every bit the equal of an elected sovereign, a king minus only primogeniture. Few of the Founding Fathers would be surprised or disappointed by the pomp and circumstance that grew to surround the modern Imperial Presidency. Quite a few surely saw themselves occupying the position and the sound of Your Excellency must have been almost musical. General, then President, George Washington-like Hubert H. Humphrey two hundred years later, a man who would chide would-be President Richard Nixon by saying-“Being President just means free rent for four years!”-understood it was just a job.

Louis Devereaux was also a man who knew the power of titles and the force of names. The youngest child, the only brother to five sisters, he grew up being called Louis, never Lou, never Louie. He never had a nickname. His father, Zane Devereaux, was a small thin man with narrow lips and sharp features, the last surviving male in the family which originated modern banking and finance in the South after the Civil War or, as it was always called in the Devereaux house, the War Between The States. At the height of the Great Depression, Louis’ father relocated the family enterprises from Biloxi, Mississippi, to New Orleans. From their base in investment banking, the family ventured into residential real estate development after World War II. In successive later decades, they branched out to include highway construction, electronic communications, office buildings and shopping malls, and eventually low-cost, no-frills regional air transport. Zane Devereaux expanded his family’s fortune from millions to tens of millions and then oversaw its explosion into the hundreds of millions. While Zane guided it, the Devereaux Communications Group owned and operated fourteen radio and television stations in eight major cities in the Deep South, three recently acquired television stations in California, and an ever-increasing network of cellular telephone and data transmission frequencies. The company’s asset value had surpassed the billion-dollar mark years ago. As a testament to Zane Devereaux’s financial genius, all his companies were debt free. “You can be a lender,” he was heard to say more than once. “That’s good business. But, if you want to sleep nights, don’t borrow a goddamn dime!”

As a youngster Louis frequently witnessed grown men-important men, men he often recognized-shake uncontrollably in his father’s presence. They respectfully addressed him as “Sir,” and “Mr. Devereaux,” all the while being called by their first names by him. Louis learned that addressing someone by their first name, especially when they were uncomfortable replying in kind, could nearly always establish a dominant position in personal communications. The added prestige he later acquired with his PhD as “Dr. Devereaux,” taught him the value of titles well applied. As with every lesson ever learned, Louis Devereaux steadfastly used his knowledge to further his self-interest.

He put The Phone down, the blue one sitting alone on top of the small, light-colored marble table under the window-the phone the President had just called him on. He picked up another phone, the one next to the toaster on the red-tiled kitchen island. He pushed a single button, listened for the ring and waited for an answer. “I’m going to miss the game,” he said. “Sorry, Mandy.”

“Well, I’ll just have to tell you all about it later, won’t I?” his sister said. She hung up without any goodbye. She knew who her little brother was. She didn’t expect an explanation and she never asked questions. None of Louis’s sisters did. And neither did his mother. Each of them took great pride in Louis. Zane Devereaux was a different story.

When Henrietta Devereaux, known throughout proper Mississippi society as Hattie, told her husband she was pregnant again in 1950, he was thrilled. Zane Devereaux had no brothers and quite reasonably saw himself as the last of the line. He was already the father of five girls. His own two sisters had six children between them including four boys, not one of which, of course, carried the Devereaux name. Like his sisters had, each of Zane’s daughters would one day marry and surrender that cherished name too. Their sons, if they had any, would be family, but none would be a Devereaux. Not a day passed when Zane was not haunted and humiliated by his greatest fear-that when he died the Devereaux fortune would fall into the hands of strangers. When Louis was born in Louisiana in 1951, Zane’s world was saved. He named his son after his adopted state and never worried again.

Confident now that the family enterprise would remain firmly in true Devereaux control, Zane discovered the freedom to delegate responsibility to others, to outsiders, to employees. What had been a tightly held, close-knit corporation in which Zane himself approved nearly every decision, now opened up to dynamic growth under the direction of skilled hired help. Zane knew banking and had been lucky in real estate after the war with Germany and Japan. In the buyer’s market of the late forties it didn’t hurt to own a bank or two. He knew investing in the construction of the interstate highway system was a smart move, but he would need to hire people to set it up and run it. He was also smart enough to take the millions thrown off by Devereaux National Construction and buy radio and television stations. But again he needed to hire the right people to operate them. And now that he had a son, an heir, he did. He hired the best in the industry, paid the most money but always resisted releasing equity, taking in partners or going public. More often perhaps than Hattie thought was good for him, Zane looked at his son and said, “Louis, someday it’ll all be yours.”

By the time Louis entered Yale, at the incredible age of sixteen, his father was already preparing his future career. When Louis graduated from Yale, only three years later, Zane was pleased his son was going on to law school. There were already too many lawyers with too much influence making too much trouble for him every day. Zane was sure he would feel a lot more comfortable working side by side with his son-the attorney. But when Louis chose the University of Chicago Law School instead of LSU or Tulane, Zane Devereaux became concerned. At first, he kept it to himself. Louis was young-time was on his side.

Three years later, twenty-two-year-old Louis took his law degree and instead of going home, returned to Yale, this time to pursue a PhD in European History. His father was not happy. Still, he waited. When he was only twenty-four years old, Louis Devereaux-now both lawyer and doctorate-heir to the family fortune, broke his father’s heart. He joined the Central Intelligence Agency. The strain between the two never healed. Zane Devereaux died carrying both his pain and anger to the grave.

He left everything to Louis. He was, in spite of everything, his son. His only son. Louis sold all the Devereaux holdings and split the proceeds evenly with his sisters and mother. By age thirty, Louis Devereaux was a man completely free of personal commitments as well as conflicting economic interests. While very much the ladies’ man, he had not married, and never would. Every penny he had was in cash. He often thought of John Lennon’s comment when the former Beatle was asked if he was afraid of Richard Nixon and the Immigration and Naturalization Service, which harassed him and tried hard to have him deported. Lennon said he was not afraid at all. “I’ve got more money than they do.”

Fifteen minutes after their brief phone call, Devereaux entered the Oval Office to find the President alone. “Good morning,” he said.

“You need some coffee?” asked the President. “Something to eat? Help yourself, Louis.” He pointed to a tray loaded with breakfast cakes and doughnuts. Both coffee and tea were available in matching silver servers. The President’s favorite mugs, featuring the particularly ugly mascot from his alma mater, were neatly stacked next to the milk and sugar and artificial sweetener. Devereaux could have anything he wanted. He knew that. Eggs, sausage, pancakes, steak, anything-all he had to do was pick up the phone and order it. He poured some coffee and sat down on a couch to the President’s left. Presidents change, he thought, but the Oval Office remains pretty much the same. Same blue carpet, similar desks, a couple of small tables and side chairs and usually two couches. The unique shape of the room pretty much dictates the furnishings. He first came to the Oval Office in 1990 and by now he felt very much at home there.

“I got this call, from London, from a guy named Harry Levine. He’s Foreign Service, a lawyer in the Trade Section. Well, he calls me on the ISCOM…” The President paused, lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. “Christ, Louis, this is goddamn unbelievable…”

“Just tell me what he said,” Devereaux suggested, hoping to get the President started in the right direction, calm him down a bit. The first George Bush was the only one, he thought, who didn’t go nuts every time there was some kind of crisis. He’d much rather deal with a professional like that, but of course, he had no choice. You could pick your friends, but not your Presidents. “How did Harry Levine get access to ISCOM?”

“None of your goddamn business,” laughed the President.

“What?”

“That’s what he said. ‘None of your goddamn business!’ Can you believe that?” the President chuckled. “Geez, I shouldn’t laugh. This is serious-if it’s even true. The whole thing is so damned unreal.”

“Just tell me what he said,” Devereaux said again. The President, who had been standing all the while, moved toward his desk and sat down.

“Levine took a call this morning for Ambassador Brown, who’s not there today. Goes to see a lawyer at Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson-top London firm, very prestigious-a Sir Anthony Wells. Wells is a real legend, must be well up in his nineties. He gives Levine a document, part of the estate papers of Frederick Lacey. You familiar with Frederick Lacey, Lord Lacey?”

“Yes,” replied Devereaux, a chill running down his back. Quickly, he adjusted his suit jacket, hoping the President would not notice the flush he felt in his cheeks. “He died earlier this week.”

“Yeah, Tuesday to be exact. Good memory, Louis. Well, he left this document with instructions to release it after he was dead. It says he killed President Kennedy.” Devereaux said nothing. He prayed his inner turmoil was not evident. The President continued. “You know anything about Lacey and Kennedy?”

He sat there, looked directly at the President, sipped his coffee and reported without benefit of either preparation or notes. “Frederick Lacey,” said Devereaux, “and Joseph P. Kennedy were running buddies in the twenties and thirties.”

Devereaux plainly saw the President was already impressed. Anybody would be, he thought. “Irish whiskey, French and Italian wine, English gin and Russian vodka-together they brought it all here. Lacey had the ships and handled the European side. He delivered mostly to Cuba, sometimes to Haiti. Never touched American or Canadian soil. Kennedy distributed the goods here using various organized crime families as transportation and security, and of course they were also his primary customers. Lacey’s end probably shows up as legitimate. I’m sure he’s got the papers to prove it, if you can believe the Cubans drank all that themselves.” Devereaux ran down Lacey’s early history, including his exploits during World War One and the famous meeting in Lisbon where he met his wife.

“Not a man with many friends,” said Devereaux. “Not the type, but he was close to his father-in-law, very close. Helped him get out when the Red Army overran Georgia. There have been many rumors, stories about Lacey’s adventures-special cargo, gold, diamonds, antiquities, art treasures. His name comes up, if you know what I mean.”

“How much of it’s true?”

Devereaux laughed in a way that made the President think he’d been asked the same question before. “Who knows,” he said.

There was a serious note of respect and admiration in Devereaux’s voice not lost on the President.

“Lacey’s wife died,” Devereaux continued, “in childbirth, 1920. He and Kennedy chased women all across Europe for the next twenty years. Lacey’s daughter-Audrey was her name-committed suicide. Summer of ’40. Kennedy was living in England then. He was our Ambassador from 1937 to 1940. Roosevelt brought him back after some embarrassment with the Germans. Kennedy thought Germany was going to win the war. Lacey meanwhile was quite instrumental in the Allied success in Italy and Eastern Europe. He was Churchill’s connection to both the Mafia and the communist underground. Anyway, Lacey and Kennedy seemed to go their separate ways after the war broke out.”

“You know, Louis, you never fail to impress me. How do you remember all that? Where’s it all come from?”

“It’s just there,” answered Devereaux. “It’s just there.”

“I guess the hell it is,” smiled the President.

Quietly, almost absent-mindedly, Devereaux asked, “Do you remember your seventh-grade geography, Mr. President? The flip side of ‘Earth Angel’? The names of everyone who lived in your freshman dorm? Ted Williams’ lifetime batting average? Your old girlfriend’s telephone number?” The President shook his head and grinned.

“What are you, kidding?” he laughed.

“I do,” said Louis Devereaux without a sign of a smile.

The President related Harry Levine’s discoveries in full detail, leaving out nothing he had been told. He finished with the news of the death of Sir Anthony Wells. This recitation took most of twenty minutes during which time Devereaux watched as closely as he listened. He had seen the files on all the Presidents since Harry Truman. Most, like this one, preferred to sit when speaking. Only Eisenhower was known to stand and pace on a regular basis. Ford used to play with rubber bands. Truman would grind his teeth. Nixon scratched his ass so often there was more than one foreign intelligence report speculating on various body rashes. Carter had an annoying little wheeze that frequently popped up and Johnson farted, with impunity. Really, he did, remembered Louis. Johnson didn’t give a fuck about anybody. Reagan was rumored to have fallen asleep-more than once-while being briefed. Louis Devereaux knew the rumor to be true. But, foibles aside, they all sat, except Ike.

This President was, by Devereaux’s analysis, an intelligent man, but not too smart. Kennedy and Bush 41 were the most intelligent and each was smart too. Devereaux always felt Clinton’s intellect was overrated, most often by himself. Louis had spent a lot of time with Bush, the father, and held him in high regard. From what he read and learned talking with old-timers in the agency, Lyndon Johnson was widely thought of as the most arrogant President, and to make matters worse, he was not all that bright. He was decisive and he was damn quick with a decision, qualities that could often compensate for a lack of critical analysis. Unless, of course, the decision was wrong and the thing turned out poorly. The scarlet V burned on Johnson’s chest. The best Devereaux learned about Nixon was that he was determined, a real pit-bull, but too often verged on instability and, of course, he lied so no one trusted him. He lied to everybody, silly and unnecessary lies resulting in a lot of enemies and very few friends. Clinton was also a liar, practically pathological, but unlike the doomed Richard Nixon, he was good at it. Truman read the most and needed the most help. Nevertheless, he started the CIA and was therefore, in the eyes of Louis Devereaux, forever a Hero of the Republic. Carter was just a blip on the Presidential screen-here today, gone tomorrow. He was very intelligent, but had not the slightest idea what it meant to be the President of the United States, the most powerful man on the face of the planet.

Reagan was the most misunderstood. The public, particularly those who disliked him, thought he was out of the loop, perhaps even a little dense. Quite the contrary. Despite the fact he dozed off now and then, Louis knew from primary sources that Reagan approved everything. Whatever the Agency did while he was President, you knew Reagan wanted it done. He played the fool, yet pulled the strings. Reagan’s biggest failing was his sincere belief the CIA worked for him. It never dawned on him that when they did what he wanted, they did so only because it fit their agenda.

The dumbest President by far, according to Devereaux, was Ford, dumber even than Bush 43. Ford’s agency code name: TAP-The Accidental President. Everyone knew Nelson Rockefeller called the shots in that short Presidency. All the Presidents used the CIA-except for Ford, who rarely even attended briefings-but only two ever issued personal orders to have men killed-Truman and Kennedy. The others were too scared or too slick. Louis wondered how this guy would react if and when the time came.

Devereaux could tell a lot about the President from the way he sat, especially while he talked. The current occupant leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, elbows extended out and backwards, his legs straightened stiffly, a little bit of pressure pushing down from the knees, ankles often touching together and toes pointed. This was his position when he felt confident about something, when he had a plan and was about to make it known.

Now was not a time for questions, not from Louis. Now was a time to hear the man out. When the President finished, he got up, walked over to where the food was, grabbed a chocolate-covered doughnut and took a big bite. Devereaux had yet to say a word. “Louis,” he said with his mouth full, small pieces of cake spitting from his lips, “this is pretty amazing stuff-no doubt about that-but is there a role we need to play? I’ve got no ‘Kennedy agenda.’ You follow me? Is there some overriding national interest in protecting the image of the Kennedy family? Do you see one? Have I missed something? Why not release whatever it is Levine has? Let History have its way.”

This time Devereaux spoke-calmly, deliberately, with purpose, yet totally under control, any previous anxiety already quelled.

“What would you do, Mr. President, if you came into possession of irrefutable evidence that George Washington molested little boys? Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Little boys, and white ones at that. On a regular basis. Maybe he strangled some of them when he was finished with his business. Buried their bodies somewhere, passed them off as missing. What if a document, written in his own hand, irrefutably Washington’s, proved this and was given to you? What would you do? Would you allow that revelation to alter our vision of American History? George Washington. He’s on the dollar. Banks and insurance companies have taken his name. High schools, colleges, city streets, bridges and tunnels. Whole entire cities, like the one we’re in right now. ‘The Father of his country’-isn’t that what you all say, Republicans and Democrats, Independents, Libertarians, Right to Life, Right to Die? All of them. Isn’t that what they say every time more than six of them gather together in public? You know what they teach about Washington in elementary schools, as early as kindergarten. Couldn’t tell a lie. The man couldn’t tell a lie. Chopped down the cherry tree and turned himself in. George Washington is woven into the national fabric in a way that makes him inseparable from the cloth itself. Am I right?”

“Yes,” said the President. The answer was obvious, but he said it anyway.

“How,” Devereaux asked, “would you assess the importance of the Kennedy myth to the twentieth century?” The President said nothing. He just sat there. Protocol called for Devereaux to remain silent and wait for his reply. But he knew when to ignore the rules. “Should we destroy that image? Joe Jr., the war hero? The martyred JFK, with his beautiful, vulnerable Jackie? His son, the small boy saluting the casket-a son sadly destined to meet a deadly fate himself, a few decades later? Do you tear that down, burn it to the ground? And there’s Bobby. Poor Bobby. Robert Kennedy the reformed sinner, gone from Joe McCarthy to Martin Luther King Jr. Can you see him lying on the kitchen floor in the Ambassador Hotel? The future President, taken from us, loved to this day by many-perhaps even more than his brother.” The serving President was silent. “Do you want to be the President who destroys all that? The one who takes the greatest American family of the twentieth century and trashes it? You want to do that? You?”

The President had years of rehearsing the most complicated answers to a wide range of questions-military and foreign policy, jobs, Social Security, a balanced budget versus deficit spending, education and health care. Push a button and out sprung an answer capable of giving cover to whatever his real belief might be-if he had one-and, at the same time, leaving the solid impression he had a firm grasp of the subject. He was, by all accounts, a superb politician. But now he faced a question he had no idea how to answer. Louis Devereaux had set him upon the very point of the needle and the President desperately needed a plan to balance himself on something and then jump safely off.

“But,” he said to Devereaux, “everything we now know, everything we’re learning about Kennedy-don’t you think that has already taken the myth down a notch? Is that vision of a Camelot still shining, just as strong?”

“It’s not the women or that he was a very sick man and they kept it quiet. It’s all in the assassination,” said Devereaux. There, he thought, it’s out of the box. It’s not easy to speak of the assassination of a President, to a President. But he had said it, out loud. “Destroy the conjured image, a mass illusion owned in equal parts by millions, and you destroy the legend of John F. Kennedy. If that’s what you want, go ahead. It’s your decision.” At that point Devereaux shut his mouth and meant to keep it shut.

