For Maria . . . everything for Maria.

THE

LACEY

CONFESSION

Richard

Greener

The Lacey Confession © 2006 by Richard Greener.

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Acknowledgments

I want to thank those who were generous enough to read portions of The Lacey Confession while it was being written, especially Barbara and Phil Ross, and Jeffrey Marlin. I am particularly indebted to Valerie Fischel, whose keen insight into my shortcomings was instrumental in helping to correct them.

Every author needs an agent, and I am fortunate to have the best, Julia Lord. I want to thank her again.

Preface

I wrote The Lacey Confession while waiting for a new heart. From its first word to its last, I was on the heart transplant list at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia. For obvious reasons, when waiting for a heart you can’t ever be very far from the hospital. The call may come at any time. My time was spent almost exclusively at home, and most of that in my cozy office overlooking little Martin Lake. The experience has been, I imagine, very similar to being under house arrest. To escape, I wrote.

Throughout all this, my daughter Barbi, who would walk through walls for her father, mobilized her sisters and other co-conspirators, and secretly arranged for me to speak with many of the people I admire, respect, and enjoy. I never knew who might call or when. Each was a wonderful surprise. Some I’ve known from the past, but except for those few, all were complete strangers, an amazingly diverse group, calling me only out of the goodness of their heart. None of them had to do it. Everyone was warm, friendly, and interested to know about my upcoming transplant, particularly how I managed the awful wait. Most conversations were a few minutes, not hurried but short. But some lasted fifteen or twenty minutes. One call took up a half-hour and another almost an hour. I had a wonderful time.

I want to thank all those who called as well as those who wrote, especially the New York Mets, who were kind enough to send me a baseball signed by my favorite pitcher, Tom Seaver, and the New York Jets, who made my day with a football signed by the great Joe Namath.

Everyone should know how happy they made me and how important they were in the completion of this book. My thanks to all:

Rep. John Lewis, Bill Cosby, Monica Kaufman, Al Franken, Leon Botstein, Sen. Hillary Clinton, Ambassador Andrew Young, Sen. Robert C. Byrd, Mayor Michael Bloomberg, Tim Russert, Jackie Mason, Rep. Ron Paul, Ralph Nader, Whoopi Goldberg, Sen. Lindsay Graham, Jon Stewart, Phyllis Chesler, Sen. Fred Harris, Noam Chomsky, Robin Williams, Father Andrew Greeley, Tom Clancy, Gov. Howard Dean, Rep. Cynthia McKinney, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Frank Torre, Terry Gross, Sen. Barack Obama, The Atlanta Braves, Sen. Russ Feingold, Rep. Jesse Jackson, Jr., Barry Levinson, Martin Sheen, David E. Kelley, David Letterman, Clint Eastwood, Mel Brooks, Christopher Hitchens, Stanley Kutler, Bo Jackson, Oliver Stone, Blythe Danner, and the governor of my home state, Sonny Perdue.

Roswell, Georgia

May 2005

Editor’s note: Richard Greener received a heart transplant in January 2006.

THE BEGINNING

Only wise men—and some newborn fools—

say they know what’s going on.

–Harry Chapin–

Cruz Bay was Walter’s kind of town. The capital city of St. John in the American Virgin Islands is more accurately a village, much too small to ever be called a city. It’s centered on and around the island’s largest port, hugging the shore, clinging to the mountainside. The Rock, as St. John’s permanent residents call their much larger neighbor, St. Thomas, is only a short twenty-minute boat ride, but for many who live on St. John, that distance is measured in months or years, not minutes or nautical miles.

Billy’s Bar is directly across the small square that fronts the slip where the St. Thomas ferry docks. For many years Walter Sherman had spent about half his waking hours there. Breakfast nearly every morning—a little later in the day now than when he was younger—a late afternoon lunch and, from time to time, dinner too if the occasion was special enough. He could always be found sitting in the second to last seat at the far end of the bar, near the kitchen, next to the large standing fan. Time didn’t change Billy’s much. Walter liked that. The same might be said for the whole island and he liked that too. Unless someone reminded him, it was easy for Walter Sherman to forget St. John was part of the United States.

The island can only be reached by small boat, including the ferry. The big cruise ships have to make port at St. Thomas. Tourists from those floating hotel vessels, and the Rock’s other visitors, staying at the bustling resorts on St. Thomas, often take the short trip to St. John for a few hours of shopping. Some come for the national park, many more for the beaches. Some come over just for dinner and catch the last ferry back to St. Thomas. For the more serious tourists, or bushwhackers as the locals called them, those with a special liking for St. John’s calm tranquility and truly magnificent beaches, and with no interest at all in doing things like playing golf, there were the island’s two large resort hotels. Walter and his fellow permanent St. John residents frequently thanked God, and the federal government too, for the absence of a golf course anywhere on the island. It had been the Almighty, of course, who in his inspired creation of the Caribbean made the island less than nine miles long and too mountainous to accommodate a golf course, a race track, or anything resembling the cursed Disneyland or any of its growing number of cheaper imitations. Theme parks they called them. What theme was there, Walter wondered, other than spending money? As an added stroke of luck, the federal government of the United States had accepted a gift of land, comprising nearly two-thirds of the entire island, and designated it a national park. John D. Rockefeller’s middle son, Laurence, the smartest and richest of his bunch, was the generous donor. No fool, the only thing Rockefeller kept for himself was the area called Caneel Bay—surely the loveliest part of the loveliest island—thought of by more than a few as the most beautiful spot in the world. It was here Rockefeller built the first of his famous resorts. The riffraff from the mainland, the back-slapping, heavy-drinking, cigar-smoking golfing quartets looking for an early tee time and a blackjack table, were forced to seek other venues.

In addition to the newer Westin, originally a Hyatt property, and the older Caneel Bay resorts, there are a handful of smaller hotels and guesthouses and about 400 hillside and hilltop homes, most of them for rent, all of them carrying expensive weekly rates. At high season, the island’s population of 4,000 doubles. St. John is not for the casual visitor looking for just anyplace to go on a package holiday in the Caribbean. Those seeking a taste of Europe usually go farther south to the Dutch-flavored Curacao. If excitement and adventure among the young, the rich, and the French is what they want, and if they have enough money, they go to trendy and chic St. Barts. And if they are looking for nothing more than to stay in America but get away from winter, they’ll head straight to Puerto Rico and be quite content with the hotels and casinos on Dorado Beach. St. John, on the other hand, is a place people come to, to be alone. That’s why Walter Sherman was determined to buy a home there the first time he set foot on its shore. That’s why his ex-wife, Gloria, called it St. Garbo.

This particular morning, Walter was eating his usual scrambled eggs and toast and drinking a bottle of Diet Coke. Billy stocked the beverage in glass bottles just for him. Anyone else who ordered it got some from the intricate tap system at the bar or from a can. Walter liked the feel of the small glass bottle in his hand, the fizz tickling his nose when the metal cap was popped off, and he was sure it tasted better in glass than any other way. Billy Smith liked and respected Walter as much—no more—than any man he’d ever known. It was no trouble for him to tell the Coke man to always include a couple of cases of the bottles he saved for Walter.

The standing fan, not far from Walter, turned at medium speed. A welcome cool breeze blew off the water, across the square, and into Billy’s wide-open front. The small morning crowd mostly sat at the tables shielded from the bright sunshine. Many wore their sunglasses even inside, particularly those sporting the most expensive shades. If you were going to spend three or four hundred dollars for a pair of sunglasses, Walter figured, you’d be loath to ever take them off. Little did he know, some cost twice that. He was reading the op-ed page of The New York Times and taking another bite of his lightly buttered toast when he heard her enter the bar.

Fingerprints are not the only things that give people away, stamping them with a marker those able to interpret such things could recognize. Footsteps told Walter a lot. Man or woman? Big or small? Heavy or lean? Sometimes, as well, they offered clues even to character and health. What he heard now were not the heavy footsteps of a man still wearing his mainland shoes, although he’d heard that noise before and still remembered. This time his ears picked up a sound certain to be the steps of a woman. She was headed his way. Without looking up, he instinctively guessed—decades of experience acting out in his mind involuntarily. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He no longer had any interest in things of this sort. But he couldn’t help himself. He figured her to be tall, slim, perhaps a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. He pictured long dark hair. Painted nails. “Christ!” he caught himself, “I must be losing my fucking mind.” He didn’t have time to think about age, color, or any of a dozen other aspects he always listened for in a woman. She was upon him too quickly. The sound of her heels—he was sure they were very high heels—said she walked in a manner common to many beautiful women. The length of her stride, the time between the sound of each heel clicking as it struck the floor, told Walter Sherman this woman was long legged and before she put one foot down in front of the other, her forward leg almost crossed over the line of the one behind. He could tell that and he reminded himself, a woman who would walk that way was a woman who knew she looked good. He was sure she wore pants with her high heels. How did he know that? He could hear her inner thighs rub against each other. “The sound of corduroy?” he asked himself, pleased to note he wasn’t losing his hearing along with everything else.

He expected a confident, sexy woman. He was seldom wrong. He missed only one small detail. She did not wear corduroy. She wore jeans, skin tight and stonewashed. How she put them on was a mystery. She could have been poured in. She was a bit shorter than he guessed. With the advantage of her heels she might have made it to five-six. If she weighed one-twenty, he thought, it was only after a big meal. Her long, black, expensively straightened hair had begun to curl in the Caribbean humidity. Still it fell, across her shoulders halfway down her back and in front, almost to the tips of her breasts in front. She wore a dark blue, silk blouse; two buttons open at the top. Her bra, the edges of which he could see quite easily, was dark brown with a shiny satin finish. Her outfit was a perfect complement to her olive skin. He saw all that in spite of her feeble attempt at disguise. She had on a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low on her forehead. Big sunglasses were meant to obscure her face. She did her best, he supposed, to hide in plain sight. Still, he recognized her immediately. For a woman he knew was closer to fifty than forty she looked more like thirty. She took a man’s breath away and she was keenly aware of it. Walter was but a man.

“Hello, Walter Sherman,” she said.

“Do we know each other?” he asked, in a warm and friendly, neighborly tone. For a moment, an instant disconnected to any other, she struck him as a brown-skinned, dark-haired, tropical incarnation of Mae West. A playful yet confident woman. A woman on top. He looked up from his food and smiled, as much at himself as to her. She smiled back. Walter’s ears actually tingled. She smelled great.

“Only by reputation,” she said. “May I?” She pointed at the empty seat next to him.

“Of course.”

“You have a nice island here.”

“It’s not all mine.”

“It’s killing my hair,” she said, seated comfortably atop the wooden stool between Walter and the kitchen door. She ran her hands through the ends of her tumbling locks, gently tugging at the stray ends, lightly touching, practically caressing her pointed nipples with the tips of her long, elegant fingers. Her nails were sparkling red. She looked straight into Walter’s eyes as she did this. It stirred him. My God! he thought, for what man would it be otherwise? As if she knew what he was thinking, she let the thought register then said, firmly but in a low voice, “I need your help.” She opened a small silver case, removed a very strange looking cigarette and lit it. “Do you mind?” she asked.

Walter shook his head, still smiling all the while. He answered her first question—I need your help is always a question—in a clear and straightforward tone. “I’m sorry. I don’t work anymore.”

“Me too. At least sometimes it seems that way.”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Miss Crystal. The last I heard, you were still a big star.” She was alone. He didn’t ask, but he was tempted to ask her where her people were. She was well known to travel with an entourage fit for a head of state. Wherever she went, she attracted a crowd, a good portion of it in her employ. Walter was careful to pronounce Conchita Crystal’s name the way she liked it, Kree-STAL, rolling the r as if he too was Puerto Rican, with the emphasis solidly on the second syllable.

“¿Habla español?” she asked.

“Tengo español en mi corazon, pero inglés en mi boca.”

“Now it’s you who’s too hard on yourself, Mr. Sherman. But, if you prefer, inglés it is. Can we speak here?”

“About?”

“As I said, I need your help.” Walter started to say something—something Conchita Crystal was sure she would not want to hear. “I’m desperate, Mr. Sherman,” she said, interrupting him before he got a word out. “I’ve nowhere else to turn. You’re the only one.”