The President took a long time before saying, “You have a way.. . about you, Louis. Look, we have to do something-even if it’s not just for the Kennedys-because Levine is our man and he’s in way over his head. There’s murder involved here. I suppose he can’t just show up at the Embassy and say, ‘Here I am. Here’s Lacey’s diary. I didn’t kill anyone.’ He can’t say that, can he?” Now, Devereaux knew better than to say anything. The President was on a roll. He stopped and looked directly at Devereaux. “Why can’t Levine do that?”

“He could,” said Devereaux. “He could do exactly that. Turn himself in and turn over the document at the same time. History-as you say-could be left to deal with the Kennedys. Eventually the questions about your role in it would subside. But what about the other things that are in the Lacey Confession? The other things we don’t know about?”

“Like what?”

“Who knows? At this point, who knows? Frederick Lacey was there for all of it-from the Bolsheviks to Nixon. He knew them all. Worked for all of them, sometimes at the same time. Not only the West. Asia, the Middle East too. He was a man in the midst of everything important in the twentieth century. Richest man in the world, they said. Nobody wants to see the sausage made. Lacey did. He made it. How much has he written down? Names, places, people-things no one wants made public. Do you-don’t we all-have an agenda for the Lacey Confession? Do we want to neglect that, to go ahead and open this Pandora’s Box because you have no Kennedy agenda? And what about Harry Levine? Maybe the English burn him at the stake.”

“Well, that’s crazy…”

“Crazy? Why can’t they hang him out on murder, take Lacey’s revelations for themselves to know-keep them as their secret-and ship Harry Levine off to prison somewhere. You don’t think they can do that? And then what-the English have it all. Everything in the Lacey Confession is theirs to use as they see fit. Do you want that?”

“So, if we don’t get Levine-and Lacey’s document with him-someone else will?”

“Yes, they will. They surely will,” said Devereaux. “Levine’s fate is cast. Your first instinct was right,” he added, allowing the President to credit himself for what came next. “We need to do something.”

Devereaux said nothing to the President about his old friend Abby O’Malley-a name that would mean nothing to the President. A name, just a name-a woman he’d have no way of knowing. Louis Devereaux knew her, knew her well, and knew she had been waiting for the Lacey Confession for decades. He would not let her down now, with the moment at hand.

“Here’s my idea,” the President said. He swallowed the last of his doughnut, washed it down with coffee lightened by lots of milk and sweetened with two packets of Sweet’N Low. Within the grand scheme of his eating habits, no one could figure why he used Sweet’N Low instead of sugar. “If the document, even a copy of it, is still there, somewhere at Sir Anthony’s firm,” the President began, making direct eye contact with Devereaux, “then Sir Anthony’s firm will have to carry out the instructions in Lord Lacey’s will and the document will be read, or published, or whatever you call it-made public-on Monday. Is that your understanding, Louis? You’re a lawyer.”

“So are you, Mr. President.”

“Yes. So we are, aren’t we? Both of us.” The President walked back over to the small table holding the tray and poked around among what remained of the doughnuts and crumb cakes. “Well,” he said picking a loose piece of cake and popping it into his mouth. “We can’t let that happen. If Lord Frederick Lacey did kill John F. Kennedy, we can’t allow his document, his confession, to be made public. Why the hell would he do a thing like that?”

“Apparently that’s what his document reveals.”

“No, no. I mean why would he write a confession in the first place? And Christ-why would he insist it be made public when he’s dead! Who knows what else is in there. Not that it matters much. Killing Kennedy is plenty. What else do you think is in there?”

“That’s hard to say, Mr. President. There are so many stories about Lacey. Some true. Some false. Some embellished perhaps. Then there are the stories only hinted at. So much of his activities were, shall I say, informal, unrecorded. Who knows? But what difference does it make?” said Devereaux. “We have a problem. Let’s solve it.”

“Levine is afraid,” the President said. “He’s scared. I heard it in his voice. What are we going to do about him? I told him to wait. I’d call him back. What do you think?”

“He’s right to be afraid,” said Devereaux.

“He is? Of what? Of who?”

“Of whoever killed Sir Anthony Wells,” said Devereaux. “For starters. We can’t know everyone who might be offended by Lacey’s journal-his confession. What Levine said he already read provides motive for some, but how many? And who? Don’t forget, we haven’t read it. Who might be after him? I think there’s a good chance it’s a long list. A long list,” Devereaux repeated. “And a dangerous one.” The two that came immediately to mind were Abby O’Malley-with whom he had not yet spoken-and the vultures still searching for the Czar’s gold.

Before Louis Devereaux could say any more, they were interrupted by Ethel Livingston, from the National Security Agency. She was the Saturday Duty Officer. Her voice came across the intercom. “Mr. President,” she said, obviously standing at the President’s secretary’s desk just outside the door to the Oval Office. “The British Ambassador just called from his car. He’s on his way here. It’s an extremely urgent matter, he said. I think he’s already through the gate and on the grounds.”

“It’s okay, Ethel. Send him in when he gets here. You come too.” Louis Devereaux and the President looked at each other. Neither spoke. Moments later the President’s appointment secretary opened the door for his NSA duty officer who entered accompanied by British Ambassador Brian Curtis-Moore. At seventy-eight, Curtis-Moore was among the oldest diplomats stationed in Washington. He walked into the Oval Office with the ease of a man familiar with his surroundings.

“Mr. President,” he said offering his hand. “I’m truly sorry to break in on you like this. But, actually…” he stopped and looked in the direction of Louis Devereaux.

“It’s all right, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said shaking his hand and turning back toward his desk. “Do you know Louis Devereaux?”

“No, I don’t believe so. A pleasure, Dr. Devereaux.”

“I’m sure whatever we have to talk about can be discussed while we’re all here,” offered the President. “Including Ms. Livingston from our National Security Agency.”

“Actually, I don’t think so, Mr. President,” said the Ambassador. “I’m afraid that with a matter as particularly sensitive and peculiar as that which I’ve no option but to bring to your attention, the people who share our conversation ought to be, shall we say, limited.”

“Certainly,” replied the President. He motioned Ethel Livingston out of the room. The look he gave the British Ambassador conveyed the necessity of Louis Devereaux’s continued presence.

“Well then, sir. I have the sad duty to report to you the death of your Ambassador, the Honorable McHenry Brown.” Ambassador Curtis-Moore was sitting in one of the three visitors’ chairs directly facing the President. When he delivered this terrible information, he noticed movement in the throat and a visible change in the President’s respiration. Louis Devereaux sat on the couch to the Ambassador’s right and well behind him out of sight. Had he been able to see Devereaux, the British Ambassador would have detected nothing, no reaction at all. “It happened late this morning, London time.”

“What happened?” asked the President.

“He was the victim of a homicide, Mr. President.”

“What!”

“I’m afraid it was murder. His body was found at a resort establishment near London. He was beaten quite terribly, I’m sorry to report, and there were some rather personal and quite sensitive additional circumstances attendant to the scene. I’m not entirely comfortable in explanation… You see, there was another man…”

“Ambassador Curtis-Moore,” the President interrupted, “we are aware of Ambassador Brown’s sexual orientation. Please go on.”

“Yes, of course. This other man was also killed. Shot once in the middle of his forehead. He was not beaten at all. Both of them were naked.”

“Right.”

“I’m advised the hotel suite was pretty well torn up. Whoever did this seemed to be looking for something and we’ve no idea if they found it, whatever it was.”

“Have you notified anyone at our Embassy?”

“No, Mr. President, we have not. We wanted to bring you the news first.”

“Thank you for that consideration. I realize this is a serious crime, a homicide, and the proper authorities will be involved according to whatever local laws require. But I would appreciate our people being able to remove the Ambassador’s body without any unpleasant ramifications. No press about the sexual aspect. Can you manage that for us?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll do my level best…”

“I need your word on that. I’m sure you understand.”

“And so you have it, sir. I’m certain there’ll be no unnecessary details released to the press. There is, however, one area of concern, which presents a bit of a bother to those undertaking the investigation. We suffered another tragic, awful and strangely similar killing this morning. Sir Anthony Wells, a very prominent attorney indeed, and a gentleman already past his one-hundredth birthday, was also beaten to death. His office, the location of his vile murder, was gone through from top to bottom. There’s a disturbing link, a possible connection I’m told, between Ambassador Brown and Sir Anthony. An American, one of your embassy people. A man named Harry Levine. He met with Sir Anthony this morning. Mr. Levine, it appears, has a role in this. He may have something of Sir Anthony’s, something freely given I’m sure, something that could be important in these delicate circumstances. Our investigators would like to talk to Mr. Levine, but so far we’ve been unable to locate him. He’s not been found. If he’s safe-if you know he’s safe-do you think we could get some help with that effort?”

“What sort of connection?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why do you want to talk with this man Levine? How does he fit in here?”

“Well, I really don’t know. Perhaps no one actually knows. I suppose that’s why they want to talk to him.”

“I’ll make sure,” the President continued, “someone at the embassy assists your authorities in speaking to Harry Levine, but any interview will have to be conducted at the embassy. Particularly now, when there’s bound to be a great deal to do there after the murder, the killing of Ambassador Brown. As long as we’re clear on that point I don’t see any trouble in getting the right people together. Is there more I need to know?” the President asked.

“I think not,” answered Brian Curtis-Moore, fully aware his meeting was now concluded. “Again sir, my Government’s and Her Majesty’s sincere condolences and deepest sympathy.” With that he took his leave.

The President was upset and equally confused. Were the British on to Harry Levine? Did they know he had the document and were they after him? Did the British even know about the document? All the answers must be yes, the President conceded. What was it Curtis-Moore said Harry Levine had- “something of Sir Anthony’s”? Of course the British knew about Lacey’s document, his confession. The only question unanswered was-did they know what was in it? Maybe they really thought Harry Levine had some connection to the killings. The killings! Jesus Christ, people were dying here. What for? And why? His mind was racing while Louis Devereaux sat silent across the office. Finally, the President said, “He never mentioned Lacey, did he? And what is this thing with Curtis-Moore and you, Louis? You know him?”

“No, I do not. We’ve been at the same places, receptions, cocktail parties. I’ve seen him at various functions. But no, I never met him until today.”

“See, that’s what I mean!” the President said slapping his hands together.

“You want to know why he called me ‘Dr. Devereaux’, right?”

“Yeah, I sure do. What’s that all about? What’s he know about you?”

“I think it just means the British have a decent roster, adequate intelligence and Curtis-Moore’s been around a long while. He’s got a good memory.”

“Nothing more than that?” asked the President. “Really?”

“I think so. But Levine’s a different question. They know something about him. They may be aware of Lacey’s document. If so, there must be something in it they don’t want known. Maybe it’s just Kennedy. Perhaps there’s something else. We’re not sure, yet, but they do want Levine-enough to maybe implicate him in a double murder.”

The President said he had a plan. That was before Curtis-Moore rearranged the pieces on the board. Now, it didn’t look like he was as confident as he was a little while ago. Devereaux was thinking while the President was worrying.

“Levine won’t be at his phone-not anymore,” Devereaux said. “You can’t call him back. He’ll have to call you again. He’s on the run, but he’s still in London, probably still in the neighborhood. He might have walked over to the Embassy, thinking it was safe there. The place must be crawling with cops, Scotland Yard, MI6 people. Levine could never get inside. So, he’s out there, somewhere. He’ll get to a phone. He’ll call. We wait.”

“And then what?” asked the President.

“When he calls, let me talk to him.”

The President said nothing more for a long time. A minute or two of total silence with only two people in a room always seems much longer. He did not look pleased. Finally, he said, “Listen to me, Louis. Take care of this situation, understand?” With that he opened the door to his private bathroom and disappeared. Louis Devereaux had no response. None was required. This President-he wasn’t Truman or Kennedy-but he made himself understood. T. S. Eliot’s “Murder in the Cathedral” rumbled through Louis’s mind. “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest!”

“I’m leaving. Today. This afternoon. I just wanted to tell you.” Walter said it loud enough so both Ike and Billy could hear him. It was an unusual announcement. “Be gone a little while, but I’ll be back, you understand?” Billy was rearranging a rack of wine glasses. He grunted something that sounded like “Okay.”

“Where you going?” asked Helen. Billy shot her a look that made her sorry she opened her mouth; sorry she couldn’t take it back. Walter offered no reply. A moment of tense, if not uncomfortable, silence followed. Finally, Ike broke through it.

“Some Japanese guy offered the Beatles something like 30 or 40 million,” he said. “They didn’t come back.”

“I think we done this already,” Billy said pointedly to the old man. Helen wanted to say something-that was pretty clear by the way she stood there, behind the bar with her hands firmly on her hips-ready to fire away, but she held her guns.

“Dumbest thing I ever seen was that fool tried to fly around the world in some kind of fancy ass balloon.” Ike said that and then coughed when he exhaled. “You see that balloon? Fell like a rock.”

“Me,” Billy said, still pushing empty glasses into neat rows, “I can never figure out those people who climb Mt. Everest. I mean why would you do that? Don’t get me wrong. I can see the first guy. Just the first guy. The others, it’s just stupid.”

“I guess every man got to do what he got to do,” Ike said. “It’s just that sometimes what it is he’s got to do don’t make any sense. It’s simple. Stupid, that’s all.”

“I’m leaving this afternoon,” Walter repeated. “And, I’ll be back.”

Billy had nothing to say. Helen, finally realizing there was something going on among the three of them, kept silent. Ike inhaled and coughed again. This time he needed a napkin. Smoke slithered out the sides of his covered mouth while he spit out something wet and ugly. Walter glanced over and for a moment thought Ike’s ears were on fire. The old man tried to say something, but nothing came out. When he stopped coughing, he just shook his head a little and went back to doing nothing.

Walter tried hard not to think about it, to no avail. The first time he sat in the same seat, in Frogman’s, he was no more than thirty-something. He was forty when Billy took the joint over. Prime of his life. How had so much time passed so quickly? It seemed unfair. He remembered all the way back, a million years ago, when he was in Saigon. The Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction. He could hear it again. An anthem. He didn’t know it then-he’d never even heard of a metaphor-but later he saw clearly, the song was all about Vietnam. “I can’t get no-I can’t get no-Satisfaction.” Vietnam. Mick Jagger did an interview, Walter remembered, not long after the record was released in 1965. He saw it again, now, sitting in Billy’s. It was as clear in his mind’s eye as it had been, then on TV. There was Mick, just a kid. In his heavily accented, staccato rhythm, he was saying, “I can’t see myself singing Satisfaction when I’m… thirty-five, you know.” Youthful perspective is such horseshit, thought Walter. Could he, at twenty-five, have seen himself, airplane ticket in his pocket, bag packed, ready to head out on another search, thirty-five years later? He didn’t want to think about it. Too much time had gone by. Too many memories. He thought about her. Gloria. “Glor-re-a, my Glor-or-ree-a.” The Cadillacs played their scratchy harmony in his head and in his heart. Then Isobel. He was thinking about Isobel. “Oh, fuck!” he said to himself. “I’ve got to stop this shit.”

“Mountains is mountains,” Ike proclaimed, pointing to Billy, not letting Mt. Everest rest. “And you can forget about that stupid balloon. No, I’m telling you the dumbest thing ever was putting that Cindy Birdsong in the Supremes. Absolute dumbest.” Then the old man mumbled something about Patti LaBelle.

“I’ll stay with the climbing,” said Billy. “And, forget about Everest. It’s not just that one. I’m talking all climbing. Take a plane, why don’t you. Dumbest thing ever-mountain climbing.” They both looked at Walter. His plate was empty. No eggs, no toast. Maybe an inch remained of his Diet Coke. One swallow, that’s all. He played with the bottle, turning it around, spinning it slowly with the fingers of both hands. He saw them staring at him.

“New Coke,” he said. “Dumbest thing ever.”

Billy let out a belly laugh, so loud it brought Helen in out of the kitchen to see what was the matter. He practically ran over to the board, grabbed the piece of chalk and, in capital letters, wrote: CINDY BIRDSONG/MOUNTAIN CLIMBING/NEW COKE, laughing all the while.

Harry wanted nothing more than to go home. All the way home, to Roswell. He’d abandoned his Soho flat. It was a dangerous place to be. Once he heard the news about Sir Anthony, he knew he was in danger. Whoever killed the old man was looking for exactly what Harry had-the Lacey Confession. The President of the United States told him to sit tight and wait for his return call. But he had to leave his apartment. The President of the United States was going to call him! and he would not be there when he did. He was on edge. He’d read some of Lacey’s confession, the confession of a dead man. Why did he insist it be released to the public? It was designed, it seemed to Harry, for only one purpose-revenge. From the grave, Frederick Lacey meant to inflict more damage on the Kennedys. He killed them all, thought Harry. He killed them all! Who else was there to hurt? And, who would be afraid if the whole world knew? Who needed to stop it so badly they would murder for it? The Kennedys, or what’s left of them? Whoever it was, Harry knew he was now as much a target as the confession itself. Did Lacey have any idea his confession would prove this disastrous? Murder. Did he foresee the chaos? Could it be that’s what he wanted? Harry didn’t know, couldn’t know and Sir Anthony could shed no light on the question-not anymore. There was no time to waste. He had to get out, get away. He packed a small bag, took the Lacey document, and fled. He beat the police by less than five minutes.

The American Embassy was surrounded by the English authorities. The grounds themselves were American property, sovereign territory immune from English law, but he had to get inside to be safe. Only inside. All the entrances were guarded, even the few nobody was supposed to know about. Harry had no chance of getting back in. The rain that fell all day had drifted to a drizzle. The cold air did not warm with the afternoon. There was no late day sun. He was cold and damp. He needed to call the President back himself. The President would have an answer for all this. Certainly he would. Maybe the President tried to get him on the phone already and he wasn’t there. What would he have thought? “Christ!” muttered Harry. He so badly wished he was downstairs in his house in Roswell, Georgia. He longed to hear Aunt Sadie calling him to dinner. He missed his mother. She would know what to do. He was positive of that. She would never stand to see her son stranded on the street, in the cold, in the rain, a million miles from home. He turned and started walking toward St. James’s Square, where he stopped and found a public telephone.

“Please, Iden…”

“Albertson, is that you?”

“Mr. Levine?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll put you through.”

“Thank you,” said Harry.

“Levine,” said the President, almost immediately. “Where are you?”

“In a small cafe near St. James’s Square.”

“They want to talk to you.”

“I know. They’re all over the place.”

“We’re going to get you in, Harry, okay?”

“Yes. Sure, Mr. President.”

“I’m going to put someone on this line. His name is Louis Devereaux. I want you to do whatever he tells you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” With that, the next voice Harry heard was Louis Devereaux’s.

“Don’t worry, Harry. I’ve got it all under control. I need you to believe me.” It was as much a plea as anything else.

“Okay,” Harry mumbled.

“Do you have it?” When Harry gave no reply, Devereaux said it again. “Do you have it?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yes. Some of it.”

“About Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“About others too?”

“Yes. I saw lots of names, going back many years. Lenin. Hitler. King Edward. Lots of them. I didn’t read it all. The Czar, too.”

“The Second?”

“What?”

“Czar Nicholas the Second?”

“Yes. Look, how can I…?”

“There’s an Indian restaurant,” Devereaux spoke over him. “It’s called The Standard. It’s on Westbourne Grove. Go there. You know where that is?”

“Yes. Go when?”

“Thirty minutes. When you get there, the owner will have a message for you. He’s an old man, heavy set, white hair. Indian, of course. He’ll be expecting you. Did you get that?”

“Yes. What kind of message will he have?”

“Just take whatever he gives you and follow the instructions.”

“And then?”

“Harry, trust me.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry said it, but he was far from sure. To Devereaux, how Harry felt didn’t matter. He knew the sound of obedience to the chain of command.

“Good. Now go,” he said. Harry was left holding a dead phone. The ISCOM connection was broken.

Louis Devereaux looked at the President and wondered what this guy would do without him. “I’ve got some things to take care of, Mr. President,” he said. “I’m sure you do too.” He started to walk out, but the President called after him.

“Louis. What are you going to do?” He pointed at the phone, the one Devereaux had just used to speak with Harry Levine.

“I’ll arrange for someone to meet him,” Devereaux said.

“And then what?”

And then what? Louis tried to contain his disbelief, his disgust. Asshole! Again he thought of T. S. Eliot. Will no one rid me of this troublesome President? Louis Devereaux just smiled and said, “I’ll take care of it.” A few minutes later he was talking to The Bambino.

Years ago, Devereaux emerged from the back offices at Langley mainly because of George Bush, the Father. When the Soviet empire collapsed under the weight of its own stupidity, Bush was caught off guard. At a meeting in the White House Situation Room, he gave his top intelligence people a piece of his mind. Few Presidents-even LBJ-have yelled louder and used as much profanity as Bush did that day. He was pissed and no excuse or explanation soothed his fury. The Russian bear was sick to dying and still they kept telling him it would be okay. Gorbachev would pull it together. But it wasn’t happening that way at all. The bear looked like Winnie the Pooh.

“Isn’t there anyone at your headquarters,” he screamed, pointing at the CIA delegation in the room, “who has a goddamn brain in their head? Do you all have shit for brains? Didn’t anybody have anything to say about what might happen to the Russians? They fell apart, goddamnit! They fell apart! And not a single sonofabitch at your place had a fucking clue? Nobody?”

“Mr. President,” one of the CIA crew spoke up. “We did have a report-a long time ago-years ago, from Devereaux. We all thought he was a bit over the top. I read it myself and thought he was nuts. I guess… in retrospect…”

“Devereaux? Who the fuck is Devereaux?” demanded Bush 41.

It turned out that Devereaux had written and distributed a paper, read by some in the highest circles of the Agency, in which he flatly predicted the downfall of the Soviet Union. He’d been told to analyze the possibilities for Soviet growth to the end of the century, and he did. They wouldn’t see it, he said-the end of the century. He knew all along it was make-work and wasn’t at all surprised when no one paid any attention to his conclusions. The Soviet Union would, he claimed, disintegrate and disappear without a fight. He put the chance of armed rebellion, from any republic, at less than ten percent. The Soviet military complex was doomed, he said, done in by incompetence and corruption. The Eastern European states, as well as the Muslim republics of Central Asia, would soon reject their continued union with the Russians-and they would get away with it. It would not be Hungary or East Germany all over again, Devereaux wrote. No tanks in the streets, not outside Russia. He put the probability of a Russian invasion of any rebellious republic at absolute zero. The Soviet military was a paper tiger, flimsy paper at that. In fact, he saw a unified Germany as a catalyst in this movement. “The Wall will fall,” he wrote, with a bit of a smile at the time. The Soviet Union had ten to fifteen years left, he prophesized. Although outside his purview, he even expressed some doubt about the fundamental capacity of their nuclear arsenal. What’s most significant, Devereaux wrote this paper while Jimmy Carter was President. Once Bush was told about this, he was eager to see “this analyst no one paid any goddamn attention to.” Nobody at the table moved when the President was finished. Bush stood up, looked at them and shouted again. “Get him over here! Now!” He mumbled something about Devereaux being “a beacon in a pitch-black shithouse.”

That was Devereaux’s first time in the Oval Office. It was a long and productive meeting. With the Soviet Union folding its tent, adjustments were necessary and he told the President all about them.

“We have people, throughout Europe and quite a few in Russia herself, and the other former republics as well,” he told Bush. “These are people who were of use to us in the last forty years. Many of them, the vast majority of them, never left the other side. They’re still there. In addition, there are quite a few, among our friends, who helped us without their government’s knowledge. Many of these people-agents, spies, informers, collaborators-know things about us, things that could be damaging if they became widely known. Some things, even small bits of personal information, might someday be used as blackmail. What I’m saying is, there’s a population walking around out there who could embarrass us and hinder us in our new agenda.”

“People who couldn’t talk before,” Bush began.

“Because it was too dangerous.”

“But they can now. Right?”

“Precisely, Mr. President. I am talking about people who no longer offer us any benefit. They present only a downside risk.” When this conversation started, there were two other people also in the Oval Office. Devereaux didn’t know either of them, but made one for a secretary and the other an aide of some sort. Bush looked over and waved them from the room. Then they were alone, Louis Devereaux and the President of the United States.

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Bush, this time in a more casual, conversational tone the nature of which was clearly intended to put Devereaux at ease-a sign of respect for him from the President. The touch was not lost on Louis who had used the same device many times himself. “What do you have in mind?” Bush asked.

Devereaux laid it all out. The United States needed to eliminate dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people associated with covert activities during the Cold War. Some were enemies then, and still might be. Others were friends, friends who knew things they shouldn’t. Each of them-especially with such a large number of them-was a possible danger. Every one of them had to be dealt with. Devereaux was not one to beat around the bush. “They needed to be killed,” he said. Then he proposed setting up a special network of agents to accomplish this task.

“Over time,” he said. “Over years. Many will be easy, but many others will be well protected. We can’t just waltz into Europe and begin killing people left and right. Those left alive will sense what we’re doing. We need to move slowly, with resolve. But, the longer we wait to get started, the greater the jeopardy to us.” That afternoon Louis Devereaux received Presidential authority to set up and manage a network of agents with a single mission: Clean up. He had, as he expected, no budgetary limits. And, of course, he was given the first of his misleading job titles.

The Bambino called two minutes after Devereaux’s page. Nearly all of his agents were women, The Bambino included. He considered her his very best. None of them were Agency people, Company employees. All his agents were casuals, private independents recruited and brought together personally by him. Most were not Americans. They worked for money, and Devereaux had a river of cash that flowed with a swift current. They took their orders only from him. They knew no one else, not even each other. He gave them code names he derived from sports figures. He admired great athletes. He marveled at their success and had a professional’s appreciation and respect for the discipline and determination the very best among them constantly exhibited. And he loved their nicknames. He was sorry he never had one himself. He named the women of DEVNET-as his group came to be known within the tiny circle of people who even knew it existed-to match their special characteristics. So it was that a Latvian agent, whose tireless dedication produced results when most would have conceded defeat, was called The Horse, after the great Baltimore Colts fullback Alan Ameche, a player who never gave up, especially on third and short. And there was Spike, a French agent with a distinctly unpleasant personality, who had no manners at all and who would just as soon cut your balls off as give you the time of day. She was named for Ty Cobb. The Bambino earned her code name one evening in Prague. Once he heard the story, in all its detail, Devereaux selected the name he had saved for just such a person. He hadn’t even met her yet. Hired her, sight unseen. She had taken out eight targets in a single episode, killed them all, including five bodyguards, in a hotel suite in the heart of the city. Afterward, she calmly changed clothes, took the elevator down to the lobby and had a drink in the bar before leaving. Obviously, she could hit for power. She could also hit for average and rarely swung and missed. Best of all, she could bat cleanup. She could carry a whole team. The nickname Babe was too sexist-he had five older sisters to heighten his sensitivity to things like this-so Devereaux settled on The Bambino. She was his Babe Ruth. The Bambino worked out of an office in London, pretending to be some sort of Public Relations outfit. The conditions presented by Harry Levine were perfect for his big hitter. She was convenient, moments away in the same city, and Devereaux always liked being able to use the best.

In her own apartment, a small flat with a distinctly academic look about it, DEVNET’s Ruthian equivalent poured herself a cup of tea, kicked off her shoes, flipped them through the open door into her bedroom, muted the Tom Waits CD she was playing, and sat down to return the page left by Louis Devereaux. She did not recognize the number, but it had to be Devereaux. He was the only person in the world who had the number to her pager. The phone next to the couch in the Oval Office rang. Louis Devereaux picked it up.

The drive from the Atlanta airport to Roswell goes straight through the middle of the city of Atlanta. After picking up his rental car, Walter took I-85 North and merged onto the Downtown Connector just south of the city’s center. As he passed the exit for Freedom Parkway, the one that would have taken him past the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, right to the Carter Center and a nearby neighborhood bar he couldn’t forget, he realized he was not riding alone. The 800-pound gorilla in the back seat was Isobel Gitlin. Could she see him from her office window? Right now, while he was on the highway? And if she could, would she know it was him? “Five years,” he whispered. His cheeks flushed and he felt a small lump gather in his throat. Could it be five years since Isobel moved here to be the Executive Director for The Center for Consumer Concerns? Five years she’s been living in Atlanta. And five years since the last time he saw her, at that old bar, the one with a lot of photographs of the owner on the walls. Five years since Leonard Martin. Five years since… He turned the radio on, very loud and jerked the car into the left-hand lanes of the Connector. When it split apart, I-75 heading north to Tennessee and I-85 turning east toward the Carolinas, he stayed on I-85 until he exited at GA Rt. 400, and headed north to the Atlanta suburbs.

Sadie Fagan lived in an older subdivision with rolling hills, heavily wooded lots and a large lake, around which Walter had to drive to find her street. She and her husband bought the house in 1967. The house was just up the block, within walking distance of the pool and tennis complex. Back then, living here was thought of as way out of town. Not so far now. In those days, people in Atlanta looked at Roswell as almost being in Tennessee or North Carolina. It wasn’t, of course. The Tennessee state line was more than a hundred miles from Roswell and North Carolina a good two-hour drive. Roswell was barely fifteen miles from downtown Atlanta. But back then, there were no major highways or interstates connecting Atlanta and Roswell. Larry Fagan’s original commute, about half on tree-lined, two lanes and half on Atlanta’s city streets, took about forty-five minutes each way. Even without traffic the trip could take nearly that long. For him, that was nothing compared to what he was used to-getting into Manhattan every morning from Brooklyn. More than a few of his co-workers in the Atlanta office thought he was nuts to live so far away. There were plenty of nice neighborhoods in Atlanta, they said. None of them, of course, came from New Jersey or Connecticut. The Fagans liked their house and never saw a need to buy another one. Elana lived and died there. Harry grew up there. Now, it was just Sadie and Larry. It was a big house for the two of them, but it was their home.

On its headlong rush to Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s northern sprawl reached Roswell not too long after Sadie did. By the time Harry was grown up, the once small town with its own cobblestone Historic District and antebellum mansions, had become a bedroom community. Some of the old mansions were turned into trendy restaurants. Others were available for weddings and other special occasions.

The instructions she gave him were simple. Walter found Sadie’s house with no trouble. He parked in the driveway and rang the front doorbell. An older woman, about his age he realized with a little shock, short, squat and heavy set, with a smile that strangely reminded him of Ike, greeted him warmly.

“Mr. Sherman. Come in. Please come in,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fagan.”

“Come in. Come in.” Sadie led Walter through a narrow foyer into a living room or den. In a new house such a room is referred to as a great room. It was a room that showed every sign it was comfortably lived in. Walter noticed the cushions on the large, tan, fabric-covered couch were spread about randomly, not perfectly in place. Someone had been lying there, maybe napping, recently. Two paperback books were on the coffee table that separated the couch and a large recliner from the TV. He couldn’t make out the titles, but he did see that the spine on each was broken in a manner to show they’d been opened and read. The copy of TIME he recognized to be the current one. The floor was carpeted, and had two small throw rugs on either side of the coffee table. Family photos hung on the wall. Walter took note of the one showing Conchita, Harry and Sadie. It had been taken outside, in the front yard of the Fagan house, with all three standing next to the big pine tree that dominated the lawn.

They went into the kitchen to sit and talk. Sadie motioned for Walter to have a seat at the small, wooden block table. Her half-filled coffee cup and today’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution lay facing him. A copper bowl loaded with fruit-apples, oranges, plums and bananas-rested in the middle of the table. The faint scent of cooking oil hung in the air.

“Can I get you something?” she asked.

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

“A cold drink perhaps?”

“Sure, any diet soda, please. That would be nice.”

Sadie Fagan put a cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper in front of Walter. He thanked her as she said, “You said Conchita hired you to find Harry? I didn’t know he was missing.” The tone of her voice told Walter she was not especially concerned. He gave two possibilities for that: first, she knew where Harry was; second, she’d heard from him, maybe today. One or both might be true, he thought. It was too early to know. Of course, she might not know anything at all about this.

“Conchita hasn’t spoken to you about this?” he asked.

“No, she hasn’t. We don’t talk all that frequently, you know.”

“You’re not close?”

“Oh, we’re very close. No, no, I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that we don’t talk all that frequently.” Walter stared at her, waiting for more, and she added, “We’re both very busy.”

Walter began where Conchita brought him in. He made it plain to Sadie that what he told her was what had been told to him. He had no firsthand knowledge of events. He told Sadie everything Conchita had told him about Harry, the document he came into possession of and his flight from London, to parts unknown. He said only that certain people’s deaths contributed to the confusion that might have precipitated Harry’s disappearance. He offered no details or names. He didn’t say why any of this had happened. He never mentioned the Kennedys. He watched her eyes and the corners of her mouth as he told her about people having already died in connection with Harry’s disappearance, looking for signs of some existing understanding on Sadie’s part. How much did she know? He saw nothing remarkable. She talked with Harry weekly, at least once a week, she said. But it was not unusual to go days without a call. She really didn’t know he was in any trouble.

He asked Sadie about the early years with the four of them living in her house. “Tell me about Elana,” he said. Sadie told him the whole story of David being drafted, Elana being pregnant, David getting killed-that’s how she put it-Harry being born and the two of them moving to Atlanta. Elana Levine had been dead eight years, but it was easy to see how much Sadie missed her. Then she changed the subject.

“Why did Conchita hire you? I mean, why you?” She tried not to sound judgmental.

“I help people in this way,” Walter said. “It’s the work I do.”

“What way?”

“I find people, missing people, people who may be lost.”

“How long?” Sadie asked. Walter understood her perfectly, knew exactly what she was getting at. He was inclined to like this little old lady with a slight hint of a moustache.

“Thirty years,” he answered, with a warm grin Sadie returned. It was a look only two older people could share. “Forty, if you count the Army.”

“Vietnam?” she asked, nodding her head to indicate her sympathy.

“Yes.”

“Too bad you couldn’t find David.”

“Yes,” Walter said. “It is. Tell me about him.”

Sadie drank tea and talked about her brother while Walter listened for clues about his son, Harry. David Levine died more than thirty-five years ago. He lived in New York City. Sadie Fagan moved to Atlanta when David was only seventeen. In truth, Walter knew, there wasn’t much she could accurately remember about him. Although she spoke about David Levine, Walter heard more about Harry. She revealed more about herself and her nephew than about her brother. Her memory of David was colored by time and distance. What she had to say about Harry, on the other hand, was current. Perhaps, he thought, she spoke with him earlier today, or yesterday, or maybe the day before.

“Tell me more about Harry, if you will.”

Walter’s cell phone rang in the middle of Sadie’s monologue. She was telling him about Harry as a youngster and how he loved living in Roswell. “He always wanted to be home,” she said. “Right here.” The ringer was on vibrate and Walter felt it buzzing against his chest in his shirt pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Sadie. “I’ll take this outside.”

“No need for that,” she said. “I’ll be in the other room. Holler when you want me.” With that pronouncement, she took her teacup, the Atlanta newspaper, and walked off. Walter flipped open the cover of his phone, pushed the call button and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Walter-may I call you Walter?-You and I need to talk.”

“Who is this?” Walter asked, then quickly added, in his usual, neighborly tone, “You can call me whatever you like.”

“Good.”

“And you are?”

“My name is Louis Devereaux. I’ve admired your work for many years. It’s a treat just to talk to you. I guess you might say I’m a fan.”

“What is it I can do for you, Mr. Devereaux?”