He felt the tremble in her voice, saw that look in her eyes, a tremble and a stare he’d felt and seen so many times before in the hectic pace of nearly four decades. There came a moment, even for the richest, the most powerful and most famous, when they were undone by whatever loss they were about to spill at Walter’s feet. The fear, the dread, the surrender to melancholy—he could hear every bit of it in their voices, sense it in their demeanor. Conchita Crystal was no different from the rest.

“Please listen to me,” she pleaded. “Let me tell you why I’ve come to you. Then, if you still feel you can’t do anything, I’ll go away. I’ll understand. But, please, just hear me out.” She reached over and put her hand lightly on his wrist. “It’s matter of life and death—mine.” She paused, never breaking eye contact with him. Walter said nothing—not right away. His knees weakened. He took a long, deep breath then said, “Not here. Take a walk. Go across the square to the ferry dock. I’ll be out in a minute. Okay?”

Conchita Crystal instantly regained her composure. Walter couldn’t be sure if it was her relief at knowing he would listen to her story or if that was just what she did for a living. He certainly wasn’t about to come to any conclusion at this point. She nodded and smiled. She smiled—a smile he’d seen a thousand times, in TV commercials, on billboards, magazine covers, CDs, and in the movies. This smile, however, this one right now, was special. It was all his. She slid off her barstool, stood facing him, dropped her cigarette to the floor and stepped on it, then turned and left, the sound of her footsteps already filed away in his memory. It was all Walter could do not to watch her every step as she walked away. Conchita Crystal once and maybe still had the best-looking, most famous ass in the Western world.

He took a last forkful of eggs, a final bite of toast and finished his Diet Coke. He folded his newspaper, put it down on the bar, then got up to leave, following her as he said he would.

“That who I think it is?” asked Billy Smith from behind his bar.

“Who’s that?” deadpanned Walter. Billy threw his arms up in mock frustration. “Hey, go for it, Walter,” he shrugged.

On his way out, Walter passed a very old, stick-thin black man with a fuzzy white beard cut short and close. The old man, whose name was Ike, had a crooked, homemade cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke completely surrounded his head, floating away in a line of blue haze, swirling out in the direction of the sea. A warm smile, one some said was always there, dominated his aged, wrinkled face. He sat alone at the table closest to the sidewalk, the one right up against the white picket fence that separated Billy’s from the street. He was protected from the sun only by the Florida Marlins baseball cap on his bald head.

“That’s Chita whatshername, ain’t it Walter?” Ike asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“Walter!” Ike called after him. “I thought you was retired.”

Walter Sherman kept walking, but he turned his head back toward the old man. “You’re right, Ike. I was retired.”

The frail black man looked at Billy, who had moved up the bar and was now as near to the front as he could get. This time they both shrugged their shoulders.

Walter Sherman had never officially retired. He hadn’t made any announcement, sent out any notices or thrown a party and invited his friends to celebrate the event. And, of course, there was no one to give him a gold watch. It just sort of happened. The last job he took was almost four years ago. After that one, he just stopped. He started saying no. People continued to come to him, continued to call. But, after the second year, they must have gotten the message. They stopped. It became known he no longer took clients. Nobody had approached him this way in more than two years.

When he quit, he told himself it wasn’t because he couldn’t do the work anymore. But he knew it really was. He was getting tired and his was not the kind of work to do if you weren’t up to it. In his busiest times as a younger man, he never did more than a dozen jobs a year. While occasionally he caught one he couldn’t wrap up in less than a month, two at the most, most of his assignments had been completed in a few weeks. Some took only days. He’d always had a lot of downtime. So, retirement didn’t call for a major personal adjustment.

About the same time Walter stopped working, he stopped eating meat, red meat and pork altogether, and he limited his intake of chicken to once monthly—a special day that was. He allowed himself to eat fresh fish two or three times a week, sometimes more often. He’d been told people who ate fish regularly lived longer, healthier lives than those who forsook it for meat, especially beef and pork. That sounded right. He reworked his diet to include a lot of fruits and vegetables, rice, beans and pasta. He cut out the French fries and most other greasy, fried foods. Out with the burgers—in with the grouper. It wasn’t difficult for him. Walter ate most of his meals at Billy’s and those he didn’t were cooked by the old woman, Clara, or since her death, by his new housekeeper. All concerned were happy to oblige his new, healthier habits.

Like most men his age, Walter had been at least twenty pounds heavier than he wanted for far longer than he cared to admit. In his first year of exclusive leisure and new eating tastes he shed them all, all twenty and then some. And he didn’t stop there. He was an inch or so under six feet, and by this time in his life, sensed he’d shrunk perhaps a half-inch or more. Racing headlong to sixty, he wanted to be fit again. He was scared it might be his last chance. He started his new diet the morning his scale read 215 pounds. “Holy shit!” he thought. “Old, fat and shrinking.” He never regretted the panic he felt that morning. He kept going when he hit 195 pounds and didn’t even try to level off until he reached 180. Finally, deep into middle age, he weighed only five pounds more than he did when he left the Army in 1977. With that he was satisfied.

He still wore his hair long in the back. It had thinned on top, but not remarkably. It had, however, grayed considerably in the last two or three years. Still, some people continued to mistake Walter Sherman for a man younger than he was. His pale blue eyes and rugged, tan, leathery face highlighted the effects of a long stay in the Caribbean. Sure, fewer women found him attractive than had been his experience ten or twenty years ago, but he still got a look now and then. It never bothered him that the women doing the looking were getting older too. One thing he certainly didn’t grow tired of was the sight of his recently reacquired flat stomach staring back at him in the mirror. He wore the same kind of clothes since he came to St. John—loose-fitting jeans, a bit baggier as the years went by, and an oversized, pastel-colored T-shirt with no pocket. He was always clean-shaven and although some mistook his casual approach toward dress for messiness, they could not have been further from the truth. A man completely comfortable in his own skin, Walter Sherman carried nothing with him. No wallet. No personal ID of any kind. No money. No habitual paraphernalia, cigarette lighters and the like—he neither smoked nor chewed gum. The key to his car was all he had on him, in his right back pocket with nothing attached. He didn’t like shorts—he thought they looked silly on him—and was never seen in them. His only shoes seemed to be the old-fashioned, low-cut, white tennis sneakers. Unless he left the island, Walter never wore socks.

His cholesterol was too high. His doctor prescribed drugs to lower it. He took a little blood pressure medication too and his prostate wasn’t the smoothly operating piece of machinery it used to be.

“I’m not as old as you are—yet,” he told Ike one day. “But, I’m getting there. I piss in Morse code.” The two of them had a great laugh at that while Billy was left slightly bewildered.

Retirement? Sure, why not. The time had come for Walter to call it quits. He didn’t need the money. He’d done well for many years and did one unique, unforgettable job—his last one—that set him up for life. When a man named Leonard Martin began his crusade, his relentless campaign seeking justice for his family, all of whom had died from eating ground beef tainted with E. coli bacteria, they turned to Walter Sherman to find him. In the beginning, Walter didn’t know—not about Leonard. He knew what he was searching for, but not who. Nor was he aware of the righteousness of Leonard Martin’s crusade. How could he have known these things? He had been deceived. The clients he worked for were, in fact, the ones responsible for Leonard Martin’s tragedy. They let it happen. They knew better. The corporate hotshots. The gang of criminals on Wall Street—the very ones who hired Walter. Millions of pounds of poisoned ground beef. They let it leave the packing plant. They let it go to store shelves. They let people—Leonard Martin’s family among them—eat it. Thousands sickened. Hundreds died. They did nothing to stop it. Too much was riding on the outcome. Billions actually. They chose the risk to people over the risk to money. In the end they miscalculated. And Leonard Martin extracted a heavy price. One by one he hunted them down. One by one he killed them. Those still alive at the time hoped Walter could find Leonard before Leonard found them.

Walter found Isobel Gitlin first. An obit writer for The New York Times, she was the first to understand, to see beyond the fog and mystery. Leonard Martin was the one. For a while, Walter was her sole supporter. Together, Walter and Isobel searched for him. They searched for Leonard Martin, who was the Cowboy. And Isobel. It was still painful for Walter to even think about her. In the end, she betrayed him. She hurt him. He opened his heart to her and with callous indifference she thrust a dagger in it.

Now, when Conchita Crystal smiled at him and touched his wrist, he was only months shy of being fifty-nine years old. For one magical moment she made him feel half his age. Ike saw it plain as day.

Finding people was a young man’s game. For Walter it began when he was only nineteen. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time, Walter Sherman made the horrendous mistake of joining the Army on his eighteenth birthday. His birthday present was a quick trip to the killing fields of Southeast Asia. In no time at all he went from “Good Morning America” to “Good Morning Vietnam!” He survived. Many didn’t. It wasn’t just the bleeding, the dying, even the killing. It was drugs, disconnect from sanity, loss of a moral center. Saigon, and the tall grass, did many strange things to twenty-year-old American boys. But Walter made it. A year later he saved Freddy Russo’s life.

Walter found him after Russo went AWOL and was gone for a week. As surely as if he had carried the man’s broken body to safety in a jungle firefight, he’d saved Russo’s life. In Saigon—a world gone quite mad—if a man was AWOL more than a week, when they found him, they often shot him as a deserter. These executions were distinctly unofficial. It was easier that way. The worst of it was some of the MPs seemed to get off on it. Those who died in this fashion were always marked down as KIA—it was easier that way too—and there were many more of them than anyone back home ever knew. But Walter was there. He knew. He saw it. And that’s why he went after and found Russo, who turned out to be an ungrateful little prick.

After that episode, nineteen-year-old Sgt. Walter Sherman from Rhinebeck, New York, found himself transferred, attached to Headquarters Company. There, he did nothing else but look for people. He looked for Americans, Vietnamese, anyone at all, anyone he was told to find. Sometimes he knew why. Other times he didn’t. When he went after the pilot, and was gone three weeks, lost in the jungle—when the short odds said he’d never be seen again—and finally, when he emerged from Hell with enough of the pilot’s body to satisfy his commanders, Walter’s legend grew. By then he had already acquired his nickname, The Locator.

In between finding people for the Colonel, he was left alone. He had nobody to report to. He simply awaited the next call. Most of the time he didn’t even wear a uniform. He rented a small apartment, had a full-time cleaning lady who doubled as a cook, plus a valet of sorts, a teenage boy with a missing arm, ready and eager to do any errand Walter asked. Saigon was like a supermarket, isles jammed, stuffed, overstocked with women and drugs. Bob Dylan and James Brown serenaded the shoppers, with special guests the Rolling Stones and Bob Marley. The uniquely American cry of “Rock ’n’ roll!” was more than an often-heard command. It was the sound of invasion, the march music of occupation.

Walter wasn’t into drugs. Sure, he puffed the magic dragon—who didn’t?—but no cocaine, no heroin. Women on the other hand, were . . . everywhere, abundant, available, always there. Love you long time was damn near the Vietnamese national motto. Walter was as much a boy in a candy store as anyone. When his tour was over, he signed up for another. Nobody ever did a study of it, but many in the military believed that Southeast Asian sex was the leading motivator behind reenlistment. Another tour of Saigon’s bars and brothels or back to Applebee’s in Akron or Kansas City? Not much of a choice for some.

Walter spent more than seven years in Vietnam. He lived. When the war was over, he returned to America. But the war never ended. It stayed in his dreams long after the women faded away. Na Trang, Laos, the Mekong River delta. He never lost it, not all of it. It didn’t haunt him as it did others, but every time he thought it was gone, all gone—it wasn’t. There were still nights when he would awaken with the smell of Saigon, the stench of blood and napalm, burning huts and burning bodies—so close. Back in the United States, as seamlessly as could be expected, Walter resumed life as a regular soldier. However, there was no one left to find.

He left the Army at twenty-five and spent two uneventful years struggling to make a living back home in upstate New York. Then a distraught Colonel from Ft. Benning, Georgia, called, and Walter Sherman found his way in life. The Colonel, who had heard of Walter through another officer from Saigon, paid Walter a thousand dollars to find his sixteen-year-old, runaway daughter. The Colonel was the first of many. Although new clients had a hard time finding him, those who succeeded were not disappointed. The market sought him out. Rich, powerful and famous people needed someone they could count on to find their runaway children, drunken wives, or husbands off on a bender. Or it could have been someone else close to them, a brother or sister, mother or father, holed up a thousand miles from home with somebody they picked up in a bar. Embarrassment and scandal were to be avoided at any cost and Walter was seen as the answer to the most terrible question a public person of means could ask—Oh God, is there anyone who can help me?

Years later, in rare moments of nostalgia, he sometimes wished he’d saved at least a dollar of that first thousand bucks so he could frame it as many retailers frame the first dollar they make at their new store. Instead, he had no memorabilia. In fact, he had nothing but the money to indicate he’d ever done anything, worked for anyone, found anybody. Walter never took notes, kept no records, had no files. For the first few years he continued to live at home with his mother and didn’t even have a phone of his own. He was a model of discretion and confidentiality. He maintained total privacy and offered the same to every client. In addition to his uncanny success, it was this quality of total privacy above all others that justified his high fee. He was an honest priest and forceful sheriff, both at the same time. For someone to retain his services, they had to know someone who knew someone—just to find him. He worked only by referral, only for cash, paid in advance and totally without supervision.

All that was behind him now. “I don’t work anymore,” he told Conchita Crystal. As Ike said, Walter was retired. Ike never knew exactly what Walter did. Neither did Billy. But Walter’s friends had a pretty good idea it often involved some real danger and, perhaps—just perhaps—questionable legality. They saw the strangers who, from time to time, came into Billy’s Bar looking for him. They knew something was up when he left the island without notice and returned just as unexpectedly after a few days, a week, sometimes longer. Walter rarely said where he’d been. He never said why. Ike and Billy were sure Walter was mixed up in some very strange goings on. “Some serious shit,” said Billy once, to which Ike had vigorously nodded agreement.

Walter was in his early thirties when he and his wife, Gloria, bought the house on St. John. In those days, Ike too basked in his prime, no more than fifty, looking and acting half his age. The two men had been close friends for almost thirty years. When Billy Smith showed up—as William Mantkowski at first—in the spring of 1992, the trio was quickly established. Ike and Walter were already fixtures at a bar called Frogman’s. Billy Smith, the name William Mantkowski chose after a month on St. John, bought Frogman’s and as an extra bonus, he got his two best friends in the deal.

Ike now served as overseer, the wise elder, CEO emeritus of a family conglomerate of small enterprises. Together with his sons and their sons, he founded and guided everything from taxis to rental cars, charter boats to gourmet catering, specialty construction and a little politics mixed in. A widower for twenty years since his wife Sissy died, he was fiercely devoted to his family. One of Ike’s sons was a senator in the Virgin Island’s government. Over the years, the family businesses, which supported a large extended clan, enjoyed a warm and beneficial relationship with both local and federal government agencies. With the help of his sons and now his grandsons, Ike held court at the same table in Billy’s even longer than Walter occupied the last two barstools near the kitchen.

Billy Smith had arrived on St. John unheralded and alone. It was obvious he was eager to stay that way. Finally, a few years ago Billy met someone, a bushwhacker about his age, not a bad looking woman either. She had something going for her—spunk, spirit, a take-charge attitude mixed with a straightforward friendly nature and a strong appetite for sex. Whatever it was, Helen Mavidies captivated Billy. She was just a middle-aged schoolmarm from New Bedford, Massachusetts, on a Caribbean holiday by herself, but she was certainly a woman. One day she came into Billy’s for lunch and, like Ike and Walter before her, stayed. At first she was just there, Billy’s sort of girlfriend. Then she began to help Billy behind the bar and in the kitchen. It wasn’t long before she was pretty much running the place. Helen had moved into a small rental house, a cheap one as far from the water as a person could get on St. John. She didn’t live there long. One morning Walter arrived for breakfast and there she was. Billy and Helen were an item. She moved in with him and they seemed quite happy with that arrangement. Ike told Walter he thought it was a very good thing Billy was getting some on a regular basis. “Man needs that kind of thing, you know,” he said. Walter wholeheartedly agreed, thinking, “Here’s the two of us who haven’t got laid in so long we can’t remember, talking about how ‘good’ it is Billy’s getting some.”

Billy was at least ten years younger than Walter and just a kid compared to Ike. Despite the age difference, the three men became attached to each other, tied together with a twine destined to form an unbreakable bond. Everyone knew what Ike did. His life on St. John was an open book. Everyone knew what Billy did—not necessarily what he had done or where he had come from—but they knew what he did now. And everyone had his or her own theory about Walter. Over the course of his years on the island, there had been hints, the occasional glimmer of light thrown upon his activities, enough so that Ike and Billy could worry about him and take pleasure and comfort every time he returned from wherever he went, doing whatever it was he did. They remembered Isobel Gitlin and her famous connection to the notorious Leonard Martin. All things considered, Walter’s friends were very happy to see him retire.

Now, Conchita Crystal, of all people, had waltzed right into the picture, upsetting everything.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

I can tell the wind is risin’

The leaves tremblin’ on the tree.

–Robert Johnson–

November 22, 1963

The Czech—the one who had made himself known in America as Stephen Hecht—was a tall, thin man with a sallow complexion that because of his high cheek bones made him look rather sickly. On top of that, he rarely smiled. He brought the rifle with him. He carried it in a small bag, in pieces. He was recommended not only for his expertise, but also for his attention to detail. It was a certainty that many times he had put the weapon together in just a few seconds, each piece clicking neatly and swiftly into place. With only minutes remaining before the motorcade would enter the street below, he sent his new friend away. He said, “I know you are hungry. Go down and get something to eat. It’s okay, I’ll stay here.”

“Do you want me to bring back anything for you?” the other man responded.

“No, Lee. Thank you. Just go now.”

Alone, the man whose name was not Hecht at all, but whose real name was Josef Gambrinus, calmly assembled the rifle, loaded it and placed it on the floor under the open window, the one he had chosen carefully the day before. He stacked three shipping boxes, boxes once filled with textbooks but now empty, one on top of the other and maneuvered them into position between the open window and the door leading onto the sixth floor. He meant to hide sight of the rifle from anyone who might happen to pass by. The noise of the crowd gathering below filtered up to him. He hoped the murmur of anticipation, followed by the expectant cheers, would erupt at the proper moment. The Czech would have liked it as loud as possible, but he realized, as he knew he must, there are some things beyond our control. It was not realistic to expect every detail to fall exactly into place. They rarely did. Nevertheless, he was ready. And he waited.

The middle-aged man from Amman, short and stocky, always looked like he needed a shave. He called himself Namdar, but his real name was unknown to anyone outside Jordan. Not even his European associate knew—especially him. Namdar assumed, quite correctly, that Stephen Hecht was also a made-up name. As the sound of the crowd grew louder, Namdar passed along the rail tracks and approached a location on the fence. He too had chosen this spot the day before, just after learning the altered route the motorcade would take. Had anyone seen him they would have taken him for a railroad worker or perhaps the sort of man Americans called a hobo, men so commonly seen in rail yards and along the tracks. He was dressed in old, gray, shabby clothes and carried with him a long, thin, beat-up cardboard box. Inside the box was a rifle, exactly like the one now resting at the ready beneath the window on the sixth floor of the building across the street, down past the embankment lined with spectators, beyond the gentle bend in the road separating him from his associate, a spot he was certain would slow the speed of the car making his task a simple one. Like the Czech had done, the Jordanian assembled the contents of his box quickly. Then he held the loaded weapon against his leg, hidden under his long coat, and he too waited.

There was a third man, another eastern European, waiting on the curb just where the street began its slow turn toward the upcoming highway underpass. Although he was the third member of a team, Daniel Ondnok was unknown to his teammates. Neither his compatriot on the sixth floor nor his Jordanian accomplice peering down from above the grassy knoll were aware of Ondnok’s presence. Unlike them he had no rifle. Yet his role in this plan might be the most dangerous and his risk the greatest. For nearly a half-hour he had wandered among the crowd as they gathered in the plaza. He was a young man; clean cut, shorthaired, wearing a simple blue suit, white shirt and a skinny navy blue tie. In his jacket pocket he held an Italian pistol packed with nine rounds. Unlikely as it was that the man in the window and the one behind the grassy knoll would both miss their target, if they did, the Slovakian would finish the job up close. He prayed the night before and once again standing in the plaza—if things went just as planned—he would actually do nothing, earn a great deal of money and go on his way unseen. If, however, it went badly, he would do his job. No doubt he would be killed, but he would die certain his family would be well provided for. He asked Jesus the son, and God the father, for victory and a good aim for his comrades.

When the Presidential motorcade rolled into Dealey Plaza, Lee Harvey Oswald was still eating, alone in the lunchroom, nowhere near the window on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository building. He had no idea how badly the cards were stacked against him. As the President’s open car approached the plaza, it slowed—just as the Jordanian knew it would. At that moment the Czech fired the first shot from the open window six floors above. The bullet struck the second son of Joseph P. Kennedy in the upper back just below the neck. Ripping through his chest, it exited his throat and tumbled in the air at more than 500 miles per hour, smashing into the Governor of Texas riding in the front seat. Startled by the sound, Governor Connally had quickly turned around to look behind him. The bullet hit his wrist. Kennedy was already in shock. Instinctively, he tried to raise his hands to his face. His upper body tipped forward, propelled by the force of the bullet’s blow to his back.

The assassin Gambrinus had shot many people—men, women, even children—so he knew the hit was not fatal. In the quickest fraction of a second, angry with himself and thoroughly dissatisfied with the accuracy of his weapon, he squeezed off a second shot. It missed everything. Harmlessly, the bullet struck a road sign, then careened against a curb and rolled to a stop nearly all the way to the highway underpass where it would be found later. In the instant following the second shot, the President’s driver realized they were under attack. He pushed down hard on the accelerator. Trees now blocked the shooter’s view. There was no chance a third shot from the sixth floor window could accomplish anything. He had failed. “Shit!” he mumbled in his native tongue. Nevertheless, acting as he had been instructed to, he wiped the rifle clean of his fingerprints, laid it down and left the building. Following his escape route he would drive a 1959 model Chevrolet, by himself, to Vancouver, British Columbia. He made his report along the way. A week later he flew to Japan, changed planes in Tokyo, and then on to Rome. While using the restroom, at the airport in Rome, he was assaulted by three knife-wielding teenagers. After taking his wallet and passport the young thieves cut his throat. Josef Gambrinus bled to death in a toilet stall.

Even before the Czech’s first shot, the Jordanian had the President of the United States directly in his scope. As the first shot hit the President from behind, Namdar pulled the trigger and let loose the bullet that killed John F. Kennedy. The shot struck straight into his head. It drove him backwards, tearing a piece from his skull, scattering portions of his brain on the back of the limousine, on the seat next to him, and on his frightened wife.

Less than ten seconds later, Namdar had dismantled the rifle, loaded it back into his box, and was gone. According to plan, he drove his 1962 Buick slowly to Los Angeles. He made many stops along the way, leaving pieces of his weapon scattered, many miles apart, in the desert and sagebrush from west Texas to California. He made his report before staying with friends in Los Angeles, people who knew nothing of his activities. For six weeks he waited, celebrating the coming of the New Year 1964 before flying to Montreal and then on to Athens. As prearranged, he booked passage on a ship from Greece to Egypt. Finally, in the first week of February, he made it home to his well-earned, comfortable retirement. His most lucrative job would also be his last. Two weeks later, on a busy street in Amman, he was hit by a truck and killed. All who saw it said it was an unfortunate accident. Witnesses, people who waited with him on the sidewalk at the intersection, said he seemed to jump in front of the truck. No one noticed or remembered the man who pushed Namdar from behind.

The third man, Ondnok, had watched it all, only a few yards away from the target. He heard all three shots. Of course, he enjoyed the advantage of knowing when they would come. The panic of the crowd did not disturb him. He too had seen many men shot with a high-powered rifle. The blow that struck the American President in the skull had clearly done the job. As the limousine sped away, Ondnok turned and walked in the other direction. He never drew his pistol. He never did anything. He knew a dead man when he saw one. His prayers had been answered.

He earned more money on November 22, 1963, than for any job he ever did. And he did nothing. His risk had more than justified his price. Like the others, he followed his prearranged escape plan. He met a small private plane at an airport south of Dallas. Posing as a West German businessman, an anti-Communist looking to buy arms for his Eastern brothers, he had chartered the plane two days earlier. His destination was New Orleans. Once there, he made his report. After three days, and three memorable nights in the French Quarter, he took a commercial flight to Mexico City. There he made a connection to Havana before finally returning to his family in a small farming village in Slovakia.