“I think we can help each other, Walter. We need to talk about Harry Levine. I’d love to join you later today, perhaps even for dinner. I can be there, in Atlanta, this afternoon. Do you know Il Localino in Inman Park? A small restaurant. It’s on Highland in a very quiet street. Meet me there at seven. We’ll have an early dinner and it’ll give us plenty of time to chat. How does that sound?” Walter had no idea who Louis Devereaux was. But he knew Walter’s cell phone number, was familiar with his work, knew he was in Atlanta and used Harry Levine’s name. Impressive stuff, he thought.

“See you at seven, Louis,” he said, then snapped his phone shut and put it back in his shirt pocket.

Harry’s aunt was outside, sitting at a wrought-iron, glass-top table on a concrete slab in the backyard. Walter brought his cold drink with him, sat down next to her and for an hour or more listened to Sadie Fagan talk about her nephew.

The gentrification of North Highland, in Inman Park, on Atlanta’s east side, began in the 1990s. The old apartment buildings, four and five stories tall, the ones with the Depression-era, pre-WWII facades, were renovated, turned into condos and sold to lawyers, IT professionals, advertising executives and salespeople. Most of the new apartments, mainly condos, were too small for big families. That kept the neighborhood relatively free of children. The city built jogging paths and lined local streets with bicycle lanes. Housing prices doubled, then doubled again. So did property taxes. Still, they came. The old residents, working-class people who bought their clothing and kitchen appliances at the same store-Sears-were forced out. Developers descended like locusts. Bars, coffeehouses and restaurants followed close behind. The yuppies and buppies of Atlanta, the ones who wore two-hundred-dollar tank tops from Hugo Boss and drank their coffee from espresso machines imported from Milan, flocked to the neighborhood. The men proudly displayed their Rolexes and always carried business cards no matter how they were dressed. The women wore underwear from Victoria’s Secret so that if they got hit by a car, they’d look good. At The Emory Clinic, an outreach of Emory University’s hospital and medical school, Inman Park was often called Herpesville. An MBA offered no protection from an STD.

Il Localino was one of four restaurants on the same, tree-lined block of North Highland. They shared a common valet parking lot. Walter pulled his car up to the entrance. The attendant, a young, clean-cut, college kid, asked him which restaurant he was going to. He told him and watched as the young man jotted it down on the portion of the ticket he kept to place on the dashboard. He supposed it was to help them sort out and locate the folks who got so drunk or so lucky they never made it back to their cars. Louis Devereaux was waiting for him, already seated at the corner table by the front window. As he entered the restaurant, a smiling Devereaux rose to signal him. Walter realized he’d been made on the short walk from the parking lot to the front door. He never once looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. Stupid, he thought. Just plain dumb.

Louis Devereaux was a man in his fifties, average height, trim and fit, with a full head of dark brown hair. He had sharp features, a bony forehead, small nose, thin lips and a pointed chin. Except for the gleam in his eyes, he was the kind of man who could easily fade into the background. His smile was internal. Walter had seen looks like that before, smiles meant only for the smiler, smiles to complement fiery eyes. Devereaux’s grin was definitely on loan from the Devil.

He was from Washington. Walter was sure of that. Everyone in Washington wore the same dark-blue, three-button, natural shoulder suit with a shirt and tie designed to make them inconspicuous. These were not cheap clothes, not by any means, but they did defeat the very purpose of dressing in the first place, especially in this neighborhood. Walter was reminded of something a Dutchman said once, in Vientiane in 1971. One evening in a hotel bar, as they watched the Frenchmen come and go in the capital city of Laos, Aat van de Steen said to Walter, “A man who dresses not to be seen, is a man who will not show you who he is.” A lesson learned in Laos, still true in Il Localino.

“Hello,” said Walter, reaching across the table to shake hands.

“A pleasure to meet you, Walter,” Devereaux responded. They shook hands and took their seats. “Do you like this place?”

“Very nice,” Walter said without looking around at all. A skinny, old Italian man, accompanied by a young girl who might have been his niece or more likely his granddaughter, approached immediately. He brought with him a bottle of wine.

“Gentlemen,” he said presenting the wine bottle to them as if it were a great treasure. “Allow me to select this fine Chianti for you. Colle Bereto Chianti Classico, 1995. This is a wonderful wine, believe me. Make you warm in winter. Keep you cool in summer and make the women love you. If you don’t like it, you tell me so, it’s on me.” He handed the bottle to the young girl who tore off the seal and began screwing an opener into the top of the cork. While she did this, the Italian began with the specials for that night. With each one he went into great detail about the ingredients and the method of preparation, and ended each item with an opinion on the merits of the dish. He looked at Walter and, with a warm smile, said, “For you, the grouper piccata in a white wine sauce, with lemon and fried capers. On the side, some linguini, al dente, in a light clam sauce. No?”

“Sure,” said Walter, returning the waiter’s friendly smile.

“Would you like to begin with a salad with roasted pine nuts and the world-famous Localino vinaigrette?”

“World famous?”

“In my world, to be sure.”

“I’ll skip the salad, thank you,” said Walter.

“And for you, sir…,” the waiter continued, turning to Devereaux.

“The filet mignon will do just fine,” Devereaux said. “Angel hair pasta with that.”

“Of course, sir,” said the waiter. “Sliced medallions of filet mignon in Italian Romagna brandy, with mushrooms and peppercorns. Will that be all?” Devereaux nodded and the old man motioned for the young girl to pour the wine-first a taste for Walter’s approval, then a full glass for each of them. “Welcome to Il Localino. Anything I can do to make your meal more enjoyable, you call me, no?”

“Thank you,” said Walter. “We’re looking forward to a wonderful dinner.”

Devereaux looked at Walter and said, “You should look around. Go ahead, turn your head. Take a look.” Walter did. Il Localino was a small restaurant in a narrow building with the tables almost on top of each other, except for the ones by the window where he and Louis Devereaux sat. They had plenty of room, lots of privacy. In the middle of everything was a fountain gurgling with enough running water to keep conversations private. The walls and high ceiling were covered with old paintings, photographs and posters. As small, even tiny, as the restaurant was, so narrow you could not walk straight for more than a few feet in any direction, large potted plants were scattered about, lending privacy here and there while making it seem even more crowded. The walls and ceilings were dark, with exposed brick adding to the flavor. “The place has the feel of New York, don’t you think? Third Avenue, downtown or somewhere in the East Village?”

“Charming,” said Walter.

Devereaux laughed. “Wait till they start singing.” He took a sip of his wine, silently indicated his approval, and leaned back in his chair.

“It’s really great to meet you. Seriously. I never thought I’d get the opportunity.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Walter said, in a casual, comfortable, friendly tone of voice. “But I haven’t got the slightest fucking idea who you are.” There was no hint of anger in his voice.

“Aha,” laughed Devereaux. “You’d like to know, though, wouldn’t you? Haven’t figured out yet how I got your cell phone number, have you?”

“Haven’t even thought about it,” said Walter. “The options are fairly limited. I was guessing you’d want to tell me. So, who are you and why am I here-other than to have a delightful dinner?”

“You’re looking for Harry Levine. I’m looking for Harry Levine.” Devereaux’s smile became a wide grin as he shook his head. “I’ll tell you, it’s hard to believe that I’m looking for the same man as Walter Sherman. I’m getting a real kick out of it. And I need you to find him.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“No, no,” chuckled Devereaux. “You’re already on the job.”

“Just want to horn in? Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it. Levine has two aunts. One of them-a woman of exceptional beauty, I’m sure you’ll agree-visits you on St. John, and the other, you visit here in Atlanta.”

“Roswell.”

“Roswell, right. Sadie Fagan didn’t hire you. That’s for certain. So, that leaves Conchita Crystal. Don’t get me wrong, Walter. I’m happy you’re looking for Harry. I could never find him myself.”

“Why do you want him?” asked Walter, fumbling about the basket of long, thin bread sticks, finally picking two of them.

“How much do you know about Lacey?” Devereaux asked.

“Lacey who?”

Devereaux smiled. “You’re good.” He knew, from the look in Walter’s eyes, the name Lacey meant something to him. Of course Walter Sherman knew who Frederick Lacey was. But Devereaux thought it best to defer to Walter, to let him at least temporarily appear as a true professional. Only moments later, when he got no further response from Walter, he changed his mind. “I want to find him for the same reason you do,” Devereaux said. “We both know what he has. Although neither of us has read it and neither of us really knows precisely how important it might be. It’s possible-make that probable-that what Harry has, contains… things-things that some people don’t want to see openly exposed in the harsh light of public knowledge. Who can guess what such forces might do to get that document. When you find him, Walter, you’ll read it. Then you’ll know what I’m talking about, won’t you?”

“I have no interest in anything Harry Levine may have. I don’t want to read a thing. Couldn’t care less.”

“Of course. You never get involved, do you? You just find them, wherever they’re hiding.”

“Maybe you’re the guy he’s hiding from,” Walter said, munching a bread stick he dipped in garlic butter. This time he laughed.

“No,” Devereaux said. “I work for the President of the United States. I’m the guy Levine’s trying to get to. I’m the one he wants to give the document to-the document about which you have no interest. But I’m also the guy who can’t find him. He got spooked in London and took off. You can find him. Probably, you’re the only person in the world who can. And I want to help, in any way I can.”

“Because…?”

“Because, when you find Harry Levine, I’m the guy who gets the President to guarantee his safety. And we get the document, which I freely admit is my principal objective. I’m as interested in finding him as his aunts are. More. If Conchita Crystal hadn’t hired you.. .”

“I don’t work for the government, the FBI, the CIA, the whatever initials you come up with. Actually,” Walter said, once more with a smile, this one tinged with real irony, “I don’t work at all, anymore.”

“I heard you retired,” said Devereaux. He took a sip of his wine and adjusted the napkin protecting his lap. “You came back, I see.”

They were almost finished with the bottle of Chianti. Their food came out of the kitchen looking great, smelling wonderful and tasting as good as they’d been told it would. Walter’s grouper was moist and tender, flaky at the touch of his fork, with just the proper amount of capers on top. The linguini was al dente, perfect. Devereaux seemed to enjoy his meal too. As the two men ate, Louis Devereaux told Walter how much he knew about him, and how long he knew it. He was either an admirer or a good actor. He obviously enjoyed telling the story as much as, or more, than Walter liked hearing it. It took Walter only a few minutes to understand Louis Devereaux was CIA. Like he said, the options were limited. He had so much information about him. He knew about Vietnam. He knew about Gloria. He mentioned Walter’s daughter and her family in Kansas City. He didn’t say it, because he didn’t have to, but of course Devereaux knew Walter had gone so far underground he hadn’t filed an income tax return for almost forty years. For all practical purposes, Walter Sherman was a phantom. He didn’t offend Walter by revealing specific knowledge of his clients, but he did drop the name Leonard Martin, twice. Walter gave him no reaction either time. After dinner, they ordered coffee. Each passed on dessert. They did, however, graciously accept an after-dinner drink, compliments of the house. As they sipped their brandy, Devereaux asked, “Is there anything you need? Anything I might be able to help with?”

“Not now,” said Walter. “When I find him, what do you want me to do?”

“Not a thing,” Devereaux said with a sense of earnestness not previously part of their conversation. “I know you don’t do anything. That’s not the deal you make. And I’m not asking you to change that now. I’ll give you a number. Call it and we’ll take over from there.” Walter did not reply, not in words. He simply nodded. For Louis Devereaux, Walter could tell, that nod had only one meaning-acceptance. He said nothing to Devereaux about Conchita’s plan to hide Harry somewhere, somewhere no one would find him.

Devereaux insisted on paying the bill, but seemed to take forever to put his money down on top of the check. The waiter, patient as a saint, was helpless without it. Finally, Devereaux glanced over Walter’s shoulder, out the window toward the sidewalk, looked noticeably relieved and plunked down the cash. It was immediately scooped up and carried off to the cash register at the bar.

“Let’s go,” said Devereaux. “I don’t need any change.”

Walter got up, turned around to leave and, as he did, the small restaurant got smaller. Between him and the desk at the front door there wasn’t enough room for more than one person to walk. For Walter to exit Il Localino, he had to practically brush up against the couple that had just come in and was waiting to be seated. He stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in place. Devereaux waited quietly behind him.

“Walter?” said the woman facing him no more than a yard or two away. “Is that you?” It was Isobel Gitlin. She’d changed. Five years will do that to anyone. The twenty-nine-year-old girl was now a mid-thirties woman. She was heavier than he remembered her. Almost plump now, he thought. The picture of her in a black string bikini running into the surf at Cinnamon Bay, kicking up sand as she dashed across the beach, was as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Isobel’s shoulder-length, dark hair was longer now, flecked with spots of gray on the left side. She held her coat over one arm. Her hips were bigger. In that moment, he lost his breath thinking of her naked in his bed at The Mayflower in New York, the sheets pushed off, leaving the left side of her body bare as she lay sleeping on her stomach. He remembered the feel of her hip and the small of her back, the sweet scent of the pillow… and when she turned over, how he kissed her nipples…

“Walter?” she said again.

“Hello, Isobel,” he mumbled, hoping he sounded normal.

“Walter. Walter. What a treat. You look w-w-wonderful!” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Another kiss pushed its way into his mind, a kiss she gave him in front of the Hilton Hotel on Sixth Avenue in New York, years ago. He was struggling.

“Walter, I want you to meet Otto Heinrich, my husband.” Walter held his hand out. A man, standing a little behind Isobel, grabbed it with a big smile. He was a pudgy man, not very tall, shorter than Isobel, about forty maybe forty-five years old. Most of the hair on top of his head was gone.

“Nice to meet you, Walter,” he said. His handshake was strong and firm. It seemed like he was never going to let go. “Isobel has told me so much about you.”

“I have to go now,” said Walter. “I have to go now.” He eased past Isobel and her husband, out into the cool Georgia night. He did not turn around. Devereaux followed him and they walked in silence toward the valet parking pickup. Walter gave his ticket to the young attendant who ran off to get the car.

“You know her?” Devereaux asked. And just then Walter could sense inner panic. He tried, with no success, to push his instincts, to rebound, to be once more sharp as ever. It seemed to him that Devereaux already knew the answer to that question, that he’d known the answer even before Isobel walked into Il Localino.

“Yes. I do. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you.” The words came out almost involuntarily. He didn’t mean to say them.

“Not at all. I know who Isobel Gitlin is-she doesn’t use the Heinrich name. Otto plays violin for the Atlanta Symphony. They live a couple of blocks from here, on Austin Avenue, within walking distance. Il Localino is her favorite restaurant. I thought you’d like to eat here.”

Walter’s car rolled up. The valet jumped out leaving the door open. Walter did his best to stumble in behind the wheel. He wasn’t thinking straight. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

“I’ll be in touch, Walter,” Devereaux said. “And don’t worry about me. There’s a car waiting for me.” Walter saw the black limo with its engine running, double-parked just up the block. Sinking down in his seat, he turned the steering wheel on his own car and drove off in the other direction.

“Oh, yeah. I remember President Roosevelt,” said Ike. “Mr. Roosevelt, we called him. Seemed to me back then-I was just a young boy, you know-seemed like he was some kind of king from a faraway land, didn’t have anything to do with us, with our little island. The war grew me up,” he added. “It surely did.”

“I never paid any attention to politicians,” said Billy. “Except a couple mayors and commissioners. They’re all thieves. Every damn one of them. License to steal, that’s what a politician has. You know-you got a driver’s license-I got a bar license-they got a stealing license.” Helen looked at her man, beaming with pride.

“I remember Nixon,” she said. “That man makes Billy look like a saint.”

“Hey! What are you saying?”

“No, Billy,” she said patting his face gently and kissing him on his stubbly chin. “I didn’t mean anything about you. I meant you had them all down pat. Nixon proves that, doesn’t he? Thieves and bandits.”

“Willie Sutton,” said Walter. “There was a thief for you. He said he robbed banks because-you know why? Because that’s where the money is. Cogent analysis.”

“De Nero,” piped up Ike, striking another of his long wooden matches and sticking the exploding flame at the end of a crooked, old cigarette he slipped out of his shirt pocket. He puffed it like a cigar, smoke billowing out about him as he spoke. “Not the man himself-he’s just an actor you know-but the guy he played in Goodfellas. That was a true story-yes, it was. Stole millions from the airport in New York. Kennedy airport, I think it was. Never got caught. ’Course they killed each other over it afterwards, but I don’t count that. We’re only talking about the thieving, not the keeping, right?”

Walter had been sitting in his regular seat since about ten. The lunch crowd came and went. Helen fixed him a salmon sandwich with steamed broccoli-small portions, after all it was only lunch. He’d been thinking about his recent trip to Atlanta-Devereaux, Il Localino, Isobel, and Sadie Fagan. If not for Sadie he wouldn’t have gone at all. She had given him something, certainly she had. She talked so much, so openly about Harry. Somewhere in what she said was something important. Walter was mad at himself because he hadn’t discovered it yet. His mind was unclear, muddled. Devereaux rankled him. And Isobel-“Damn!” he berated himself, unable to get her out of his thoughts, out of his way. He had no time for her. He needed peace to put the pieces in their proper place. What was it Billy just said? The thieving, not the keeping? What thief doesn’t keep his loot?

“Robin Hood,” Walter said, smiling at Ike.

“Robin Hood? What the hell does that mean?”

“Thieves who don’t keep it, Ike. Isn’t that what Billy meant?”

“No,” said Billy. “Forget about Robin Hood. We’re talking big time here. What was he doing? Hanging around a forest ripping off people dumb enough to ride through. Small change.”

“Okay then,” said Walter, I’ll take them all.” He lifted his glass bottle in the air. “The Robber Barons, Rockefellers, Bill Gates-all of them.”

“That’s a pretty powerful combination,” offered Ike.

“Yeah,” Billy said, on his way to the kitchen door. “The bigger they are, the more mud they’ve been swimming in.”

“Damn, I like that,” said the old man. “I’ll take the mud itself, if you don’t mind.”