Less than a month later, the day before Christmas 1963 to be exact, the barn in which he was working burned to the ground. Trapped, unable to escape, he perished in the blaze. To save his family added grief, no autopsy on the charred remains was performed. The small bullet hole in the back of the farmer’s head was never discovered.

Two days after the assassination, as contracted for, Lee Harvey Oswald was shot dead. His shouted pronouncement to the press, his plea of innocence, was soon forgotten. As he was gunned down, Oswald was surrounded by Dallas Police officers. He was still inside Dallas Police Headquarters, handcuffed and in custody when it happened. A man simply walked up to Oswald with a drawn handgun and fired point-blank at his midsection. The whole world saw it, live on television.

The men’s room killing in Rome was local news for a day or two. The accident in Amman was not even reported. The tragedy in Slovakia also went unnoticed by the world at large. It was, however, the final detail. Within ninety days of the death of John F. Kennedy, the men who did the deed, as well as the man who stood falsely accused, were all dead themselves. Their killers had been retained professionally. They had no knowledge of who their victims were or what they might have done. Why they had been hired to kill someone, in a restroom, on a busy street or in a rural barn, would have been an impolite question. They knew only how much they were to be paid. Only one person, the man responsible for all this, knew the truth. Only Frederick Lacey knew. He wrote extensively, passionately, angrily about it in his private journal—the Lacey Confession.

November 24, 1963

The Chief Justice waited patiently on a beige love seat in the Oval Office. Summoned unexpectedly, he arrived at a hectic White House as quickly as he could. Later, in his diary, he remarked on the chaos pervading the West Wing that day. As he was led through the hallways, he noticed an unusual number of Secret Service agents. They were all over the place. They were openly armed. And everywhere he saw signs of moving in. “No time for compassion,” he wrote. “The King is dead. Long live the King.” There was tomorrow’s funeral, but it was Thanksgiving the Thursday coming that was on his mind. Thanksgiving, a day of joyous celebration, the quintessential American holiday, he always felt. A tribute to those who began this noble experiment. A reaffirmation of our own survival, our success, our perseverance in a hostile, new world. Now, that day lay in ruins, victim of a cowardly ambush. For the Chief Justice and millions of Americans, the unimaginable, the unthinkable, the impossible, had all come to be.

Immediately after returning to Washington from Dallas, Lyndon Johnson, the new American President, insisted on a full federal investigation. From the beginning he wanted a special commission. His mind was made up days before the official story was delivered to and devoured whole by a compliant American media. That account, given to the American people, had Johnson, a Texan himself, worried about the Attorney General in Texas, a man named Waggoner Carr. It was said that he, Carr, was about to start up his own inquiry. The murder had occurred in Texas. Carr was portrayed as an opportunist of the worst kind. The official story went on to say it was Abe Fortas, a Johnson crony and a man later nominated to be a Justice on the Supreme Court, together with Nicholas D. B. Katzenbach, a high-ranking member of the Justice Department, who presented the idea for the Warren Commission to Johnson on November 29. Still another Texas Democrat, Leon Jaworski, who ten years later would be among the most recognized people in the country, supposedly was assigned to take care of Waggoner Carr. Jaworski was to have him call off the dogs of Texas.

None of this was true or ever happened. Instead, it was President Johnson, who was determined before he ever came back to Washington, who pressured Chief Justice Earl Warren to head the commission investigating the death of John F. Kennedy. Warren wanted no part of it. He made that quite clear, in great detail in those entries he made in the final weeks of 1963 in his personal diary. According to Warren, Johnson called him to the White House before Kennedy was even buried. Warren met with the President on the 24th, offered to help, but did not agree to serve. Late on that night, following his meeting with Johnson, he wrote: “It never occurred to me that anyone would question that Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated the President of the United States—or that there would be any public speculation about some sinister motivation on his part—or that there would be widespread consideration he might be part of some larger plot or conspiracy. I never thought of it, that is, until today when President Johnson expressed such concern over the matter.”

Earlier that Sunday afternoon the Chief Justice sat alone in the Oval Office. He could not help but speculate—the couch on which he sat must have belonged to the dead President lying in state in the rotunda of the Capitol. Too sophisticated, too tasteful for Lyndon Johnson. It was an uncomfortable thought for him. One of many he said he had since this nightmare began. He’d seen the picture of Johnson being sworn in. He wrote of what he called the horrific sadness in Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes, the dress splattered with blood—her husband’s blood. That photograph had been on the front page of The New York Times, The Washington Post and newspapers all over the world. Johnson hurried Federal Judge Sarah Hughes out to the airport in Dallas. He didn’t wish to leave the scene of his ascendancy except as President of the United States. Who could blame him? Warren agreed that was the right decision. The Chief Justice heaved a sigh of relief. I’m glad it wasn’t me in that picture, he later wrote. It probably would be all I’d ever be remembered for. Sarah Hughes could be certain that picture, and none other, would top her obituary.

Now, noted Warren, things had gone from bad to worse. Lee Harvey Oswald, the apparent assailant, the man who killed John F. Kennedy, had himself been murdered, on television, in full view of the whole world. I saw it myself, he wrote. Jesus Christ! How could they let a thing like that happen?

The President appeared in the room as if from nowhere. He came through a wall panel that was also a hidden door. Warren heard his footsteps and looked up. He had no idea that door was there. “Afternoon, Mr. Chief Justice,” said Johnson, extending his hand. Warren rose to shake it. Lyndon Johnson was a very tall man, a bit funny looking, even ugly in person, according to some, yet still fit and thin despite many years living the good life, “high on the hog,” as he might have said when in Texas. Very high indeed. He looked as if he’d just showered, shaved and changed his clothes. Warren knew him well. The two men had met many times. Johnson was still a relatively poor Texas Congressman when they first crossed paths, and Warren only beginning then to dream of being Governor of California. “Now look at us,” he said to himself.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” he replied. My God! he wondered. Could it be? Yes. Lyndon Johnson really is the President of the United States! “I came over as soon as I could.”

“I appreciate that,” said Johnson in his stretched-out Texas drawl. “I do. I’m truly grateful to see you. I prize your good counsel and I have the greatest admiration for you. You know that, I’m sure.” He stood with both hands resting on his hips; his head bent slightly forward, his mouth in a tight frown. Surely he towered over the seated Chief Justice.

“This is a bad time, one neither of us could have imagined. Just look around.” He gestured with his hands extended, the long sweep of his arms emphasizing the expanse of the famed Oval Office. “This has become my office. I am the President. We all think of it, dream of it, some nights go to sleep tasting it. But not this way. Not this way. In ’48, when you ran with Tom Dewey, there must have been a time when you not only thought you’d win—hell, Harry looked like roadkill there for a while—but, more than that—there had to be a moment when you saw yourself right here, right where I am now. I know you never thought it’d happen like this. It’s hard to find the words. But we must go on. This country must go on. We face serious problems, Mr. Chief Justice.” Johnson walked over to the big, dark mahogany desk. Was it his desk or Jack Kennedy’s? Sitting on the edge, he looked down at Earl Warren. “We’re needed,” he said with an urgency common to Protestant preachers. “We’re called upon to serve.”

“Yes, we are,” Warren answered, still unsure why Johnson asked for this meeting, unclear what it was the President wanted from him, or from the Supreme Court. At first, when a White House aide called asking the Chief Justice to come to the White House on an “urgent matter,” Warren thought there might be some concern about the procedures used to swear in the new President. Or perhaps the shooting of Oswald was presenting technical questions or jurisdictional problems which Johnson didn’t understand and wanted cleared up right away. A strange reason indeed to call the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, but in these times, the strange was normal. However, at that moment, with the President looking straight at him, Earl Warren had no idea what this meeting was about.

Moreover, he thought, until now he had never been alone with the President of the United States. He’d seen Roosevelt in person, twice, each time at a dinner with hundreds of people. He was introduced to Truman, but again that was in a receiving line at an official function and before the 1948 election. When Eisenhower called him in to interview for the appointment as Chief Justice there must have been a half dozen advisors in the room at the time. Once he became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, a Constitutional post that established him as the leader of a co-equal branch of the Federal Government, he never met alone with Ike or Jack Kennedy. If asked, he supposed he would probably have offered the opinion that such a meeting might be improper, regardless of who occupied either office. And yet, following the murder of President Kennedy, here he was, alone with Lyndon Johnson in the private office of the President. The Chief Justice felt uncomfortable. He recorded his discomfort in his journal.

“Mr. Chief Justice, I’m afraid the American people are worried and confused,” Johnson went on. “They’re worried that their government, their country, is in jeopardy, facing great danger. They speculate about an enemy. Who is their enemy? Where are they? What are they gonna do next? Who else is gonna get killed? And who’s doing this killing? You know what I mean?”

“Well, yes. I think I do, Mr. President.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. You and I need to keep our heads about us. We need to clear away the cobwebs of confusion and put to rest the nation’s worry. That’s my obligation now. That’s our obligation. The trust of the people is the foundation on which this government rests. It’s the bedrock of our republic. It’s my responsibility—my sworn duty—to keep that trust from being shaken.” Johnson was quiet a moment. He shook his head slightly from side to side, showing his disgust and frustration. “This Oswald problem is getting out of hand,” he said. “How the goddamn hell do they let somebody shoot him? Tell me that!” The Chief Justice knew better than to reply.

Johnson rose from his desk, raised his fist in anger and walked over to the window looking out on the White House lawn. Special lights, put in place that afternoon by the Secret Service, covered much of the wide-open grassy area in bright light. In the late autumn afternoon, the garden just outside the Oval Office was already dark with only a few ground lights to show the walkways among the flowers and plants, the ones Mrs. Kennedy had arranged so beautifully.

“Oswald’s dead. Shot and killed in front of our eyes for Christ’s sake! The man who killed the President is dead. And now we got speculation running rampant. Who’d he work for?” Johnson once more turned around, paced from one side of the office to the other and back, slapping his thighs as he walked, then sat down—at the President’s desk—in the President’s chair. He looked like he’d been there forever. “I’ve got reports people are asking questions about his communist ties. Talking about the Cubans—those damn Cubans,” Johnson mumbled, looking down at the floor as if there might be something important there. Then he looked straight at Warren and spoke again in a loud, strong voice. “The Russians too, even Chinese. You know Oswald was stationed in Japan?”

“No sir, I didn’t. I didn’t know that. Did Oswald have any contact with the Chinese?”

“He could have, could have. Who knows? Chinese, Japanese. He could have. That’s not the point. The point is—people are asking questions. You understand? People are asking questions. Even you. You just asked, didn’t you? Newspapers are gonna start writing things, all sorts of things. You know that. With Oswald dead we’re never gonna get the truth about why he shot the President. Instead we’ll get speculation. We’ll get dangerous, unhealthy speculation. Crazy stuff. The kind that plays right into the hands of our real enemies. And we,” he said peering straight into Warren’s eyes, “have to prevent this. We have to stop this needless, irresponsible distraction. We have to stem the tide of our national vulnerability. We need time to heal our hurt. We’re hurting. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. People need to be reassured. We have to do what’s right. I must do it. And I need your help.”

“I’ll do whatever I can, Mr. President, whatever’s appropriate given my position and responsibilities. Legally, you know of course, this is a local problem. Murder, both of them, the murder of President Kennedy and the murder of Oswald, are violations that come under Texas law. There’s no federal crime here that I can see. Quite amazing, isn’t it? You kill the President of the United States, the highest-ranking federal officer in the land and you’re not subject to any federal jurisdiction as a result. You know, I hesitate to say it, actually I . . .”

“Don’t be shy, Mr. Chief Justice. Our job is to bring this whole sad business to its rightful conclusion.”

“I was going to say, I’m not sure it was such a good idea to remove the body from the local jurisdiction. I understand, under the circumstances . . .”

“Under the circumstances!” Johnson bellowed. “I had no information to tell me who else was in danger. Maybe they were after Mrs. Kennedy too. The Governor, my friend John Connally, was hit pretty bad. I didn’t know if I was a target. The thought more than crossed my mind, I can tell you that. You know, when Lincoln was killed they tried to get the Vice President at the same time. Another Johnson too. I had folks saying there was sharpshooters all over the place. Shots were coming from everywhere. Could have been a damn army of them. The Pentagon told me about threats from all over the world. You know, the Secretary of State was in the air over the Pacific Ocean while this was going on. Dallas was no place to be and I wasn’t gonna leave him back there. There’s her too,” he said, referring to the widowed First Lady. “She wouldn’t go without him. No sirree, she wouldn’t.”

“I understand,” Warren said. “This is not a matter you and I need to talk about at all. It’s improper. I apologize. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Then, he asked, “What did you mean ‘they’? Were there others with this fellow Oswald?”

“See, that’s what I mean!” said Johnson. “We’re all saying things we ought not to. We’re asking questions that don’t make a whole lot of sense and we’re jumping to conclusions, conclusions that aren’t true to the facts. The nation needs your leadership, your help, Mr. Chief Justice. Needs it badly.”

“I’m not sure what you have in mind, Mr. President. Are you thinking I can help in some way?”

The President outlined for Chief Justice Warren a plan to form a special temporary Commission to investigate the assassination of John F. Kennedy and have that Commission issue a complete report to the nation. The Commission would include Congressional leaders plus men of national and international reputation, trusted at home and abroad, learned in matters of law and experienced in foreign relations. The Commission members, said Johnson, must be men who were “beyond pressure and above suspicion.” A former director of the Central Intelligence Agency would be asked to serve, bringing his special expertise in the covert activities of other nations. Clearly his role would be to calm any fears about foreign involvement on the part of our communist enemies.

Staff and budget considerations would be no problem. A one-time authorization would give them what amounted to a blank check. Most important of all, the President told Warren, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would be the head of this Commission. He would chart its course and direct its efforts. He alone would determine procedure and he would issue the Commission’s report to the American people. “I want that report as soon as possible, right away. I know Christmas is too soon. Only a month away. It’s not the best time either, but I want it done no later than six to eight weeks, about the middle of January, first of February.”

Warren asked a few questions. Politics was out, said Johnson. No divisions were required for staffing. Neither of the American political parties would be entitled to staff quotas or other perks of that nature. “You pick ’em all. That simple,” said Johnson. To facilitate matters, the Court’s regular docket could be delayed for a couple of months. “We know—you and me, we know—sitting right here this minute—the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the President—we know it was Lee Harvey Oswald who did this by himself, acting alone, not part of any group, not working for any nation. Did it, just simply by himself. We know that. We don’t know why. We may never know why. We may never be sure. But we can be sure of this—our entire nation could come apart at the seams—the greatest and most powerful society in the history of human civilization—and it could all be destroyed unless we bring this to a proper end and put this matter to rest for good.”

Warren talked awhile about some of the specifics Johnson had mentioned, mainly procedural and technical areas—how the Commission would be chartered, the methods for keeping records and drawing funds, the jurisdictional problems which affect any enterprise involving more than one of the three branches of government. Finally, he added what he wanted to sound like an afterthought, no more than a casual personal reference, but what really constituted his reply to the President’s request and the reason for this meeting. “I would have to rule out my own participation,” he said. “Serving on this type of a commission would, as I see it, constitute an inappropriate judicial role for a sitting Chief Justice.” Such an American thought. The anger and frustration in Johnson’s eyes, Warren wrote in his journal, were almost palpable. “But,” Warren said to his President, “I can prepare a short list of retired Federal Judges, some quite well known . . .”

“You don’t seem to follow me,” said Johnson, restraining himself as best he could. “The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of The United States of America—that’s who’s needed. The report of this Commission will be the most important document our government issues in this century. It must be beyond reproach. Its stamp of truth must be the stamp of—it must be your stamp! It has to be the Warren Commission!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I cannot accept. I think I fully . . .”

“Mr. Chief Justice,” interrupted the President, like a man slamming on the brakes of a runaway truck. “I want you to think about it. Hold your answer. Think about the grave national crisis threatening to overwhelm us. Think about the brave young man we’re gonna bury tomorrow, his family, your family, our national family. I won’t take your final answer now. Just you think about it and we’ll talk some more.” LBJ smiled broadly and shook the Chief Justice’s hand as he would have had he been stumping for votes, gripping Warren’s hand firmly with his own right hand while his left covered Warren’s wrist. It didn’t hurt, wrote Warren. Nevertheless, he went on, I felt the President’s handshake all the way home.

Neither Warren’s wait nor his sleep lasted too long. At 5:50 am the doorbell rang. A tired and half-dressed housekeeper answered. She was greeted by two agents of the Secret Service. A limo, with the motor running, was parked at the curb. She woke the Chief Justice, told him the President wanted to see him immediately and then, as he dressed, she went to prepare some tea and hot oatmeal.

At 6:25 am, less than twelve hours since his last visit, Chief Justice Earl Warren walked into the Oval Office again. The beige couch was gone. The desk too. All the pictures on the wall had been changed. He couldn’t recall if the lamps or the two round end tables had been there a few hours before. Johnson was already sitting behind a huge, wooden desk made of a lighter wood, more worn than the one Kennedy had. It must have been moved from the Vice President’s office during the night. The President had been shot on Friday and the new President moved in before the weekend was over. I suppose, Warren later wrote, that’s the way it has to be. Everything seemed in order. The phones were lined up across one end of the desk to the President’s right—two white ones, each with six lines, a black phone with three rows of extra buttons, the kind of setup Warren had never seen before, and a plain, red one—a simple, unmarked red telephone with no dial and no buttons. Warren shuddered to think what use it had. All the personal items were there too, suitably arranged. Among the pens and paperweights Warren could see pictures of the Johnson daughters, another showing Lady Bird and LBJ in work clothes probably taken at the LBJ Ranch, somewhere in Texas, and near the only clock on the desk, off to the side, was an old black and white photograph in a brass 5x7 frame of the young Congressman Lyndon Baines Johnson shaking hands with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. President Roosevelt was holding the Congressman’s right hand firmly in his own while his left hand wrapped completely around Johnson’s wrist. They were both smiling.

Two young men, neither of whom Warren recognized, stood talking by the window nearest the door leading to the garden. The President was giving instructions to one of his secretaries, a comely young woman. He was especially animated although Warren could not overhear what he said. A valet, an old Negro man, approached carrying a tray. “Coffee or tea, Mr. Chief Justice?” he asked. Warren indicated a certain tea and watched as the old man prepared it with one hand while still holding the tray with his other. “Why don’t I just put it down over here,” he said. “And you can sit right down.”

“Morning, Mr. Chief Justice,” said the President. “Louise,” he added, waving away the woman he had been talking to, “get that done right now, hear.” Turning back to Warren, LBJ frowned and curled his lips like he was trying to dislodge something stuck between his teeth. “You give any more thought to what we talked about yesterday?”

“Well,” Warren answered, looking in the direction of the two younger men. “I’m not sure if . . .”

“Hey, Gene,” the President shouted across the room. “You and whatshisname want to find something useful to do?” He chuckled and they smiled as they left. “Thanks, boys,” he said as they shut the door behind them. It was hard to believe the funeral for the slain President was only hours away.

“Mr. President, I’ve been unable to change my thinking on this matter . . .”

“Look here, Earl,” said Johnson, his demeanor radically different from the day before. “I don’t know who the fuck killed Jack Kennedy. I’d swear it was those goddamn Cuban sonsofbitches, if somebody could get me anything on it, any evidence at all. Kennedy tried to kill him—Castro, you know that? More than once as I hear it. Shit, too bad it didn’t work. And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that damn sonofabitch Castro just had enough of it. You know—fuck me? Fuck you! And just had him blown away, shot down. The President of the United States. And in Texas to boot, just to make me look bad!” President Johnson grumbled, something Warren couldn’t make out, then he took a deep breath and appeared to gain control of himself once more. “Like I said, Earl, I just plain don’t know. It could have been anybody, from anywhere, for any damn reason. Christ, ain’t nobody knows who did it! I’ve asked. I’ve asked ’em all—FBI, CIA, Joint Chiefs. I’d ask the damn tooth fairy if I thought she could tell me something. No one’s got an answer worth shit. I’ll tell you what we do know. What we do know is that Lee Harvey Oswald is taking the fall on this and he’s already put dead and gone. The American people will be reassured that the man who killed their President was caught and that he acted alone. You got that? I mean A-L-O-N-E, alone, by hisself! Maybe he was crazy, maybe not. I don’t give a flying fuck. But he was alone! Do you hear me?” Earl Warren heard him. He heard him loud and clear. “I ain’t taking the country down that road to ruin,” the President continued. He rose from his chair and walked around the desk and right over to where Warren sat. He stood directly above him, looking straight down into his face. “If people can’t be told what happened—by their government—and damn well believe it, then how the fuck are we gonna make them believe anything else? Goddamnit, Earl, we run this country because people think we know what the fuck we’re doing! And you’re gonna help make sure it stays that way. Do you understand me?”

Earl Warren took a deep breath and agreed to head a Commission that would bear his name. He thought about Judge Sarah Hughes for just a moment. Maybe she didn’t get such a bad deal after all. My God! read the entry in his diary. Did Oswald act alone? As Johnson spoke to me, a chill ran up my back. My heart beat so fast I thought it would burst. Oswald may have had nothing to do with this!

In a private conversation eight and a half years later, preserved on a tape from May 1972, and never meant for public disclosure, President Johnson’s successor, Richard M. Nixon, said of the Warren Commission report, “It was the greatest hoax that has ever been perpetuated.”

PART ONE

Well searching/Yeah I’m gonna searching/

Searching every which-a-way yeh yeh.

–Leiber & Stoller–

“It’s my nephew,” she said.

Walter and Conchita Crystal had strolled to the end of the pier. No ferry was in dock. No crowd of tourists waited for their return trip to St. Thomas. They were alone. The sun was high in the sky, very hot. Walter wore a plain, brown baseball cap, one without writing or a logo. It was a soft cap. It hugged the contours of his head closely. The brim kept the sun from his eyes and his long hair covered his neck. Conchita looked at him. Sensitive as she already suspected him to be, she saw too a roughness about Walter Sherman, an appealing and attractive independence to his personality, a streak of unpredictability coinciding amicably enough with an obvious strength of character.

“Do you remember Charles Bronson?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“You remind me of him.” She smiled, this time almost as an afterthought, and sheepishly looked away, giggling. Had she known Bronson? Had she liked him? Walter didn’t know if she meant it as a compliment or not. He wasn’t sure himself. Charles Bronson?

“What about your nephew?” he asked.

“He’s not safe. He’s in great danger.”

“I thought you said this was a matter of your life and death, Ms. Crystal.”

“Please call me Chita.”

“I’m not sure I know you well enough, yet.”

“Well, whatever you prefer. It is a matter of life or death for me. I’d die if anything happened to him.”

“That doesn’t exactly qualify, you know. But I’m already here, aren’t I? Why don’t you tell me what it is that’s on your mind. Maybe you’ll find a way after all to make it fit.”

She began at the beginning—her beginning. At first, Walter wasn’t sure why. Conchita Crystal, she told him, was born Linda Morales, to a single mother in Puerto Rico. Her mother gave her up at birth. She had been a sickly baby. Particularly disturbing was a skin condition that looked awful and smelled worse. When she told him that, Walter was hard pressed not to blurt out how beautiful her skin was now, like creamy caramel or café latte, and how wonderful she smelled. He almost did, nearly started to, but caught himself just in time. Her skin, she said, did not begin to clear up until she was almost nine years old. Thus, the youngster Linda Morales was not an attractive product on the adoption market. She kicked around foster homes until landing in an orphanage, that passed for a Catholic Church school, near Ponce, Puerto Rico. Four years later, at fifteen, she ran away, somehow survived on the streets, and found her way into the music and club scene of San Juan. It went without saying—and she didn’t say it to Walter—that Linda Morales must have been quite a beauty, easily able to look grown-up even at that tender age.