“Mud?” Billy asked. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“The lubricant,” Ike said. “It’s the lubricant for all of them. For everything. You got a way about you, Billy. Thank you. Sort of like a metaphor, if you know what I mean. If they all swim in it, it must be so.”

“Metaphor?” marveled Walter.

“And I got it,” the old man said.

“The lubricant? You know what the lubricant is, don’t you?” scoffed Billy. “Judges. That’s the lubricant. You got the judges, you got it all, believe me. I’ll take the judges.” Once more, as they always did it seemed, Ike and Billy, their choices already settled, looked to Walter. He had this silly smile on his face. “Pennzoil,” was all he said.

“Damn, this is serious business, young man,” chided Ike.

Billy wrote it up-Mud/Judges/Pennzoil.

The restaurant on the veranda at the Caneel Bay resort overlooks the crescent-shaped, white sandy beach that is the private property of the hotel. The restaurant is very big-perhaps fifty feet square-and it’s protected from the Caribbean sun by a pyramid hip roof with cedar shake shingles. Cedar shake is a favorite among those who can afford it, in tropical places like St. John where the sun is particularly hot and where there is also an abundance of rainfall. When the cedar gets wet it expands and when it’s especially dry, the cedar shingles loosen up. The result is a kind of filter effect. The roof breathes, allowing heat to dissipate. It helps to keep a house cool. In the case of this restaurant, it was little more than a pleasant bonus. Its roof covered an otherwise open area built in exactly the right place to get the most of sea breezes. On the most uncomfortably warm days, the veranda was a nice place to be.

Walter arrived on time. He had a thing about that. Timeliness was next to godliness, they say. For Walter, it was a good distance in front. Being late made him nervous. If he was expected at noon, he thought that was when he ought to be there. A little early was okay. A little late was not. Likewise for those who made appointments to meet him. Years ago he gave up the lame practice of saying things like, “it’s all right,” or “that’s okay,” when somebody showed up late cavalierly apologizing for their tardiness. Such automatic, clearly bogus sentiments were taken by Walter for what they were-arrogance. He never humiliated anyone by challenging what he felt was their disrespect, but he did forego the allowance and acceptance of that behavior that is so much a part of most people’s routine. The girl was also on time for this meeting. She asked for it. It seemed only right that she should already be there when he showed up.

She had called Walter yesterday, introduced herself as Aminette Messadou, and said she needed to talk with him. Talk about Harry Levine.

“Why?” he asked her.

“I think it’s best to wait until we meet, face to face, as it were.” She sounded like a young, American girl except for the slight vee when she said, “… until we meet…” Walter allowed there was a chance it was just the phone, a poor quality instrument and not the voice.

“If I told you I had no idea who-what did you say his name was-Harry Levine is?”

“I would say it is best we speak of it when we meet.” There it was, again, the vee. Walter agreed to meet Ms. Messadou at Caneel Bay, the next day. He’d wait until then, he determined, to place her accent.

He spotted her immediately. She sat alone at a table near the front, facing the entrance, not the beach. Nobody ate alone here and most of the other diners arranged their chairs so all at the table could view the sea. She did not look comfortable or at ease. In fact, Walter thought she appeared visibly on edge. Her legs were crossed, but her feet were in constant motion, up and down, side to side. She moved silverware around with her hands. When he entered, stopped and stood by the hostess’ stand for a moment, she looked up. When she rose, sporting a pasty smile, he began walking her way.

“Walter Sherman,” he said in his friendly, everyday St. John voice.

“Aminette Messadou,” she replied, holding her hand to him. He took it politely, then gave it back. He figured her to be young, but this was younger than he thought. She was quite beautiful, but surely no more than twenty-if that-slim, skinny to some, with long, thin arms, legs to match and a neck that seemed to never quit. Her complexion was dark, Mediterranean, Central Asian perhaps, with no obvious imperfections save a single, small dark brown birthmark on the right side of her neck, near the ear. She wore her exceptionally straight, black hair long. Walter didn’t know much about women’s haircuts, but he was certain this one cost a fortune. Her smile was, as he noticed right away, forced. He decided to see how nervous she was.

“I don’t take well to strangers,” he said. “Especially those who come to my island and have balls big enough to invite me to lunch. Of course, you don’t appear to have any balls, big or otherwise.”

“Please,” she motioned, any sign of nerves gone, floated away with the gentle breeze off the water, “sit.” Pretty quick adjustment, he thought.

A waitress approached, a middle-aged black woman, very short and considerably on the hefty side. She smiled at them both and took her notepad and pen out. “Miss?” she said looking at Aminette Messadou. “Have you decided?” The girl ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, onions, mushrooms, lettuce and tomato, French fries and a vodka martini with an olive and a twist. Not the salad and Evian Walter might have expected. Then the waitress turned to Walter and asked, “What would you like, Mr. Sherman?”

“Turkey sandwich, on rye toast please,” he answered. “And Margaret, no mayo.” Margaret smiled again, at both of them, and was off to place her orders in the kitchen.

“You are not drinking anything, Mr. Sherman?”

“She knows what I drink. Now, tell me, who are you and what can I do for you?”

“My great-uncle, four generations removed, was the great man Djemmal-Eddin. His brother was my father’s great-grandfather. I am named for Djemmal-Eddin’s daughter, Aminette Messadou, who died more than eighty-five years ago, in childbirth, as women will. It is my mission in life to be worthy of her memory. My family has not forgotten her. The man you are hired to find, Harry Levine, has something that belongs to Aminette’s husband. He too was a great man, her husband, a powerful man among his own people, widely respected and honored among mine. Now that he is gone we seek to recover what is rightfully ours.”

“And…?”

“When you find Mr. Levine, you shall also find the document. We very much want you to persuade Mr. Levine he should give it to us.”

“How badly do you want this… document?”

“You are not familiar with it?”

“The document?”

“Yes.”

“No, I am not. May I ask, what is it that brings you to me in the first place? How do you know me and what makes you think I have any interest in this man you call Harry Levine?” Aminette Messadou was wearing a lime green summer dress made from a smooth and silky polyester. Catching the breeze as if it owned the wind, it barely fluttered about her shoulders, its scooped neck shimmering even without benefit of direct sunlight. The color was just right for her tan skin and black hair. She leaned forward across the table, elbows resting on the glass, and chuckled. Walter could see nearly all of her small breasts. It was a lovely sight, still he could not help himself. He looked carefully for tan lines. There were none. A girl with her skin color, he thought, it was hard to define a suntan. Either she had none or she regularly sunbathed topless. He had no time to figure that one out. Not now.

“We are too cute,” she laughed, her smile now genuine and warm to the eye. “You and I are to be allies, Mr. Sherman. We have nothing to fear from one another. Harry Levine’s aunt is among the most famous people on Earth. When she visits you-a man who makes his way through life finding others-it is both not a secret and not a mystery. Not much of one anyway.”

“Did you ever meet Lord Frederick Lacey?” Walter asked. For an instant, nervousness, maybe even fear, reappeared in Aminette Messadou’s deep brown, almond eyes. She sat back in her seat as Margaret served them. The last thing the heavy-set black woman did was put a Diet Coke in front of Walter, in a glass bottle.

“No,” Aminette Messadou said. “I never met him. Yet he was one of us, family to us. And we to him.”

“Just why do you need this document? What’s in it?”

“That I cannot say. To be true, I do not know. But I was told that when you asked such a question, I was to tell you, you would be better off not knowing.”

“Humm,” said Walter taking a small bite of his sandwich, watching this lovely girl do battle with her huge burger. She took a bite so large she closed her eyes tight. Juice, cheese and a little tomato dripped from the side of her burger bun farthest from her and nearest to him. He could hardly restrain himself. It was all too funny. Had he just been threatened? He chose to be direct. “Your people have sent a child to do the work of a grown-up,” he said. “A delightful child, to be sure, beautiful as an afternoon on St. John-like this one-but still a child.” If he had been threatened, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge it.

“I assure you…” she said, trying hard not to talk with her mouth full.

“It appears there’s very little you can assure me of.” Walter sipped his drink, took another, bigger bite of his turkey sandwich and relaxed a little. The ball was in her court, if indeed she had a court. Either he was right-they had sent a kid to do an adult’s job-or this was her defining moment, the time for her to stop shitting him and say what it was that was on her mind. He had no place else to go, plenty of time. It was a lovely day. The food was on her tab. He’d wait, at least until he finished his sandwich.

“I will tell you,” she finally said. “Because you are known to be a man of discretion, a man of trust.”

“You will tell me the truth?”

“I know no other way. As you have seen, I have been reluctant to say anything, but I have not been false. And I will not be.”

Djemmal-Eddin Messadou was a leader, a Georgian with a strong following also in Dagestan, the land of his ancestors. He was not unknown either in Azerbaijan. Aminette Messadou told Walter that when Georgia, together with Dagestan and Azerbaijan, formed the anti-Bolshevik Transcaucasian Federation, in 1917, and later on, when the Federation collapsed and Georgia declared its independence on May 26, 1918, Djemmal-Eddin was a leader of both movements. It was during those years, Aminette related to Walter, that her namesake met and married the dashing young Englishman, Frederick Lacey. “He was a military man of great reputation. He was in the British Navy. All my life I have heard him spoken of and no one has ever been sure of his place, his rank as you say. So many stories. So many different ranks. There is more mystery than fact about him, of that I’m certain.” She continued on with her story. The freedom of Georgia was short-lived. The British and Americans, like the Turks before them, and many others before the Turks, abandoned their Asian outposts on the edges of mother Russia. One by one, the free republics that had declared their independence from the Czar and the Bolsheviks fell before the might of the Red Army. Lithuania, Moldavia, Don, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Dagestan, Armenia-all of them. And Georgia too, in February 1921.

Djemmal-Eddin marshaled his forces in retreat, having no choice but to run from the advancing army of Russians. Finally, she told Walter, the nephew of the Lion of Dagestan brought his men through the Klukhori Pass, to the edge of the sea, to the last remaining spot of free Georgia, the old Turkish fortress of Sukhum-Kale. All hope was gone. Bloody defeat was a certainty. Aminette told her story with a depth of feeling Walter found irresistible. He saw eighty years of telling it in her youthful face. This may be the story of a defeated people, but there was a majesty and wonder about it. It was with grace that Aminette presented to him the glory that was Georgia and the memory of her family’s proud role there.

Just as the inevitable end approached, Djemmal-Eddin was saved by his son-in-law, Frederick Lacey. Under Lacey’s command, a fleet of ships rescued him and many of his men, sailing from the Turkish port only hours in advance of the Russian onslaught. “There were many items, of a personal nature, important to my family, that were carried out of Georgia on those ships, Mr. Sherman. We have waited many years to reclaim them.”

“I don’t understand,” said Walter. “Why didn’t you-your family, I mean-get them off the ships when you reached safe harbor?”

“Those were difficult times. My people were in exile, stateless, in need of friends. Much of what we had went to secure those friends. Other things were best hidden for safekeeping. It is those things we seek now.”

“Why didn’t Lacey give them back years ago? That doesn’t make sense.”

“I told you I never met Lord Lacey, and that is true. But I have heard him discussed many times. And always he is described as a special man, a strange man in certain ways, a man devoted to my father’s great-grandfather’s brother, Djemmal-Eddin. When Lord Lacey lost his wife, in the birth of their daughter, he turned to Djemmal-Eddin for comfort and found it there. When he too died, not long after free Georgia died, Lacey decided not to reveal the hiding place to anyone. I said earlier, he is of our family and we are of his, but Lord Lacey was not a trusting man, never close, in a personal way, to my family after his beloved wife and her father were gone.”

“You believe the hiding place for your family’s jewels is written down in Lacey’s journal?”

“Yes, we do. And, I said nothing about jewels.”

“Just a saying,” said Walter. “Not meant literally.”

“Will you help us?”

Walter gazed into her tender eyes. God, he thought, if you could bottle that and sell it, there’s no telling how rich you would be. There was nothing he could do now, no way he could help with a document he did not have, no way he could encourage cooperation from Harry Levine unless and until he found him. “Who knows what the future will bring,” he said and told her she should stay in touch. Then he invited Aminette Messadou to dinner at Billy’s. She declined, saying she had to leave the island immediately. She was expected elsewhere.

The old man saw him come through the door and quickly made his way to the front of the restaurant. Harry recognized him too, from Louis Devereaux’s description, but didn’t immediately understand how the Indian had recognized him. He expected to announce himself at the hostess’ desk and decided to ask if anyone left a message for him. Harry had no idea Devereaux had faxed his picture to the little office behind the kitchen in The Standard. The Indian was ready for Harry Levine.

“Ah, Mr. Levine,” he said, in that peculiar singsong accent Harry had grown so fond of. He seemed very happy to see Harry and spoke to him as if he were a frequent and loyal customer. “Here’s your order.” He handed Harry a paper bag. The smell of curry was in the air. “Be careful, Mr. Levine,” he said. “It’s hot on the bottom. Don’t forget now, okay?”

“Thank you,” Harry said. He handed the Indian some money-he thought it was the right thing to do under the circumstances.

“No, no,” protested the old man with a big smile. “It’s all taken care of. Enjoy.” Harry took the bag, turned around and walked out, back into the fast darkening afternoon, still cold, still wet. Once again, he had nowhere to go. As if by instinct, he hailed the first cab he could find.

Without thinking he gave the driver the address of his own flat and instantly realized that had been a mistake. If they were looking for him, they would eventually find a cabbie who had a fare who instructed him to go to… What a stupid thing to do! Harry silently berated himself. Too late now. Comfortably secure, warm and dry in the back seat, Harry opened the bag. Inside was a container, the kind used for take-out meals. It was warm but not hot. He opened the lid to find some sort of chicken dish with a rich, full aroma, not curry, in a sauce he was unfamiliar with. Indian food had never been among Harry’s favorites. There didn’t appear to be anything else in the bag. The Indian told him it was hot on the bottom. It wasn’t, not when he gave him the bag back in the restaurant and not as Harry opened it. He lifted the food container. Underneath, on the bottom, was a piece of paper folded in half. Harry pulled it out, unfolded it and looked at it. A number, that’s what it was, a telephone number.

“You can let me out here,” he said to the cab driver.

“Are you sure, sir? Bit nasty out there.”

“I am. This will be fine, thank you.” As the taxi drove away, Harry recalled how earlier, he had been forced to look for a public telephone to call the President- My God! he thought, he’d called the President of the United States, twice today!- but the number on the piece of paper the Indian gave him was a local one. Harry flipped open his cell phone and punched the numbers. It rang only once.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice answered.

“This is Harry…”

“Harry!” she shouted. There was sheer joy in her voice, a glee that could only indicate great intimacy. “I thought we were going to be late. I’m so happy you called. They’re expecting us at the Waterstone’s in twenty minutes. See you there, darling!” Harry had no opportunity to say anything. She hung up. The Waterstone’s in twenty minutes? What the hell was that all about? Then he realized-she was afraid her telephone was tapped, afraid someone was listening. In the rush to get to The Standard, and afterward in the comfort of the cab, Harry had forgotten the danger he faced. His mind was spinning. Every American in Egypt is in jeopardy, he kept thinking. The fear was back. Waterstone’s…? Of course, the bookshop. Twenty minutes. He’d be there.

It took him less than fifteen minutes to get to Piccadilly Circus. The rain had stopped. It made no difference that it was Saturday. For London another chilly winter day had edged its way into a cold evening. He knew the bookstore well. He’d been there many times. He walked into Waterstone’s trying not to look around too much. Who am I kidding? he said, practically out loud. He had no idea who he was looking for. He didn’t want to bring notice to himself, or look silly. Whoever this woman was-she had sounded more like a young girl than a woman, somebody in her twenties perhaps-Harry had no doubt she would know him by sight. The Indian had. He was thumbing through a copy of C. P. Snow’s Time of Hope when he felt a soft hand touch his own.

“Come with me, Harry,” she said, in a calm and definitely personal voice. He hesitated, just an instant, his body jerking ever so slightly to one side then to the other. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe with me. No one’s looking for you here.”

“You sure?”

“I am sure of it,” she said. “If they knew where you were, they would no longer be looking. They would already have you, wouldn’t they?” She looked at him with an expression that clearly asked for confirmation of what seemed such an elemental fact.

“Right,” he said. He closed the book, put it down and together with this strange young woman, he walked out of the bookstore, into total uncertainty, vulnerable as if he were naked.

When he was fifteen, Harry underwent surgery to repair a hydrocele, a highly sensitive condition, the unfortunate result of a failure on his part to properly protect himself playing pickup football in the neighborhood. Leaving Waterstone’s, he was reminded of that time. He recalled the helplessness he felt being wheeled down the hospital corridors on his way to the operating room. His testicles were, after all, the matter in question and even at fifteen-maybe especially at fifteen-the idea of somebody taking a knife to that special area did not leave Harry with a good feeling. His safety, perhaps even his manhood, was in the hands of strangers with sharp instruments. He knew it couldn’t really happen, but for a moment, fifteen-year-old Harry Levine, worried anyway about the possibility of someone cutting his balls off. Fortunately things turned out well, the hydrocyle repaired, his balls intact-both of them still there. His experience, post-op, had been a positive one. He’d gotten through it with good spirits. He decided now, walking arm in arm with a woman whose name he didn’t even know, going who-the-hell-knows where, to adopt the same positive attitude.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To my car.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tucker Poesy. Walk faster,” she urged him. “I’m cold.”

“Isn’t that a boy’s name?”

“Do I look like a boy?” she challenged him.

“No,” Harry said, although why he bothered to say it mystified him. She didn’t and he knew it, knew it the moment he first saw her. Tucker Poesy looked like the kind of girl he went to law school with. Only better looking. She was small, maybe five feet four inches, thin featured in the way New Englanders sometimes are, with straight, dark hair, cut above the shoulders. She was light complexioned, a fact Harry thought might just be the result of living in London. It was winter. Who got any sun these days? A light coat was all she wore over a simple, black dress with a high neckline. As much of her legs as he could see looked quite nice. The rest of her, he imagined quite accurately, was slim, taut, small breasted. She was nobody’s law student. Tucker Poesy had a dancer’s body-hard but smooth, muscular, swift. Was she? He wondered. Was she a dancer?

Her car was parked around the corner from the bookstore. She drove an antique classic Aston Martin, a model Harry supposed might be as much as twenty-five or thirty years old. The car smelled of leather and was surprisingly comfortable despite the tight-fit look of it. Ms. Poesy’s driver’s seat was in a forward position so her feet could reach the pedals. Harry had to slide his all the way back to make room for his long legs.

“Should we pick up your things?” she asked as they drove. “Where have you left them?”

“What do you mean? Clothes? I didn’t get a chance to…”

“Where did you put the document?”

“What document?”

“It’s okay, Harry. I know what this is all about. Mr. Devereaux put me on this assignment himself. He thinks you’re very important. He wants to make sure the document is safe.”

“It’s safe.”

“Where…” she said, then seemed to think better of herself and stopped. They drove in silence. While she looked at the road ahead, Harry looked at Tucker Poesy. He had been right. Her legs were definitely dancer’s legs. Her coat slipped off to the side, while she drove, exposing her right leg. As she accelerated and braked he saw the muscles in her calf tighten and relax with a practiced ease. He knew if he touched them, her legs would be hard as rock.

“Where are we headed?” Harry asked.

“My flat. Safest place in London for you right now.”

“Do you dance?”

“Do I what?”

“Are you a dancer?”

“No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know. Just something… I thought about. Forget it.”

“I’m in public relations. I have a small company with a few very good clients.”

“How did you get… involved with Louis Devereaux?”

“You don’t want to know, Harry. Believe me.”

Harry hadn’t been paying close attention, but when she pulled over and parked, he realized he was on familiar ground. They were near Bond Street in the Mayfair district. Tucker Poesy’s few very good clients paid well. Her apartment was warm, much warmer than most people in London keep theirs. Many Americans, like Harry, who stayed in England for a prolonged time tended to do as the English do-turn the heat down. Sweaters, not usually worn indoors in America, were an everyday thing in England, except during the summer months. Tucker Poesy had her heat on high and immediately tossed off her coat as she entered her foyer. She threw it on a large, wrought iron hook next to the front door. Harry put his on top. The simple black dress Harry saw when she came into Waterstone’s fit snug as a glove. It was sleeveless. Her arms matched her legs for fitness. Her stomach was flat and she was small and high breasted. She was not Harry’s type. He went more for soft lips, long hair and never minded a bit of belly. His taste covered a wide range from Turkish and Indian women to Eastern Europeans, and he had had an occasional Swedish or Norwegian girlfriend too. He had not given up American women, not entirely, although he held to a strict rule never to get involved with any girl working at the Embassy. He was open to women of all colors and cultures, but rarely was attracted to the white-bread, Protestant type he took Tucker Poesy for. She did look very inviting to him at that moment, however. Maybe, Harry thought, it was just the stress of the day and the warmth of her flat. Nothing like a little life-threatening tension to get one horny. Perhaps, he needed to lie down for a while and get some rest, just a little sleep.

“Sit down,” she said.

“I’m afraid I’ll close my eyes and go to sleep.”

“Nothing wrong with that. If you’d like to lie down on the couch, go right ahead. I’ll make some tea.” Harry dropped like a sack of beans on the couch in front of the window. Tucker Poesy’s flat was reminiscent of a college girl’s apartment. Old furniture, well worn but still in decent shape, looking very comfortable, mixed in with a dark wooden coffee table and a couple of matching, smaller tables at either end of the couch. The floors were hardwood, not especially shiny, but clean. A large rug, predominantly maroon, covered the sitting area where Harry plopped himself down. An Andreas Gursky photo poster dominated the living room. Harry had trouble making it out. It looked like a stadium of some sort, shot from above, filled with people. But there was no stage or field or court anywhere in the picture. Looking more closely at it, Harry recognized the trading floor, crowded with brokers, runners, traders-there were hundreds of them. Paper flew everywhere. At the bottom, on the left-hand side just below the picture, it said Chicago Board of Trade.

On the wall leading toward the bedroom, two Van Gogh prints hung next to each other. Bookcases lined up against most of the remaining wall space. Harry was too tired to read any of the titles. A pair of floor lamps, each with dark shades, emitted soft light as they bracketed the sofa while a table lamp, the sort used for reading, rested, unlit, on the small dining table in an alcove off the kitchen. Two potted plants sat in front of the window. The flat had high ceilings, ten, maybe twelve feet high. There was a sculptured crown molding at the top of the walls running the full circumference of each room. That made the rooms, which were actually quite narrow, appear much larger. Harry found the couch a welcome relief. It smelled good too. No one smoked in this place. He was sure of that. He closed his eyes, ready to drift off.

“Before you go to sleep, Harry, tell me where the document is-where you put it. I’ll go pick it up while you rest.”

“It’s safe.”

“I’m sure it is, but where is it?” Harry had an uncomfortable sense, a feeling there was an unfriendly edge to her voice. It bothered him. A lot. He fought to stay awake. Who was this Tucker Poesy anyway?

“Where are you from, Tucker?”

“Where am I from?” she said. Harry was thinking Connecticut, Maryland maybe Virginia. The kind of girl who went to Vassar or Brown. “Lincoln, Nebraska,” she said. That woke him. Lincoln, Nebraska. He’d never been there, not even close, but always assumed Nebraska to be chockfull of chubby, blonde farm girls who, if they went to college at all, went to one of several Midwestern state schools, the ones with 30,000 students, football teams and Veterinary Medicine departments. Either he had a lot to learn or Tucker Poesy was full of shit.

She really was from Lincoln, Nebraska. Subterfuge and deception of this kind-casual conversation-were not weapons in her arsenal. They weren’t called for in her line of work and she wasn’t ready to lie about something as basic as where she was from. She had no immediate sense it might be a good idea. Strictly speaking she was not from Lincoln. She said that because Lincoln was the first place she had her own apartment. She had, in fact, been born and raised in a series of small farming towns throughout Nebraska. Her father was a farmer-not the kind who owns a farm, the sort who gets up early in the morning with the crowing of the rooster and the rising sun, eats a breakfast of scrambled eggs with hot coffee and fresh baked biscuits, kisses his devoted wife goodbye and heads out to the fields for a day’s work. Far from it. Wayne Poesy was a drunk with hardly a penny to his name. He always worked, but never had his own place. Tucker was brought up living from farm to farm, wherever her father was a hired man. Usually, the farmer-the real farmer-rented the Poesys a house as part of the deal. As a kid, Tucker never knew why they moved so frequently. She just knew they did. Wayne was a nasty drunk. His wife, to her credit at least, was a secret, quiet one. While Tucker’s dad drank away the family’s spare dollars, her mother often passed out by nine o’clock from the sheer volume of cheap wine she drank every day. Her father beat her as a child, along with her two older brothers. When she got older, he tried even worse. She fought him off as best she could, but she was a twelve-year-old girl and he was a powerful bully. The smell of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke haunted her still. At eighteen, she left, but not before shooting her father. She used his own. 38, a large, heavy pistol with which she had practiced endlessly in preparation. A single shot struck him in the middle of his forehead. Wayne Poesy was the first person she killed and forever the most satisfying. Her mother knew, and her brothers were fairly certain, but the police never figured it out and probably didn’t care to. Wayne Poesy had few friends.

Murder for hire is not a thriving business in Nebraska, so Tucker moved to Chicago looking for steady work. It wasn’t hard to find. In real life, mobsters don’t live in splendid isolation, surrounded by loyal soldiers. Quite the opposite. Most gangsters are sad, lonely men constantly frightened by any of a series of legitimate causes. In many cases, people really are out to kill them. The paranoid fantasies of regular citizens are the very essence of everyday life for many modern desperados. Calling Tony the hit man for help is hardly a realistic option. He is never just down the hall or a phone call away. That only happens in the movies. Killers are actually hard to find and good ones command top dollar and preferential treatment. It’s a good living. Tucker Poesy found employment in Chicago the same way most people do-she went around looking for an opening and when she found one, asked for the job. Everybody knew who the bad guys were in the city of Chicago. The best part was they were not like corporate vice-presidents. They were easy to see and friendly to talk to. She made the rounds like a would-be actor seeking an audition until one of the black street gangs retained her to kill a white businessman they couldn’t get close to. She didn’t ask why they wanted him dead-none of her business. All she needed was his name and a photo. The next morning, a single shot to the head, fired in a crowded office building lobby, made her reputation.

Nine years later, at 28, Tucker Poesy took an assignment in Europe. She had been many places in the United States. Her first time outside the country, her first time in Europe, was a great, new experience. She liked it there, and stayed. There was plenty of international work to be had. Louis Devereaux found her, by reputation only, two years later. She did a job in Prague the details of which he found hard to believe. Tucker was hired to kill a man thought by his enemies to be untouchable. Previous attempts had all failed miserably. The target, a modern-day Eastern European bandit, was ensconced in a rooftop suite in one of Prague’s newest hotels. He was, according to the information she had been given, constantly accompanied by five bodyguards. She was given bad information. Her target actually had seven bodyguards. No problem. She managed to work around it. Tucker Poesy posed as a bellhop bringing dry cleaning to a guest. She entered the suite holding a suit, on a hanger, wrapped in clear plastic in front of her. Two bodyguards, one poised to take the hanger from her, opened the door. She shot each of them through the suit. The silencer on her Israeli-made. 9mm was so effective even she had a hard time hearing the shots. As she went farther into the suite, she called out, “Housekeeping. Dry cleaning.” She spent more than a week getting those two words right, in the Slovak dialect expected of a hotel employee. Her accent was pretty good. The third bodyguard came from the hallway to meet her. He carried a pistol in a holster slung over his left shoulder, the gun tucked in beneath his armpit. Tucker handed him the suit in a way that required him to react with his right hand. At that point, when he was disabled, no longer free to reach his weapon, she shot him one time in the center of his chest. She expected to find her target, with two remaining bodyguards, in the sitting room at the end of the hall.

When she walked in and saw the man she was hired to kill sitting at a small marble table eating what looked to be sausage and vegetables, she also saw the other four men. She calculated immediately. Her handgun held nine shots. Three were already gone. With six remaining bullets she had to hit five targets. She was certain all of them would be in motion as soon as she showed her hand. She decided to leave her primary target for last. He was stuffing his face with food and appeared unarmed. She needed to hit four men before any of them struck back. Three of them were standing and from the positions they occupied in reference to herself, she decided two would peel off to her right and the third to her left. The fourth man was sitting and had his back to her. He could wait. He would be the last bodyguard. In less time than it took to cough up a tiny piece of sausage swallowed the wrong way, she shot all three standing bodyguards. They had moved exactly as she thought they would. The fourth man was slow to react. He turned to see what was going on without pulling his gun out. She shot him in the top of his skull while bounding past the fallen bodies, approaching the target. She had two bullets left. Her instructions were to make this death as painful as possible. She didn’t care much for orders like that, but her client added twenty-five thousand dollars for her trouble. She felt honor bound to comply. The fat man, with food still in mouth, couldn’t get up. He was frozen to the spot. His eyes were the size of tennis balls, filled with dread. Tucker reached over the table and fired a shot into his huge gut. The man tumbled out of his chair onto the floor grabbing his midsection, moaning. She didn’t like that at all, twenty-five thousand or not, and fired her eighth shot into the back of his head. After dropping the dry-cleaned suit on the floor, she retraced her steps to the Housekeeping Department, removed her uniform and put her own clothes back on, then took the elevator to the hotel lobby, went to the bar and had a glass of cold Chardonnay before leaving for the airport. Soon thereafter, Louis Devereaux called to offer fulltime employment at a level of income she would have had a difficult time reaching on her own. She could base herself in any European capital she wished. She chose London, where Devereaux established her public relations company as a permanent cover. When she went to pick up Harry Levine, she had been working for Devereaux’s rouge CIA unit for almost three years. She had never been happier.

“We need the document,” she said. “Mr. Devereaux wants it right away. Do you want to go with me to get it, or should I go alone? What do you think, Harry?”

“I’ll take you,” said Harry. “Just let me sleep a half hour, okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Close your eyes. But listen for the stove. Water’s boiling. I’m going to use the toilet for a second.”

“I will,” Harry said. “When the water’s ready, I’ll pour.”

Tucker Poesy kicked off her shoes and made for the bathroom down the hall across from the bedroom. As soon as she closed the door, Harry rose from the couch, grabbed his coat, which covered hers on the hook next to the front door and, closing the door slowly and silently behind him, quietly slipped out of the flat. Out on the street, he ran as fast as he could.

The whistle of the kettle on the stove got her attention. “Fuck!” said Tucker Poesy when she came out of the bathroom and saw Harry was gone. “Fuck!” She picked up her phone and made a call to Louis Devereaux in Washington. She told him exactly what happened, how she met Harry, where they went and what they talked about. She was not shy about telling Devereaux she fucked up by going to the bathroom, leaving him by himself. “I had no idea he was suspicious,” she said. “How am I going to find him now?”

“You won’t,” said Devereaux. “But you won’t have to. I know who will. What you’ll do is follow him. He’ll lead you to Harry Levine. His name is Walter Sherman.”

“Who’s he?”

“Someone I never thought you-or I-would ever get to meet. The Locator himself. Watch yourself, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll send you everything you need on Sherman. Pick it up from the Indian in an hour. When Sherman leaves for Europe, which he’ll have to do, I’ll let you know. It might take a day or two. Don’t screw it up again.”

He met her in 1988. In January, in New Orleans. She was there for a concert at the Superdome when he called. He flew down from Washington hoping his hometown would be warmer. He arrived on the coldest day of the winter, the temperature near freezing and a stiff breeze blowing in from Texas making it feel just as cold as Washington, D.C., worse yet for the disappointment. Conchita Crystal was staying at The Maison de Ville in the French Quarter. In those days, international terrorism was hardly a matter for public discussion. Although its roots have always been ideological, in 1988 terrorism was mainly thought of as a for-profit business that crossed national boarders. Few even used the word terrorism. Hijackers, kidnappers, thieves, even bandits were some of the common descriptions. From time to time reports crossed Devereaux’s desk about thieves and killers whose activities appeared to have political connections. Some probably did. Some didn’t. It was not a high priority concern for him or anyone else at Langley. In the main, his task was to review the reports for political and historical import and accuracy. As far as he knew, none of the activities he examined had ever been the cause of a CIA reaction on the ground. Using the resources at their command, the CIA was able to enlist others to do their work for them when called for. Devereaux knew of one such action involving the local police in Frankfurt, Germany and Istanbul, Turkey. The culprits were rounded up, shipped off to jail and the problem solved. To the best of his knowledge, there had never been a valid event in the United States.

The information that came to his attention right after New Year’s 1988 changed that. For the tiny leadership group with access to this operation, the Conchita Crystal Affair would mark the beginning of Islamic terrorism aimed at the United States. No one at headquarters wanted to broaden the scope of it or bring into the picture new people. Keeping things close was a religion at the CIA and Louis Devereaux, while not yet a Cardinal, was every bit a senior Archbishop. It was left to him to deal with Ms. Crystal.

She was expecting him. He called her the day before. She was impressed that he could get right to her, past all the interference put in place to make that very thing impossible. He explained briefly who he was and that he needed to see her immediately. He did not give her any details. Then he went to the airport and flew to New Orleans. When she answered the knock on the door of her cottage, Devereaux introduced himself and said, “Let’s talk in the courtyard. You never know how much privacy you have in a room.”

“It’s beautiful there, Mr. Devereaux, but it’s-”

“Cold. I know. Put on a jacket or a coat. If you don’t have one we’ll get you one. But we’ll talk outside.”

Of course she had a coat. He knew she would. She got it and they walked to the courtyard and sat at a small table near the center. It was beautiful and it was cold. It was late in the morning, too late for breakfast, and they were the only ones there.

“On a nice day this place would be crowded,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

“I’m surprised you’re staying here,” said Devereaux. “I would have thought-”

“My people are at the Hilton,” she smiled. “We all have people, don’t we?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But you probably don’t have to make hotel reservations for yours, do you? I like this hotel. I’ll show you around when we’re done.”

“Thanks. I’d like that. I’ve always been partial to the Vieux Carre. You know, Ms. Crystal, some say the Maison de Ville and its cottages are the oldest structures in New Orleans. This courtyard, for instance, was first built after the terrible fire of 1786. Tell me, if you don’t mind, why are you staying in a two-bedroom cottage instead of a suite?”

“I like the room,” she said. “You’re a fountain of information about this hotel, aren’t you? What else can you tell me? You’ve stayed here before, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t. But I can tell you that Tennessee Williams did. He used to stay here all the time. He wrote Streetcar over there in room number nine.”

She looked at him, waiting for the other shoe. “And?” she said.

“And, when I’m in New Orleans, which is not as often as I’d like, I stay at home.” He smiled at her. It was a way of showing he was a friend. “You haven’t answered my question-the cottage, not the suite?” This time it was Chita who smiled. “And?” prompted Devereaux.

“And, who knows,” she replied. “You never know when you’ll need the room. I might have a friend stay over.”

“In the other bedroom?”

“Sure,” said the mega-star Chita Crystal. “I’m a married woman, if you didn’t know.”

“Separated, I believe. Divorce papers ready to file any day.”

“You know a lot. That’s not public and hasn’t been leaked either.”

“Yes, I do Ms. Crystal. I know things other people don’t. That’s why I’m here.”

She took it well. No histrionics. No melodrama. Devereaux laid it out for her. A group of radical Muslims, headquartered out of Yemen, had plans to kidnap certain celebrities. Currently they had a short list, one name-hers. It was also a small group, a group with no record of activity in the past, but the information was first-rate and the concern heightened by the fact that they had been unable to take out these people in an operation staged three days earlier. Devereaux told her he was seriously concerned she might be a target right now. “I believe you are in immediate jeopardy,” he said.