The rest Walter knew as well as anyone who ever read a paper, looked at a fashion magazine, saw a movie, watched TV or listened to the radio. By seventeen, the girl who had been Linda Morales had become Conchita Crystal, Latin pop singing idol. By twenty she was a leading model, admired by teenage girls and young women the world over and dreamed of by teenage boys and many men much older. The little girl no one wanted, the one who looked terrible and smelled bad, was now desired by everyone. She married twice, both times in her twenties, and over the years Conchita Crystal was publicly involved with at least a dozen movie and rock stars. She was a favorite of the show business tabloids. For three decades they proclaimed exclusive, inside information about her rumored affairs, broken marriages, secret marriages, and painful disappointments. If she had been pregnant half as many times as they said she was, it would have been a miracle, much of it immaculately conceived. Almost nothing written about her was true. The fact was she had never been pregnant and never had a child. Of the men she was publicly involved with, many were strictly business, all done for the publicity. Of course, some relationships were real. Telling the difference, in the press, was a task. Her most private attachments, including one that began in her late twenties and continued to this day, were just that—private. She worked hard and spent a lot of money to keep them that way. Walter assumed she had a private, personal social life and further assumed neither he nor the press knew anything about it. Whoever he was, lucky man, he thought.

The movies made her a superstar at barely twenty, and despite the remark she made to Walter back in Billy’s, he knew her popularity was still extraordinary. Sure, she didn’t work as often or as hard as she used to, but after all, he figured, she’s no kid anymore. Plus, the stories of her wealth were legendary. And while the stories of her spending were also, surely she didn’t have to work at the pace she once did.

“Very impressive,” said Walter, when it appeared she was finished. “And a story I’m not surprised to hear. Even from a distance you’ve always seemed like a strong woman. You must have been a strong girl too.”

“I looked for my mother,” Conchita Crystal said. “I searched everywhere. I hired people who combed records, anything, anything at all, to tell me about my mother. I should have known about you then.” Walter saw tears dripping from her right eye, sliding down the bridge of her nose. Another tear swelled up in the corner of her left eye. She sniffled, the back of her index finger rubbing across her upper lip. It brushed gently against her nostrils.

My God, he said to himself, temporarily oblivious to the seriousness of the moment. This is one beautiful woman.

She never found her mother, she said. Perhaps she died. Perhaps not. But Linda Morales did discover who her mother was and along with that revelation came the knowledge she had an older brother and two older sisters—all of whom had been abandoned as well. Chita spent years tracking them down. She found her brother first and then one sister. Both have been well taken care of and she remained close with each of them, she told Walter. The last one Conchita Crystal finally located was her oldest sister, Elana Morales.

“She died,” said Chita. “Actually, that’s what made it possible for me to find her. That’s how we found her. When she died one of the people helping me came to me with the information. I never got to see her, to meet her. And she was my sister.” Once more there were tears. This time Walter reached into his pocket and handed her one of Billy’s bar napkins he had there.

“Thank you,” she said. “Elana never married, but she had a son. She took the father’s name, for her son too, of course. Levine. Not easy for me to find. Levine. Lots of them and they’re not supposed to be Puerto Rican, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Walter said.

“He’s a nice young man, a wonderful person. He’s my sister’s boy and I love him as I would have loved her. Now, he needs my help. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

Walter did not ask how she found him. They all found him the same way. Who she reached out to was of no interest to him. They knew he was here for them. Until he retired, that is. Conchita Crystal was not the richest, certainly not the most powerful person to ever seek him out. And, as well known as she was—worldwide—even she might have been surprised to learn, not the most famous either. But Walter was sure she was the most beautiful.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

With that most simple of invitations, Conchita Crystal proceeded to tell Walter a story so absurd and incomplete, so filled with holes he had to remind himself several times not to completely dismiss its credibility before she finished. Her nephew, Harry Levine, had the written confession, she said, of the man who killed John F. Kennedy.

Sadie Fagan had a moustache. Not a thick one, dark and heavy, but noticeable nonetheless. It didn’t bother Harry Levine, until he was a teenager. Then he found it kind of creepy. Later, as a grown man, keenly aware and eagerly appreciative of the intrigues a woman’s body offered, Harry no longer concerned himself with Aunt Sadie’s mildly hairy upper lip. She was his father’s older sister, a squat woman, a fireplug not much more than five feet in her shoes. She was fat, but not like a lot of middle-aged women Harry saw around town. Not like the ones who always seemed to smoke menthol cigarettes. Not like the obese ones with huge asses and truck-tire thighs. And not like the ones who drove ten-year-old Pontiacs, wore oversize t-shirts emblazoned with NASCAR logos, and inevitably blocked the aisles at Wal-Mart. Aunt Sadie was solid and carried her weight well distributed. She had a big head, big ankles and a big everything else in between.

From what Harry could see, his father and Sadie shared only the same dark complexion. All resemblance ended there. In the photographs, the ones his mother and Sadie loved to show him, she always smiled. His father never did, not in any of them. And all the while Aunt Sadie never had any expression on her face except a happy smile.

As a kid, Harry thought his aunt’s grin was permanently pasted on her face. She awoke smiling and went to sleep the same way. And it was there all the while in between, even when she was angry. When Harry was eleven he happened across a picture of the old Brooklyn Dodgers catcher Roy Campanella. Immediately, he recognized his aunt. Of course, she was neither black nor a man and hardly a ballplayer. She was, instead, very much a middle-class, suburban, New York Jewish woman, one who just happened to live in Roswell, Georgia.

Like so many southern white women, Jews and Christians alike, Sadie had what could only be politely called big hair. To Harry, the scent of hairspray meant his aunt was nearby. No matter what she wore—a bathrobe on a Sunday morning, Bermuda shorts and one of her husband Larry’s old shirts while she worked in the garden, or a shiny, gleaming, rhinestone-studded floor-length evening gown like the ones she always wore to wedding receptions and took with her on Caribbean cruises—Sadie’s hair was always perfect and very heavily lacquered. Stiff to the touch.

Harry was born in May 1974, six months after his father disappeared in Vietnam or Cambodia or Laos or someplace else. Who really knew? His mother, Elana Morales, never believed the government’s story, but what could she do? She wasn’t his wife. The unfortunate David Levine drew a low number, got drafted in February, last saw Elana in August and disappeared, MIA, the second week of December 1973. He was never found.

Harry’s mom, Elana, was Puerto Rican, a real Puerto Rican, not a New York Puerto Rican. She was a law student in New York City when she met David Levine, fell in love and moved in with him. They talked about getting married, talked about it, that’s all. David fancied himself a poet. He worked at the Post Office and wrote long poems, that rarely rhymed, in small notebooks, sitting with Elana in coffeehouses and bars in Greenwich Village. Both of them were antiwar—who wasn’t? It was the seventies. He really got screwed by his draft board. By then it was too late to get married and when Elana turned up pregnant, the Army couldn’t care less.

Sadie and Larry Fagan moved from Brooklyn to Atlanta in 1966. Larry had made a business trip there a few months earlier—he sold medical equipment—loved it and worked himself into his company’s southeastern office. Sadie was reluctant to leave New York, her family and friends, but she kept her misgivings to herself. Soon after arriving in Georgia, she realized her fears were unfounded and was more than happy to admit it. Sadie made new friends. So did Larry. They both loved living in Atlanta. Larry found his way to a senior management job with a major manufacturer of cardiac surgical supplies and the two of them settled in for the long haul.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t have children. They never said exactly why not, but years later Harry discovered it was his uncle’s fault. A low sperm count can give many women second thoughts, but Sadie stayed, sacrificed and saved her motherly love for her nephew. When Elana gave birth she gave Harry his father’s name, Levine, and took it for herself too. She was alone in New York with a baby and another year of school before becoming an attorney. She needed money and she needed friends. Sadie and Larry invited her to come to Georgia, not for a visit but permanently. They implored her. “We’re family,” they said. Elana accepted. She transferred to Emory University Law School and brought herself and her baby son to live with the Fagans.

That’s the way Harry grew up. He and his mother lived downstairs on the lower level. They had two bedrooms, a living room, a small office for Elana and a bathroom. They had a separate entrance from the backyard, one that Elana never used. In high school, when Harry sneaked out after curfew and came home late, way late, he came and went via that special door. His mother knew. His aunt and uncle knew. It never crossed Harry’s mind they had any idea. He thought he’d pulled one over.

They had a wonderful life in that house, all four of them. After her graduation, Elana passed the Bar and took a position with one of Atlanta’s big, downtown law firms. Six years later, she realized she would never be made partner. Why? Although a Levine, she was Latino. While some Jews made partner, no such rewards awaited Latinos. She was unmarried. She was a mother. Who knew why? She quit. Elana Levine opened her own law office in Roswell, near home, all by herself. She did everything a lawyer could—wills; evictions; pre-nuptial agreements; divorce and custody; civil suits of all shapes and sizes; and minor criminal offences, DUIs and drug busts for rich suburban kids. As a Spanish speaker, she was sought out by Atlanta’s growing Mexican population, usually for matters pertaining to immigration. Her practice thrived. Very soon she earned more money than Larry Fagan did. She paid half the family’s expenses and could easily have afforded a home of her own but Elana never—not once, not ever—considered moving out. Sadie would not have allowed it anyway.

In the hot summer of 1991 Harry’s mother was retained to represent two Mexican men, both undocumented, each charged with rape and murder. It was a death penalty case, high profile considering the nature of the crime and the defendants. The victim was a white woman, a cute blonde in her twenties. Family photos showed her glowing good looks and beaming personality. They were plastered all over local TV and in the newspapers. The time-honored, southern tradition of demonizing the dark-skinned perpetrator prepared to roll like a roaring train, full-steam at these . . . Mexicans. Elana mounted a spirited defense. In so doing she became the darling of the Atlanta media. An attractive woman, in her early forties, she was a natural for local television. That, like the defendants, she was herself a Latino was the icing on the cake.

The judge failed to put a gag order on the lawyers and Elana trumpeted her client’s innocence. Television ate it up. The camera loved her: long hair, dark eyes, tan skin and ruby red lips. Both men were, in fact, completely innocent, falsely accused, indistinguishable by the local cops from any of a million Mexican men. They had absolutely nothing to do with the crime. There was no evidence and, after Elana’s closing argument, no doubt about the verdict. Both of them were found not guilty. Their rejoicing was short-lived. No sooner had the judge declared the men “free to go,” than agents of the federal government, INS, approached, arrested and carried them off. They were illegals, wet-backs, undocumented—call them what you will—they were ripe for deportation.

The young, impressionable Harry was so taken by the circumstances of the case, by the job his mother had done, and by what he saw as the gross injustice of a callous, unfeeling federal government, he made up his mind right then what he would do for his life’s work. He wanted to be a Foreign Service Officer. He wanted to represent his government with compassion and dignity, so people like his mother and her clients would no longer toil and suffer under the weight of a perfidious state. Of course, he was only seventeen years old.

After high school, Harry attended Tulane University in New Orleans, where he studied International Relations. He loved New Orleans yet always looked forward to coming home, to Roswell, for summer vacations, Thanksgiving and Christmas. He never went to Panama City or Ft. Lauderdale for Spring Break. He never drove across country for the summer, up to New England or west to California. Why would he? Why would anyone? he wondered. He went home. What could possibly be better than Roswell? When he graduated, Harry went north to the Law School of the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. He told his mother he needed a law degree from an Ivy League school. She was so proud. More than the education, the contacts he made and the imprimatur on his resume proved very helpful in the diplomatic corps. At twenty-five, Harry Levine took his top-list law degree and joined the Foreign Service.

The day he left the United States for his first assignment overseas was one of those spring days in Manhattan New Yorkers dream about all winter. A gentle, sweet-smelling, cool breeze mixed with a bright sun, high in a cloudless sky. Coats were unbuttoned. Jackets unzipped. People breathed deeply, smiled widely. Harry’s plane didn’t leave until late in the afternoon. He had all day to walk around and say goodbye to America. He was strolling on the sunny side of 23rd Street when he spotted the little record store with a big sign in the window: REAL RECORDS—VINYL LPs. Harry had always been a real record man. His father had quite a collection. His mother saved them—all of them—for Harry. He grew up with Jefferson Airplane, Marvin Gaye and The Mamas & The Papas. Sixties pop wasn’t the only music his father liked. David Levine left his son hundreds of records, including a wide variety of jazz—Oscar Peterson, Art Blakey, Count Basie and Joe Williams. Harry loved those records for many reasons, not the least of which was, they were his connection to the father he knew about, but never knew. Poor David and poor Harry. Most children who grow up without a father are constantly told by their mother, whether true or not, how much their father loved them. Harry, of course, was well aware his birth came after his father was killed. Might it be, he sometimes wondered, that the records were more important to him than they ought to be?