“What do they want with me?”

“They want to behead you.” That got Devereaux a reaction, just the reaction he wanted if she was going to cooperate. She stopped breathing and the color in her face-her beautiful, brown-skinned face-went to white. It was really the first time Devereaux allowed himself to think about how lovely Chita Crystal was. “They want to attack the symbols of Western culture. No one fits that description better than you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You’ll have to cancel your concert. Say you’re ill. We have the medical records to prove it if necessary. We would like to put you up someplace until we get this thing under control.”

“Where?”

“Delaware. The house belongs to us. It’s clear for fifty acres. Absolutely safe. We’ve used it before. And the facilities are magnificent. You will not be unhappy there.”

“Who will be there with me?”

“Staff.”

“What staff?”

“My staff.”

“How long will I be there?”

“I don’t know. Not long. A few days. A week, maybe two. Not long.”

That was how they met. Chita stayed in Delaware for eleven days. Devereaux came to see her every day. They talked, sometimes for hours. He didn’t have to be there and she soon realized that. He wanted to be near her, with her. Many men had the same desire. She was used to dealing with that. Since she was fifteen, men offered to take care of Chita Crystal. She’d made some mistakes along the way. Her second marriage was about to go bust and she was not yet thirty years old. An army of men waited for her. Louis Devereaux was different. His protection was real, as real as the threat. And on the eleventh day, he came to tell her the people who wanted to cut her head off were all dead themselves. She was safe to go. Louis Devereaux had killed for her. That was a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac. It was Chita who first reached out to hold him, to bring him close to her. Louis Devereaux was as ready as any man would be. Their affair began that afternoon.

Few people knew it, but kick-ass rock ’n’ roll was Devereaux’s favorite. Allman Brothers, Bob Seger-he was especially fond of The Band, a little softer sound, but nothing he ever heard compared to “The Weight,” done live. Because The Band was so closely connected to Bob Dylan, a lot of people thought “The Weight” had religious overtones. Devereaux, however, knew it was only about a trip to Nazareth, Pennsylvania, home of the world-famous Martin guitar company. Many times, over many years, he sang along with that recording. The opening chords repeating and repeating in his head were often impossible to silence, sometimes even while he was in the midst of the most important meetings. After awhile, he no longer fought it.

Pulled into Nazareth/was feeling ’bout half-past dead

Now, all these years later, he was singing a familiar duet with Robbie Robertson, as he fixed a small plate of cheese and crackers.

AND, AND, AND-put the load right on me

The two glasses of ice-cold Chardonnay sat next to him on the counter, ready to go. A minute later he put his tray down next to the bed.

“You think of everything, Louis.”

“For you, my dear, everything is hardly enough. I’d give you the Earth and the stars, if I could. You’d take it too.”

“You can’t?”

They both laughed, neither sure of the answer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, watching her reach over to pick up a glass of wine. The bed sheet, which was the only thing left on the bed, caught a gust of air as Chita sat up, and floated away, dropping to the floor. She looked at Devereaux and saw in his eyes what she had never seen in the eyes of any other man. No matter what happened to her, nothing muted Louis’ self-confidence. It wasn’t that her own accomplishments were less. How could anyone question her success? It was just that his were more. She was a figment of popular culture, marketing, advertising, promotion. He was a man of substance, a man who knew not only how the world turned, but a man who guided its spin. He was a man who killed for her. Who else had done that? Who else could have?

She recalled the story of Marilyn Monroe, when she was Mrs. Joe DiMaggio. Marilyn had returned from a USO tour, visiting the troops in far-off Korea. Her head was still buzzing from the fantastic reception she received. “Joe!” she cried, all excited. “There were twenty-five thousand men, all screaming and cheering for me. Can you imagine what that’s like?” No wonder DiMaggio beat her. Chita would never make that mistake with Louis Devereaux. It could never happen. Whatever the facade of her celebrity, he wore power-real power-and it fit him like a comfortable bathrobe after a clean shave and a hot shower.

“Come over here,” she said, without speaking a word. As he leaned toward her, she reached up holding his face in both hands. “Think you can-do it again?” she asked with a little laugh. “Or does a man like you need a few minutes more?” Louis Devereaux gently placed his wine glass on the end table next to the bed, lay down and rolled over grabbing and twisting her until she sat on top of him. Nothing pleased him as much as looking up at her, this way, her breasts only inches away from his mouth, her smile his only blanket.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” he said.

“Will we find the gold? Is it really there?” she asked.

“It’s there. Worry not, my sweet.”

The Mercure de Draak, in Bergen op Zoom, overlooks the Grote Market square. It is the oldest hotel in the Netherlands. The first guest slept there-in which of the three fourteenth-century buildings was long forgotten-in 1397. By the time Harry Levine arrived, more than 600 years later, the place had been renovated. They kept the original facades, but the ancient houses, once only attached to each other, had been combined, their interiors long ago joined together. The entire hotel, in its newest transformation, was furnished in a seventeenth-century motif. Antiques, stylized wallpapers, luxuriously displayed flower arrangements, all highlighted by meticulously selected period furniture, decorated the rooms as well as the common areas. It was still a small hotel, with only 50 rooms, a cozy bar and a small restaurant. The traditional Dutch breakfast of coffee, cheese, ham and breads was served downstairs each morning. Somewhere along the way-no one could say in exactly which century-hard-boiled eggs and orange juice joined the menu.

Bergen op Zoom had not only a wonderful name, one that rolled off the tongue like Dutch chocolate melting in your mouth, it had something else for Harry Levine. It was Roswell, Georgia’s sister city. The alliance between the two small towns, a continent and an ocean apart, had been but a curiosity to him before. Sister city associations were purely symbolic. The suburb of Atlanta had nothing meaningful in common with its Dutch sister. But after escaping Tucker Poesy, Harry needed to go somewhere. He wanted nothing as much as he wanted to go home, to Roswell. That was, of course, out of the question. The flight was too long. He was certain to be discovered before he landed. He needed to go straight to the airport and fly somewhere, quickly. So he did the first thing he could think of. He flew to Amsterdam, took a train about an hour and a half south, beyond Rotterdam, to Bergen op Zoom. He checked into a hotel, and following a good seven-hour sleep and a hot shower, he called his aunt.

“Tia Chita, estoy tan alegre hablar con usted.”

“?Donde esta usted?” she said. “Soy asi que preocupado.?Esta usted bien?” Conchita Crystal looked around the suite. Harry had called her cell phone and she was not alone. After a night with Devereaux, she traveled on to New York. One of her agents, the one she used to negotiate advertising endorsements, was in the living room of her Plaza Hotel accommodations. He brought three of his assistants with him. She had a week of meetings scheduled with a series of different people and since she hated going out, dodging crowds and press, especially in New York, she had taken a large suite and told everyone to come to her. She had the living room, where she could handle her business affairs quite comfortably, a formal dining room that could easily host dinner for twelve, a full kitchen and two bedrooms, across from each other, down a hall. One was for her and the other was left empty. She was told, when she made the reservation herself, using the name Linda Morales, if she wanted the big suite overlooking Central Park, she had to take one with two bedrooms. The one-bedroom suites were simply too small. When Harry called, she excused herself, walked down the hallway and into her bedroom closing two sets of doors behind her.

“Are you there, Harry?” she said, this time in English.

“I’m still here,” he said.

“Where?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t tell you. It may be dangerous for you to know.”

“Let me worry about that. Where are you?”

“It’s better you don’t know,” said Harry.

“Are you still in London, Harry?”

“No, I’m not. I just wanted you to know I’m all right. Tell aunt Sadie. She worries, you know.”

“I’ll let her know,” said his Aunt Chita. “Wherever you are, are you safe there?”

“I think so. I hope so. This whole thing is crazy. Even people who are supposed to help me seem like they’re not. I can’t figure out why this is happening.”

“You have something,” she said, “something important. Something a lot of people don’t want revealed.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve been reading it. I can’t tell you. .. it’s not safe for you to know anything. People have been murdered, Tia Chita. Is it worth killing for?”

“Apparently so, Harry. Don’t worry about me. My concern is your safety. I want you to listen to me carefully. Do you understand? ?Comprende?”

“Si.”

“Bueno.” His aunt told Harry she had contacted somebody who would help him, someone who would take him to a place where he would be absolutely safe. “Su nombre es Walter Sherman. Confielo en.?Confielo en solamente!”

“Chita, don’t try to help me. Not now. I’ll be just fine. I know what I’m doing.” Harry’s aunt didn’t know he was under orders from the President of the United States. He thought better about telling her that. “Don’t send someone after me. He won’t find me.”

“Yes he will,” she answered, sounding very much like his mother. “And when he does, trust in him. Trust only in him. Do you hear me, Harry?”

“I will,” said Harry. “I will trust him and only him. I promise.” Then he added, with a tremble in his voice that brought tears of joy to his aunt’s eyes, “I love you, Aunt Chita.”

“El dios este con usted, mi Harry querido.”

When the gentle winds come rolling in off the sea, early in the morning, a sweet breeze blows through Billy’s. Helen brought Walter the usual, a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Of course, he drank a Diet Coke. The New York Times was waiting for him. When the paper arrived on St. John, brought over on the early ferry from St. Thomas, the first place they took it was across the square to Billy’s. It’s a small island. Everyone knows everyone else and everyone knows Walter Sherman liked to read The New York Times with his breakfast.

Helen was playing with the CDs. Billy needed to hear music. He was the kind of man who turns on a radio when he enters a bathroom, and when he walks into the kitchen first thing in the morning. He hadn’t been in a car without music playing since he was a teenager. He had the place wired for sound. In the back, in a small office behind the kitchen, he had a whole bookcase stacked with CDs. Usually, he brought a dozen or so out to the bar. He’d play them, one after another, until he went through them all. Then he would get a new batch. Neither Walter nor Ike ever intruded on Billy’s selection. His taste covered all kinds of music and they rather liked the element of surprise. Who knew what Billy would play next? Van Morrison, Rosemary Clooney, Monk or Miles Davis. These days Helen shared this part of Billy’s life as well. It was just as likely what you heard was her choice as his. Walter watched her tinker with the machinery. When she finished and walked away, the plaintive cry of James Brown, The Godfather of Soul, The Hardest Working Man in Show Business, called out to him, demanding and receiving Walter’s complete and willing agreement. Isn’t that the truth, he thought.

“It’s a man’s world. It’s a man’s world.

But it wouldn’t be nothing. Nothing

Without a woman or a girl.”

“You ever drink coffee?” Helen asked him.

“I used to,” Walter said. “Sometimes I still do, as a sort of dessert with dinner. But hardly ever in the morning. Not anymore.” She shook her head and made her way back to the kitchen. Billy was already back there, busy checking the fresh fish-red snapper, grouper, tuna-that had come in less than fifteen minutes before.

No one was at the bar. Ike had yet to show up. Walter’s cell phone rang. He reached into his shirt pocket, flipped it open and said, “Yes.”

“He called me, Walter. I just spoke to him. I gave him your name, but he wouldn’t tell me where he is. He’s not in London anymore. He said that. But where he is, I don’t know. Go, find him, please! Where can he be?”

“Chita, calm down now. I think I know where he may be. Don’t worry. I’ll find him.” Walter found it very strange and unsettling saying this to a client, even Conchita Crystal. Reassurance was not part of the deal. Sympathy and concern were not included with his services. Personal involvement was the worst of all sins. Caring for either the target or the client frightened Walter. Detachment was essential to his success, or so he believed for forty years. Nevertheless, he said, “I’m going to go get him. It’ll be all right. I promise you.”

“When will you leave?” she asked.

“Soon,” he said. “Soon as possible. I have to start earning my twenty-five dollars a day, don’t I?” He thought he heard a small sob on the other end of the phone.

“What twenty-five…?” she said, clearing her throat and sniffling. She was crying, thought Walter.

“I rented it. We can do that, even here, in the middle of…”

“Nowhere?”

“Middle of nowhere, that’s right. The Big Sleep. I’m taller than Bogart, you know. Have a better tan too. And you don’t look a thing like Lauren Bacall.”

“Oh, now you hurt my feelings, Walter.” He knew it couldn’t be done, but he was thrilled to hear her say so.

“You’re more beautiful than she was,” he blurted out, instantly feeling a flush on the back of his neck, a heat rash that ran at breakneck speed all across his face. Was I out of line? he worried.

“Muchos gracias, senor.”

“De nada.”

“You still talking with that Chita Crystal,” said Ike. Walter looked up to see the old man sitting at his regular table. Grandson Johnson had dropped him off at the curb. It wasn’t a question Ike asked, even though it may have sounded like one. And Ike pronounced her last name like it was just another piece of glass. His grandson Johnson-called Sonny by just about everyone who knew him-helped Ike make the short walk from Sonny’s jeep to the table in Billy’s that was as much the old man’s home as the house he slept in. When Ike was settled in, Sonny kissed him on the top of his bald head, smiled and saluted in Walter’s direction, then took off. “Nice boy,” Ike said. “Real nice boy.”

“You are correct, old man. On both counts. Sonny’s a good boy, and that was the woman herself on the phone.”

“Too bad you ain’t thirty years younger.”

“Thirty years? How old do you think she is? She’s in her forties, Ike.”

“Forties, huh? Well then, it’s too bad I ain’t thirty years younger.” With that pronouncement, he pulled a baseball cap out of the small bag he always carried. This one was a wrinkled, yellow hat, one Walter did not remember seeing before. On the front was a faded logo, a multicolored cartoon drawing Walter quickly recognized as a depiction of the Jackson Five-the Jackson Five when Michael was still Michael.

“Nice hat,” he said.

“1984, Jacksonville, Florida. Victory Tour,” said Ike, adjusting the hat to keep the morning sun out of his eyes.

“Florida? Who’s victory?” asked Billy bursting into the bar from his kitchen, through the swinging door next to the large fan a few feet from where Walter sat on the second to last barstool. Billy carried a large bowl of hard-boiled eggs in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The eggs were for customers. The coffee was his. “What about it?” he asked.

“1984,” Ike said. “A good year. A good year, maybe not the best, but a good one. No, not the best.”

“So,” said Billy. “What was the best?”

“1937,” said Ike, without hesitation, lighting up another cigarette with a long wooden match, giving up a little cough, not much of one this time, more like clearing your throat when you’ve swallowed the wrong way than anything serious. “That was the year I noticed Sissy,” he said. “Really noticed her, you know. Of course, we knew each other since we was kids, but 1937-that’s when I first looked at her, saw how beautiful she was. She’d come into a room, a room like this one-of course we didn’t go to no bars or restaurants back then when we were in our teens still-but she’d walk in, wherever it was, and the whole place would light up. It was like the sun broke through the clouds after a hard rain. Like the sky opened up. You know what I’m saying? All bright and clean and good. Sixteen years old. 1937.” He said it one more time. “1937.”

“Well,” Billy spoke up. “I think the best year is this one-right now. You’re damned right that’s what I think. Right now.”

“Here’s to you, Billy,” said Ike. “It’s a lucky man who thinks right now is his best time.” He dragged on his cigarette and it appeared he made no effort to blow the smoke anywhere. It just sort of slithered out of his mouth and nose. As if moved by an unseen hand, the smoke was carried on the wind in the direction where Billy stood behind the bar. It floated to him in big, slow, hazy blue ripples.

“Don’t blow that shit in here!” Billy yelled. Then he looked down the bar to Walter. “Walter. Stop eating. Put down that paper and tell us what year was your best year. Come on.” Ike looked at Walter too. Both he and Billy waited.

“Next year,” Walter said, without putting down either his fork or his newspaper.

“Bullshit!” cried Billy.

“That’s what you hope,” said Ike. “That’s what we all hope. But that don’t count for the purposes of this conversation. We’re talking about a year gone by, and we ain’t quitting till you say one.”

“I can’t…”

“Come on, Walter!” demanded Billy.

“You got to have one,” said Ike, although from the sound of Walter’s voice he certainly sensed there might be no response from his friend. Not on this one.

Walter said, “I can’t do it. I can’t.”

“Leave the man alone,” Helen ordered. She had been standing there all along, unnoticed. “Let him be.”

Billy grumbled and Ike may have said something too, under his breath, but whatever it was Walter couldn’t make it out.

“I’m writing it up. I don’t give a shit,” Billy proclaimed. He looked to Ike for approval or encouragement or something. The old man, his upper body now completely covered in smoke that drifted with the changing breeze in a new direction, off into the square, nodded affirmatively. That was all Billy needed. He grabbed the chunk of blue chalk next to the register and scribbled on the blackboard: 1937/Right Now/None.

“ None,” he scoffed.

“I vote for ‘Right Now,’ ” said Helen, giving Billy a pat on his ass as she made her way back to the kitchen, singing, “It’s a man’s world…”

Sadie Fagan had told him. It took awhile to connect the dots, but now he knew. She told him. Walter had always worked deliberately, not in haste, but fast enough to suit him. He liked to get all the information he could, then it was his preference to return to St. John, sit out on his deck and follow the shafts of sunlight streaking down between the clouds blowing in over St. Thomas, watching as sun and sea danced together. His gaze followed the sailboats plying the narrow channels between the empty, off-shore islands. Alone on his deck, in a wicker chair at the covered table, usually with a cold drink in his hands, he would fit the pieces of the puzzle together. The solution, the picture to be laid out before his eyes, would tell him where to go next. It always had.

Sadie said it. “He’ll come right here. Home.” Walter had asked her, straight out, after she’d been talking about her nephew for a half-hour or more. “Where would he go,” he asked, “if he was really in trouble?” Home is what she told him, without hesitation. Walter knew what she had told him was important. He had only to figure out why. For Harry Levine, home was out of the question.

While eating breakfast the following day, Walter found himself asking-where was it that Harry Levine could go to get closest to Roswell, Georgia? The closest, without actually going home? And then he remembered. Sadie Fagan had told him. In her detailed, often charming history of her family’s life in the suburbs of Atlanta, she mentioned that Roswell, Georgia, had, like so many small towns and cities in America, adopted a sister city in Europe. Since Walter never took notes, he had nothing to refresh his memory. But he didn’t need any help. He remembered the name, partly because that’s what he did-he remembered things-but mostly because it was unique, interesting, quite literally unforgettable- Bergen op Zoom. He wasn’t sure what it meant, and made a mental note to look into it. Bergen op Zoom was another piece of information. Perhaps it fit. Perhaps it didn’t. He checked it out as he did everything else he judged might be important. For this, he called his old friend, Aat van de Steen, in Amsterdam. Aat and Walter went back a long way-to Vientiane, 1971. To the Yao.

Vientiane was not a party town. That was Walter’s first impression. It was nothing like Saigon. The capital city of Laos, unlike the capital of Vietnam, was not filled with tens of thousands of twenty-year-old Americans-thirsty, horny, heavily armed and scared shitless. Walter’s Saigon was a city electric in its madness, a plastic conceit of glitzy bright lights and sparkling colors, gold and blue, yellow and blood red. Saigon was all about sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll and death. Violence was the universal language. People got killed there every day. Many American soldiers came to Saigon, moved out to fight in the steamy jungles filled with thatched-roof huts, grouped together in tiny villages, and they never came back. New meat arrived. Saigon carried on. Vientiane, however, was quiet, reserved, an ancient city, a place where people were comfortable with intermittent water and power and almost no telephones at all. Traffic consisted of an occasional car or bus. People walked and never seemed to be in a hurry. It was a city of dark colors, all greens and maroons, purple and black. While all roads in Vietnam led to Saigon, there were no roads in Laos.

Vientiane lay along the Mekong River in a valley of sweet-smelling flowers, cooling rains and warm breezes, blessed for centuries with solitude and isolation. Free and peaceful Thailand, once the hated warrior kingdom of Siam, was on the far bank of the river. Nearly two centuries ago, a Siamese army crossed the river and turned Vientiane to rubble. The city was burned to the ground. Laotians were slow to forgive and forget. They still viewed Thailand with suspicion. In the twentieth century, Vientiane received plenty of foreigners. They were almost all French, mostly middle-aged, most of them fluent in Lao and one or more of the various other languages spoken in that exotic part of Southeast Asia. A far cry from the Americans in Vietnam. They were unwelcome visitors, crude, cruel temporary conquerors. The French lived in Indochina. If they were not quite the equal of the British, born and raised in India in the nineteenth century-never having set foot on English soil-they were close enough. Many of the Indochinese French, especially after a few glasses of wine from the home country, fancied themselves more Asian than European. After all, they owned Laos-or thought they did. Walter liked Vientiane from the moment he arrived there in the spring of 1971.

The airport at Vientiane was not the worst Walter had ever seen but it was near the top of any such list. The tower, such as it was, identified his Southern Air flight as one coming in from Burma. Actually, it had been a quick and easy trip from Saigon. He left at 06:30 and was in his hotel in Vientiane in time for breakfast. His passport and other papers said he was Fred Russo, an American engineer from Chicago. Quite an irony, he thought. Freddy Russo.

His mission in Laos was simple. Weren’t they all? This time he was to find a Dutchman named Aat van de Steen. They didn’t tell him why. Just find him, they said, and bring back any message the Dutchman wished to transmit-whatever the hell that meant. Van de Steen could be found, they told Walter, with the Yao. The problem, of course, was no one had any idea where the Yao were. “They’re in Laos,” the Colonel said. “Somewhere in fucking Laos.” Walter had three days to prepare. The Colonel said, “We’ll put you in wherever you want. Just tell us where.” On the second day Walter told him. “Get me into Vientiane,” he said.

There were inhabitants in Laos as early as the fourth century, or so Walter had read. The modern history of the small nation began somewhere between 1349 and 1353, depending on who you believed, when the Emperor Fa Ngum founded the landlocked kingdom he called Lang Xang- Land of a Million Elephants. Walter could not wait to see them-the elephants. The Yao had come to Laos some time later, drifting south, migrating from China, desperately looking for some place to live safely. They eventually found their happiness in the Laotian highlands. They settled in and were still there more than half a millennium later. They brought with them a peaceful culture of literacy, scholarship, agriculture and religious intellect. It was a way of life they protected and nourished in their new land. They spoke an almost unknown language, Mian, but the material Walter read about them said they also spoke Lao, Khum and Hmong Njua, the three most common languages of Laos. They were an educated people. Walter hoped some of them also spoke English. When they first arrived, the Yao were few in number. As the centuries passed, they showed no evident desire to expand the size of their tribe. In fact, they did their best to prevent growth. They felt there was safety in numbers-small numbers-and they taught their children accordingly. Among the peoples of Laos-the Lao Loum, Lao Theung and the Yao-the Yao were the tiniest minority.

Walter figured that’s why nobody at Headquarters Company had any idea where they might be. It was clear to him, even in the limited time he had to prepare for this mission, that the ancient Yao had been right. For a mountain people, the fewer of them there were, the more effective was their defense. Their Chinese persecutors did not follow them to Laos. New enemies found them elusive and soon turned to other pursuits, easier prey. The Yao stayed to themselves. Farmers mostly, they were a proud and stable people, firmly rooted in the central highlands for six centuries. Unfortunately for their would-be handlers in the CIA and the U.S. Army, they were damn hard to find.

By 1970, the Central Intelligence Agency had more than thirty case officers actively engaged in Laos. Back in Washington the joke was they had an unlimited budget and had already overspent it. The central tenet of the American CIA was that everybody had a price-no exceptions. Anyone could be bought, even an ancient people like the Yao. Somewhere within that tribe someone in authority would be tempted by the assorted pleasures available in and from the most modern, most powerful civilization on Earth, the United States of America. They were sure this was so because it was true everywhere else in the world. The CIA circled the globe carrying bags of money. The list of their collaborators seemed endless. Had they any doubt at all about the Yao, they had only to look at their success with the Hmong, Laos’ largest ethnic tribal group. To the folks at Langley, the Hmong appeared every bit as backward as the Yao and far more numerous. Their economy centered around opium, and while the Hmong were more sellers and refiners than growers, their fortunes rose and fell with the poppy. To enlist the Hmong in the American battle with North Vietnam, part of the epic struggle to defeat worldwide communist expansion, the CIA was happy to set up shop in the heroin trade. Since the poppy was the cash crop of the Yao, they were certain this tribe of savages would be just as eager for American help as the Hmong had been. If only they could find them. That’s where the Dutchman came in.

Aat van de Steen was an up-and-coming gunrunner. He’d made a few deals in Eastern Europe. According to CIA information, van de Steen had sold weapons to rebels in Georgia and Estonia, and had, as well, provided the Soviets with artillery pieces they dearly sought, artillery made in the United States. Although he was a kid, a youngster still in his twenties, the Dutchman had shown a high degree of skill and a big set of balls. More than once his name was mentioned in important circles in tones of respect. “Jesus Christ,” one Agency Deputy Director had remarked in disbelief. “This kid sold stuff to the Chechens and the Russians at the same time and lived to tell about it?”

At twenty-three, Aat van de Steen got his first contract in Laos. The deal came to him in Indonesia but had really been brokered in Washington. His job was to get to the Yao, determine their needs and capabilities with respect to weapons and report his findings to his Indonesian client. On his end, he would serve as sole supplier for those weapons. His contacts in Indonesia made it plain they had no strong interest in haggling over price. Whatever the Yao could effectively use, van de Steen would see they got it. The cost would be paid, in U.S. dollars, in advance, in Amsterdam. Aat van de Steen was a smart kid. He must have known the money was coming from the CIA. So what. He’d worked before under circumstances where his real client remained masked. And the CIA could not have cared less. Discretion was never a big concern with them. Within the agency was the world’s biggest denial apparatus. A strapping colossus, it came complete with the world’s biggest budget. With all that money, there was nothing they could not effectively deny. Thus, they felt little or no fear of disclosure.

Van de Steen made his way to Laos, traveled inland to the central highlands in search of the Yao and hadn’t been heard from since. The Indonesians were getting jumpy. The CIA waited and wasn’t happy about it. Some back in Langley wrote the young Dutchman off. Dead, they figured. Killed by the Yao, the Hmong, the snakes-who the hell knows what. More than a month had passed. Then they heard, from one of the Hmong commanders in the area, that a white man fitting van de Steen’s description had been seen in the company of some Yao tribesmen. News of the sighting was only days old. None of the CIA people in country had ever seen or talked to the Yao. Sure, they were in the mountains, but who had any idea where? No one in Vientiane or Washington. No one from the CIA would go looking. “This ain’t Viva Zapata,” one of them said. Someone had heard about a man called The Locator, an Army sergeant in Saigon, and what they heard about him was quite amazing. The word went out. Hours later Walter Sherman was summoned. Three days after that he was enjoying a nap after breakfast in an elegant, old hotel in the middle of Vientiane.

Aat would do anything he could to help his friend, no matter what, no questions asked. A dozen years after Vientiane, Walter had located Aat’s brother who panicked and ran from an unpaid gambling debt. It hadn’t occurred to Jan van de Steen that his brother’s reputation alone protected him from any real harm. Three weeks after he fled Holland, Walter found him in Canada, returned him to his brother’s care and into the arms of his grateful wife and children. Walter refused to take a fee, even expenses. “We’re friends,” was all he said to Aat. And now Walter asked the Dutchman for a favor-check out Bergen op Zoom to see if Harry Levine was there. Walter gave his friend no details, no reason, no explanation. These things were not required. Van de Steen said he would call back when he knew something. When he did, less than an hour later, he laughed. Harry Levine had indeed gone to Bergen op Zoom and-this is what Aat van de Steen found so funny-he registered at a hotel under his own name. Walter thanked him and said, “Aat, I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Ik zal je meenemen naar Yab Yum dan krjg je de beurt van je leven!” said the Dutchman. “How wonderful it will be, my friend.” Walter looked at the phone in his hand and chuckled. He understood nothing van de Steen said, but he had heard of the Yab Yum, the most elegant and expensive of Holland’s brothels.

Late that same afternoon, Walter left Billy’s, rode the ferry over to the Rock and flew from St. Thomas to New York, where he boarded a Lufthansa flight to Amsterdam, with a stop at Frankfurt. He slept most of the way across the Atlantic. He liked Lufthansa’s Business Class. He’d flown it before. They let you sleep unless you specifically asked to be awakened. Unlike so many other carriers, that practically insisted you partake of each and every service offered with your $12,000 round trip, the Germans were content to let you spend five-hundred bucks an hour to sleep. In his younger days, there had been a time when Walter was a terrified flyer. Back then, he couldn’t help it. He always considered the serious possibility of a fiery crash, ending, naturally, in his own death. Before he met Gloria, such thoughts afflicted him whenever he boarded a commercial flight. In his opinion every plane he got on could quite easily go down. One time, he flew from Detroit to Chicago on an airplane that also had onboard the entire Detroit Pistons basketball team. It was a short flight, not much more than a half-hour in the air, and the weather was perfect. But for the whole way he pictured the headlines in the next day’s Chicago Tribune: Detroit Pistons Die in Plane Crash. Buried deep in the story, he saw the sentence: Among the dead was an unidentified man. It was strange, he thought, he never once worried about flying in an open helicopter in Vietnam, with bullets and rockets whizzing by all around him. But once he headed into the Friendly Skies, the worst-case scenario came immediately to mind. As time went by, he lost that fear. Once, he even helped Gloria to fly comfortably, and she was as scared a flyer as ever bought a ticket. Now, only the tiniest remnant of his fear of flying remained.

No matter how he felt about his flight, landing at Schiphol, Amsterdam’s airport, was always a pleasant event. There were some airports-they were everywhere it seemed-where the landing pattern required a corkscrew approach to a runway devilishly nestled between jagged mountain peaks. He still hated that. Schiphol, on the other hand, was in a country that didn’t appear to have a hill more than ten or fifteen feet high anywhere. The airport had once been a lake. The Dutch drained it, at the beginning of the twentieth century, constructing a complicated pattern of small canals, irrigation ditches and pumping stations that spread for miles. Land reclamation was a high art in the Netherlands and Schiphol provided a canvas the whole world could admire. The lakebed, dry as it could be, at first became a military base. It was turned into a wartime airport during World War One. Because, in truth, it was little more than a mud field, French pilots who never liked it at all called it Schiphol-les-bains. The name stuck for many years until state-of-the-art renovation made it suitable for the modern fleets of passenger jets and prepared Schiphol Airport to become the busiest in Europe.

What with the change in time zones from America to Europe, turning one day into another just by, arbitrarily it seemed, skipping the night, plus Dutch Customs being very touchy in the midst of continued terrorist threats, and then a change of trains in Rotterdam, it wasn’t until late afternoon, technically the next day in Holland, that Walter arrived in Bergen op Zoom. Door-to-door, the trip had taken more than 30 hours. Despite sleeping across the Atlantic, he was tired, but he had work to do and no time for rest. There weren’t many hotels to stay in. Aat had told Walter he found him at the first place he looked. Walter was not surprised. Harry Levine was no different from the rich kids who ran away from Houston or Kansas City or wherever their parents lived, to New York City. They always took a room at The Plaza. Maybe figuring that Harry Levine would go to Bergen op Zoom wasn’t easy, but once done, finding him there was child’s play.

At the Mercure de Draak, just as Aat had reported, Walter found Harry Levine registered under his own name. Harry was an innocent, a babe in the woods. He carried a passport saying he was Harry Levine. So, what other possibility was there? It probably never occurred to him to try to register under another name. Walter had seen people who were pretty good at running and hiding make the same mistake many times. He called Harry’s room from a house phone in the lobby. “Mr. Levine’s room, please,” he asked the operator. “Yes sir,” she said, and an instant later the phone rang.

“Hello,” said Harry, tentatively. He had considered not answering at all.

“I’m Walter Sherman. I’m coming up.” Harry started to say something. Walter cut him off. “Not on the phone. I’ll be right up.”

“Nice to meet you too,” said Walter incredulously, shaking Harry’s hand. Christ! he thought. This guy greeted me with a “glad to meet you . ” Nobody’s glad to meet anyone under circumstances like these. A worried Walter wondered what he had gotten himself into.

“Call down to the desk and tell them you’re checking out. Throw your stuff together. Let’s get out of here.” He stood there and looked at him-Harry Levine, target. He looked pretty much like his photos, every bit the average American male in his thirties. A little taller, a little darker and a little better looking perhaps, but easy to spot, for sure. If those looking for him had any sense of what they were doing, they would find him in no time.

Not everyone Walter had searched for looked like their photographs. Often, the pictures he was given were too old to be of much use. This was especially so with teenagers. A family photo of a fourteen-year-old girl-one taken at home with the whole family gathered around a Thanksgiving meal or a Christmas tree-bears little resemblance to the same girl, three years later, sexed-up, high as a kite, with a couple of new piercings, a tattoo and colored hair. Over many years, many cases, Walter had developed quite a skill identifying live people from photographs that would be useless to others. The fact that the others always seemed to include the authorities had guaranteed a brisk marketplace, a deep vein in Walter’s gold mine of a profession. He really could do what others couldn’t. Some pictures of some targets never went far away. Walter had never really gotten over being fooled so badly by the photos of a man he looked for, and eventually found, four years ago. Leonard Martin was his name and every cop in America was trying to catch him. Martin fooled them all and Walter had allowed himself to be buffaloed just like they were. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The pictures of Leonard Martin and the real Leonard Martin were so dissimilar… Just thinking about it bothered him all over again-Leonard Martin, Michael DelGrazo, the cowboy with the floppy hat… Sonofabitch, he thought. Here I am standing in the doorway of Harry Levine’s room in one of the oldest hotels in the world, and all I’m thinking about is-Leonard Martin.

“I just arrived,” said Harry. “I’ve only been here a few…”

“Registered under your own name.”

“Not a good idea?”

“No, Harry. Definitely not a good idea. Check out and move into my room until I figure out where to go next.”

“What room are you in?” asked Harry.

“Not here. Not this hotel. Come on, get your things.” Walter saw that Harry was a very neat person. His bathroom had been set up as if he’d moved in. The toothpaste, toothbrush and a small bottle of mouthwash were stacked next to a drinking glass. His razor, shaving cream, aftershave lotion and extra blades had been carefully lined up on the side of the sink opposite the toothbrush. On a marble shelf next to the shower, Harry had arranged his deodorant, hairbrush and comb. The towels at first appeared undisturbed, still hanging, nicely folded. Walter’s experienced eye saw one of them had been used. It was refolded and had been put back in its original location, but he noticed the small change in the crease on one side. Very neat, he thought. He expected what came next. Harry’s clothes were hung in the closet and arranged in drawers-underwear and socks in the top drawer, a few shirts in the second and a sweater, sitting alone in the bottom drawer. “Look, Harry,” he said. “Just toss everything in your bag and let’s get out of here. Before they get here.”

“They can’t be that close-whoever they are-can they?”

“They could be getting off the elevator at the end of the hall, right now.”

“What? Come on now…”

“You’d be better off assuming that than assuming they’re not. I’m here, aren’t I?” Walter reached into the closet, grabbed the hanging pants, a jacket and the shirts and threw them into Harry’s open bag sitting on the bed. Harry looked upset, but he did the same with the rest of his belongings. Then he reached under the bed and retrieved a bulky attache case.

“That it?” asked Walter.

“Yes,” said Harry, “I hid it in London. I got it before I came here, to Holland.”

“That’s what I figured,” Walter said. “Call the desk. Check out.”

Harry called down and told the front desk to prepare his bill. Doing just as Walter instructed him, he said, “Put the charges on my credit card and mail the receipt to me.”

In a minute they were down the stairs, past the kitchen, out of there through a back door.