After Tulane, just before he left for law school in Philadelphia, Harry decided he needed a really good record player, a top quality turntable. He was surprised to find no one sold any. The vinyl LP, invented by the engineers at Columbia Records in 1948, was already a relic of the past. The compact disc, with its seductive clarity, had pushed the record to forgotten bins in old music stores. So too was the fate of the record player, the quality turntable. Harry had no use for the CD. They were surely more precise than pressed vinyl, more like how one might think the music ought to sound. But, for Harry, the CD was less than the real thing, the sum failing to equal its parts. It was cold, empty. He just wanted a turntable and was disappointed when he couldn’t find a store that sold good ones. Everywhere he looked, they either had none or the little, cheap, children’s record players. The manager of a discount electronics superstore near the Roswell Mall told Harry there might be someone who could help him. “Try Fat Jack’s,” he said. “He’s got a place down the block from the Historic District, around the corner—I forget the name of the street. Look for it. If Jack is still in business, he’ll get one for you.” Fat Jack’s Audio was in a small strip center, one of four storefronts. It shared space with a chiropractor, a dry cleaner and a travel agency. There was a small sign above the door, but nothing in the window. Inside, Harry found an old man sitting on a car seat ripped from a Chevy or a Ford or some other 30-year-old American car. The car seat was on the floor, in the middle of the store, surrounded by boxes and boxes of records. The old man looked to be dozing.

“I’m looking for a turntable,” Harry said.

“Miss your records?” the old man asked, looking up, wide awake.

“No. I play them. It’s just that . . .”

“Don’t sound good enough for you?”

“Yes. That’s right. So, I’m looking for a good turntable—at a reasonable price. Someone told me I could find Jack—Fat Jack—and he might have one I could buy.”

“I’m Jack,” the old guy said, standing up and offering his hand to Harry. “What do you like most about your records?” he asked. Harry stood there, surprised by the unexpected and somewhat personal question, thinking about an answer. When nothing came to mind, he repeated it back to Jack.

“What do I like most about my records?”

The old man, who was anything but fat—he looked average, quite normal in every way—smiled at Harry and walked slowly over to the counter beyond the boxes of records, toward the rear of the store. Harry noticed there was no overhead lighting. At least none that was turned on. Three floor lamps, one in the middle of the boxes, another by the counter where Jack was, and a third well behind him, visible through an open door leading to some sort of back room, illuminated the store. Harry wondered what kind of business this guy could do in a store this dark. He didn’t see any turntables. He didn’t see any equipment at all. Harry had no way of knowing Fat Jack made everything he sold, been doing it like that for decades.

“Take your time,” Jack said.

“You know the sound you hear just as the needle touches the first groove?” said Harry, finally. “It’s only a moment. Just an instant. It’s like the sound of someone tapping an open mike. That’s it,” he said. “That sound. That’s what I like most about my records.”

Fat Jack—who, it turned out, had weighed nearly 400 pounds some years earlier, and lost more than half of it supposedly by giving up fried chicken—ended up making Harry a turntable. Belt driven, speed calibrated with a light sensor checking device and a manual override adjustment, separate power switches for the motor and the turntable itself, a special stylus he said he got from a special source in “Brooklyn, New York City,” even a soft landing, anti-static, removable, double-sided table cover. And he did the whole job for under five hundred dollars. Along with many of David Levine’s LPs, Fat Jack’s turntable, lovingly and securely packed, was already on its way to Turkey.

Going through the stacks in the tiny, old record store, he came upon Erroll Garner’s Concert By The Sea. He owned it; it was not one of his father’s. Harry bought it in a shop in Little Five Points, in Atlanta, when he was in high school. He remembered how often he played it late at night while studying for his twelfth-grade chemistry final. He remembered closing all the downstairs doors to keep the noise, especially Garner’s trademark grunts, from waking his mother who slept just down the hall. He’d go upstairs to the kitchen, make a pot of coffee, set himself up with his books and his notes at the small table in their living room and stay up, way past the middle of the night, studying. Putting the record back in its place, he smiled and pictured himself, once again a teenager, sitting in Mr. Kimmelman’s classroom getting every question right while all the time hearing Erroll Garner playing in his private ear. That night, on his flight to Europe, in his sleep, he heard him again.

Just as he knew it would, a whole new life opened to Harry in the Foreign Service. From the crooked, cobblestone streets and smoky cafes of Ankara, his initial station, to the noisy marketplaces of Cairo, and amidst the grandeur of Paris, his search for himself blossomed like the dogwoods along Peachtree Road. He cut his hair shorter than most. He’d always wanted it so he could run his hands across his head as if they were a brush. His wardrobe grew more formal and more distinctive. Unlike so many Americans in the Foreign Service, Harry bought his suits, shirts and ties in Europe. He favored the English tailors and found their merchandise to be both readily available and affordable. His personality emerged as brighter and more lighthearted than it had been while in school. The ease and comfort of his demeanor complemented his dressy appearance. He was funny, and fun to be with, ironic at times, but rarely cynical. He was well liked by just about everyone.

In Europe, where sexual liberation was neither new nor limited by age and class, Harry did quite well with the ladies. His female companions were numerous and diverse. By the time he reached London he was a seasoned professional in his mid-thirties, a comfortable expatriate, without serious affectation, sensitive to the pleasures and comforts of his life and fully satisfied at how little effort was required to secure them.

A year after Harry’s arrival in London, his mother died of pancreatic cancer. Elana Levine had just celebrated her 54th birthday. It happened so quickly. The leftover birthday cake Sadie had put in the freezer was still there, uneaten. One day Elana complained about not feeling right and faster than anyone could map out a campaign to defeat it, the cancer killed her. Elana Morales Levine never knew she had a sister. She died at home, as she insisted, in her own bed. She was surrounded by loved ones—Harry, who had flown in from England when Sadie told him how bad things were, and Sadie and Larry. She closed her eyes thinking of David, the morphine unable to still the joy of her final memory.

Frederick Lacey, the eldest son of a bourgeois Liverpool family, was commissioned as a midshipman in His Majesty’s naval service in 1916, three days after turning eighteen years old. His father, William Lacey, had arranged it. William Lacey’s comfort resulted from the splendid success of his company, a firm that specialized in railroad parts and supplies. Lacey’s, as the business was known, had a well-earned reputation for timely delivery, plus an ability to get parts that were otherwise in short supply, parts others seemed at a loss to deliver in any time frame. He charged more than the much larger London firms with which he competed. But, unlike them, he was always true to his word. A month’s wait meant a month’s wait, not two or three or even a year’s, as others would have it. Smart businessmen will always pay more for that kind of reputation. William Lacey knew that and regarded reliability as his most precious asset. Almost a century before computers and wire transfers made money fly around the world at the speed of light, Frederick Lacey’s father showed a mastery of modern economics. His carefully chosen accounts, in banks across the wide span of the European continent, allowed him to make displays of gratitude, when called for, immediately. Men of business whose national heritage often included—nay, required—the presentation of special favors, plus the legions of Customs Agents and other governmental overseers, greedy and quick to accept any bribe, were often satisfied on the spot. William Lacey could conclude negotiations and close the deal without the delay associated with most international financial arrangements. His son took notice.

The railroads, like all English industries, were controlled by the most powerful men of their time and it was through such contacts as these that William Lacey was able to secure his son’s position in the Royal Navy. Despite the manner of his commission, Frederick Lacey’s social status, or more precisely the absence of any, affected his career from day one. A combat sea assignment was out of the question. There were hardly enough of them for the sons of England’s truly important. None would be available for the boy of a Liverpool merchant. Instead Lacey’s participation in The Great War was spent entirely in Naval Logistics. This exclusionary policy, determined by the social mores of the nineteenth century, proved crucial to Frederick Lacey’s future and would have a tremendous impact on the affairs of powerful men and great nations throughout the twentieth century. It was clear for anyone to read—Lacey anticipated, expected and planned for great power for himself from the beginning. He didn’t hope for it, dream of it, yearn for it. He knew it awaited him.

In Lacey’s writings about The Great War, entries he made in the years after it ended, he eventually began calling it simply World War One. Apparently, once the “war to end all wars” didn’t, a handy digit was tacked on and History moved, inexorably, toward successively higher numbers. That didn’t seem to bother Frederick Lacey. By education, experience and intuition, he understood that hostilities among men, as individuals and within the context of the social institutions they created, were the normal state of things. Those who understood and expected it, dealt with it best.

As the war raced across Europe, from the Balkans to Belgium, ravaging France, it was the English Navy that was entrusted with the mission to supply the largest fighting force assembled in modern times. These were not the ancient armies of Caesar, Napoleon or Hannibal, living off the land, stopping for weeks, even months at a time, to re-supply before moving on to the next battle. No one would cross the Alps with elephants in the twentieth century. No longer necessary. In the new and modern war Lacey fought, millions of men needed to be fed and clothed daily. Munitions of all types and sizes, machines of all nature and kind plus the various technical necessities required for mass destruction had to move quickly from one end of the European continent to the other and sometimes back again. No more wagons. No more horses. No more sailing ships slowly riding the prevailing winds. This war was fought with tanks, motorized vehicles, heavy artillery and huge, metal warships plowing the seas with steel blades turned by turbine engines burning oil. The trains had to run. Airplanes, the newest of all weapons, had to fly. Fuel had to flow.

Since the reign of the first Richard, the English had traditionally left their military logistics in the hands of idiots. It was, after all, they reckoned, clerk’s work. Too often these clerks proved more adept at lining their own pockets than anything remotely connected with supplying the needs of a massive army. Now they found themselves unprepared for the demands they faced. They looked everywhere for help including outside the chain of command. Frederick Lacey, aided in no small measure by the experience and observation gained at his father’s side, and acting with no regard for his youth, stepped into the chaotic breach and quickly assumed a leadership role far beyond his rank. His stunning accomplishments precipitated his rapid ascent to power and influence. Not only did he demonstrate an exceptional talent for organization, a capacity sorely absent among his superiors, he was uniquely successful at getting things done when failure seemed already a foregone conclusion. What couldn’t be done, what senior officers wished would disappear from their plates, soon became tasks for the youngster, Lacey. Let it be him who shoulders the blame, they all figured. They were exceedingly public in the assignment of his duties, making it impossible to deny him the credit when he accomplished the impossible.

Lacey would later describe, in his personal journals, how he painstakingly developed what would become lifetime relationships with heretofore untapped, nontraditional connections able to assist the movement of supplies and materials across Europe’s war zones. The establishment of such an extraordinary, seamless process was no surprise to Lacey. On a much smaller scale, it was just what he had seen his father do. In Italy and Sicily and throughout the Mediterranean, into the Middle East, extending even to North Africa, and stretching eastward to the Muslim mountain states in Central Asia and Russia, it was Frederick Lacey who forged partnerships and created alliances previously unknown to Western powers. To assuage British sensibilities, Lacey, a mere twenty years old, wrote how he was able to take actual command by always acting in the name of his superiors, senior officers clever enough to take credit for Lacey’s successes and smart enough to know they didn’t deserve it. Unless someone worked for him or dealt directly with him, Lacey was no more than an inconspicuous junior officer. For those who did encounter him, especially those with whom he met face to face, Frederick Lacey was unforgettable. His reputation, within the circles crucial to his success, soon developed to legendary scale. He was so young it was hard to believe the power and influence he wielded.

His written entries kept a detailed record of his health. At twenty, he stood six feet three inches and weighed hardly a hundred and sixty pounds. He had sandy hair, which he wore shorter than most Englishmen of the time, and a pleasant, attractive, clean-shaven face. His posture was especially straight, lending him a proper appearance of authority and adding a few years and inches to his overall look. He wore power like a well-fitted coat. And he never, ever fidgeted. At times he was known to keep his hands and feet perfectly still for what some said was forever. He showed a warm and genuine smile when it seemed appropriate, but strangely, never displayed anger or revealed distress. Never. Lacey wrote about how easily those qualities came to him. Others envied his temperament, his self-control, his self-confidence.

When putting together complicated arrangements for transport of goods through dangerous territory, under trying circumstances, he always acted with calm tranquility and spoke with an attitude that left no allowance for any outcome but a good one. Lacey never asked for more than he knew he could get and never accepted less. He would not haggle in the sense that merchants do. His first offer was always his last. The offer might of course be repeated, rephrased in different language, language more suitable to his proposed partner. But Lacey never bargained to his disadvantage. Whenever his personal approval was required to close a deal, it was both immediate and final. This fearless single-mindedness made him a formidable negotiator. He often talked about whatever it was he wanted a bit longer than other men might have. He showed no rush to make a deal, to close the sale. For him, the sale was made before the discussion even began. When he did make a specific offer, it was rock solid. It may have annoyed some, but in spite of this approach, wrote Lacey, he was rarely perceived as either confrontational or overly adversarial. Men accustomed to the exercise of great power among their own people, men of wisdom, maturity and experience were said to have seen something terrifying in Lacey’s eyes, a confidence and demeanor frightening in its serenity.

Lacey wrote in his journal of a time in Turkey when he attempted to make an arrangement with bandits who had been particularly bothersome. Through men of influence, a meeting was arranged. The café that was their meeting place was nearly empty when Lacey arrived, alone. The warlord he was to deal with came accompanied by a contingent of warriors. They must have numbered fifteen or more and they were a sight to behold. Either they were in costume or, thought Lacey, they came directly from the mountains. Most were laden with furs and still wore heavy boots more suitable to dirt than city streets. They had long hair, very long hair, and most had heavy, thick mustaches. The smell of sweat, whiskey and animals filled the room. When they sat, the fighters gathered in a circle, a tight circle with Lacey and their leader in the middle. Lacey found himself surrounded. The two men talked a while and shared a drink. Lacey praised the skill of the thief’s efforts and readily admitted the inconvenience to his own needs.

“That is why I am here,” he said. “To show proper respect and prevent future inconvenience.” Then he offered the warlord gold, twenty thousand English pounds.

“Twenty thousand pounds of gold—in weight? I will take that,” roared the Turk, with a lusty laugh. All those surrounding Lacey laughed too.

“No,” said Lacey. “You misunderstand my language. I apologize. Not in weight. Twenty thousand pounds in value of the British pound Sterling, in gold of course.”

“Not in weight?” the warlord laughed. “Yes, in weight! Then you can be sure your worries are over.”

Lacey waited for the raucous laughter to run its course, for the fighters to quiet. He had been sitting perfectly still all the while. When the café was silent, he spoke. “You do not worry me, sir. You only inconvenience me.”

“I inconvenience you!” the Turk shouted, jumping to his feet. “I can kill you here, right now as you sit at my feet. Is that not an inconvenience to make you worry? Why should I not do that?”

“Because,” said Lacey in a measured tone, displaying a calm demeanor so different from that of everyone around him that he could see it rattled some of the fighters closest to him, “then you would not have twenty thousand English pounds, in gold. You would have nothing. If you need time, I fully understand. My offer is good for an hour. I shall be returning to London in the morning. I’m confident we shall have reached an understanding gratifying to each of us.” If there was fear in the room, it was the Turk’s. Lacey rose and walked out the door, the band of warriors separating to let him through.

On a cold evening, at the end of the winter of 1917, Frederick Lacey wrote that he first saw the girl who would be his wife, the mother of his only child. He was in Lisbon confirming final agreements for certain items which were to travel by sea from Italy to France. The turmoil of war had significantly undermined the credibility of some European governments requiring the cooperation of special interests. Lacey found access to them in Portugal. He was dining with these new friends and business associates when she arrived at the same restaurant in the company of her father, Djemmal-Eddin Messadou, a leader of the anti-Bolshevik Transcaucasian Federation. It was said he was a direct descendant of Shamyl, the third and final Imam of Dagestan.

She was remarkably beautiful, standing every inch of six feet with slender limbs, long and perfectly shaped to her body. Her black hair flowed in waves all the way to the small of her back, thick and curly, stunning. It accented her neck, making her appear even taller than she was. When she passed by the table where Lacey sat, her smell sent shivers up his back, across his shoulders and deep into the cheeks of his face. He breathed slowly, feeling his heart pound quickly. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He watched her every movement. Lacey’s journal described in great detail how she placed the napkin on her lap, how she took the wine glass and switched its place from her right to her left hand, how she gently pushed her hair back letting it slide across her bare shoulder. Despite the dim light, Lacey saw her smooth, dark complexion; the graceful lines of her face; her long and high, sharply pointed nose; wide mouth; full lips; and coal black, oval-shaped eyes set beneath heavy brows, eyes that seemed to slant upward, just slightly, giving them a unique appearance, at once penetrating and vulnerable.

“She is quite lovely, is she not?” asked Lacey’s host with what Lacey described as a fatherly smile.

“Yes, she is,” Lacey replied. “Yes, she certainly is. Tell me, do you know her? Is she Turkish? Kurdish perhaps? Or maybe from the Caucuses. Georgia or Azerbaijan?”

“You’re quite amazing,” said the older man. “She is Georgian. Aminette Messadou is her name. She is the youngest daughter of Djemmal-Eddin. He’s the man with her, and to be sure, one to be reckoned with. A man of Muslim nobility, two generations a Christian, adored by his people, of both great faiths. You are a most remarkable young man, Mr. Lacey. By the way, just what is your actual rank? What should we know you by now that we’ve concluded our business with a true and honorable sense of mutual satisfaction? I’ve heard everything from Commander to Midshipman.” He laughed a friendly, respectful laugh. “Who can know about a man so young with so much . . . ability.”

“My rank is servant to my King,” said Lacey. “I would like to meet her. Can you help?”

“Of course,” the older man answered with a big smile, a generous chuckle and real admiration. “Your King is most fortunate.”

Ninety years later, these words, written in Frederick Lacey’s own hand, would so overcome Harry Levine as he read them, he would have no choice but to put the page down and stare at it. “My rank is servant to my King,” Lacey had written. Who could read that and not shake their head in wonder, in awe. What a man. What a man.

Lacey married Aminette Messadou in 1919 and, when his wife got pregnant in 1920, he resigned from the Navy. He started the first of his shipping companies, a legitimate, highly successful and never questioned cover for serious smuggling, the source of his real money. When he was only twenty-three years old, he was able to furnish things and move them in a way no one else on earth could duplicate. No longer a servant to his King, he served himself and those he loved.

Later that year, Aminette died giving birth to Audrey. Lacey was disconsolate, heartbroken. Page after page of his journal was filled with little more than Frederick Lacey’s misery written all over them. He raised his daughter by himself. Audrey was the light of his life, until she committed suicide in 1940. He was devastated by her loss as well as the unanswered questions she left behind. Thereafter, Frederick Lacey lived alone. He did not marry again until well into his sixties. His second wife, a mature and wealthy Englishwoman, widow of a close friend, died of natural causes after fourteen years of marriage. There were, of course, no children from this union. Clearly, he was fond of his second wife, but Aminette and Audrey were the women he loved. Lacey’s sense of personal despair, at the loss, first of his wife, then of his daughter was so great, reading about it seemed to Harry an unwarranted imposition on the man’s privacy.

During the 1920s Lacey met and allied himself with Joe Kennedy in a lucrative liquor-smuggling chain. Lacey was the European end. His ships delivered the stuff, mainly Irish whiskey, English gin and French wines, to Cuba, where Kennedy’s special friends picked them up. Lacey’s partners included what he referred to as “men of exalted position” in Sicily. Their counterparts in the United States participated also, not as his associates but as Kennedy’s. Taking a cue from his father, Lacey had money everywhere, in a multitude of currencies. Sometimes huge amounts. In London dinner party conversation, it was said, by more than a few who claimed to know, that Frederick Lacey could be stranded in any country of the world, cut off from his funds elsewhere, and still be a very wealthy man. Some stories had him with secret stashes of cash in Asia, Latin America and other faraway places. And of course, there were always the rumors about the Czar’s gold.

Joe Kennedy opened the United States to him. Millions of Lacey’s dollars went to Wall Street and when the market crashed in ’29, he bought while others sold. Impressed with Roosevelt’s New Deal, he continued buying. The war in Europe curtailed his taste for American equities, but when the war was over, Lacey doubled his Wall Street holdings and then doubled them again in the 1950s.

In the early years, his friendship with Joe Kennedy was especially close and enduring. Lacey was unattached and Kennedy lived as if he were too. They were young, rich and eager to cut a wide swath through European nightlife. A weekend in Paris, wrote Lacey, ended up being close to a month, with a side trip to Rome. Lacey was not a workaholic. He prized good work over hard work, quality over quantity. He never let work interfere with enjoyment, or enjoyment interfere with work. Joe Kennedy had an eye—more of a need, Lacey wrote—for beautiful women. The more of them the better. Lacey and Kennedy made a great pair. Together, the two of them raised more than their share of hell in London and on the continent.

In 1930, at age 32, Lacey met Anthony Wells—a fresh, young, ruling-class lawyer who was to be, in later years, knighted by Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II. Anthony Wells became his friend and personal attorney. He handled all of Lacey’s private and family legal affairs, but never touched his business concerns in any way. Wells never inquired and Lacey never offered any information about the source of his fortune. Each man found the arrangement comfortable.

During the summer of 1940, while Joseph P. Kennedy was the American Ambassador to England, most of the Kennedy family visited London. Audrey Lacey spent much of her time that summer partying with the Kennedy boys—Joe Jr., the oldest of the four, and his brother Jack, two years younger. To her father’s keen eye, she seemed to be mostly with Joe Jr. When the summer ended, and the Kennedys returned to America, Audrey became depressed and withdrawn. Her father thought it would pass. It didn’t. On a chilly afternoon in September, three days before German planes dropped their first bombs on England, a brokenhearted and pregnant Audrey Lacey committed suicide. She left a note disclosing her condition, mentioning “J. J.” Her grieving father came to understand that to mean Joe Jr. With Audrey’s death, the friendship between Lacey and Joseph P. Kennedy was over. The two men never spoke or saw each other ever again. For Kennedy, who resigned his post and returned to America in disgrace two months later, there was some embarrassment. For Lacey there was only a burning need for revenge.

During WWII Lacey was given carte blanche by Winston Churchill. His “special help,” as Churchill used to call it, not only kept Allied supplies moving, it facilitated communication with underground movements across Nazi-occupied Europe. Many of the relationships Lacey developed in the First War were renewed. He worked tirelessly for a British victory over the Germans. He seemed to be everywhere at once. There were rumors again, and stories, fantastic stories. Churchill was not bothered. “I don’t care!” he shouted more than once at the mention of Frederick Lacey’s alleged excesses. “Even if it’s true, I do not care.” The official complaints stopped, but the talk never halted. It was said he used Allied shipping to move illegal cargo, even treasures of war, from place to place. Lacey’s name became attached to events, about which he later wrote he had nothing to do with. The old tales of Russian gold after World War One gave rise to new claims such as Lacey’s supposed involvement in the matter called the Quedlinburg Hoard. He was rarely asked, but when someone was rude enough to bring the subject up, Lacey calmly denied knowledge—of everything. Still people wondered. Did Lacey have anything to do with this or that? Did he?

All the while, Lacey never let Audrey slip too far back in his mind. He held Joe Kennedy Jr. responsible and secretly vowed not to rest until she was avenged. On August 8, 1944, Joe Kennedy Jr. left on a special, secret combat mission. Flying alone, over the English Channel, his aircraft exploded. In his journal, his confession, Lacey disclosed that it was he—Frederick Lacey—who used his position of influence to mastermind the sabotage of Joe Kennedy Jr.’s plane. Lacey wrote coldly of his satisfaction with young Kennedy’s death. “A debt has been paid,” he penned. “But no price can bring my Audrey back.”

By the end of the war, Lacey, not yet 50, was the wealthiest man in Europe. As reward for his wartime service he was given a peerage—Lord Frederick Lacey. It did not slow him one bit. The worldwide web of his connections continued to expand. His empire grew. Throughout the Cold War, he was the primary source of many items of Western luxury for the power elite of the Soviet Union and Eastern bloc nations. Lacey could and did move anything, anywhere in the world. Lacey delivered almost anything someone wished, someone who could pay his price. Directly related to his shipments of arms, he became the only private individual in the world fully tied in to most of the world’s intelligence services. He knew things no one else did and never betrayed a client’s confidence.

In the prime of his life, he was utterly fearless in business. Totally cool, he never required time to cogitate. He acted, favorably or unfavorably, immediately, on the spot, with no apparent qualms of any sort. To those who did business with him, it appeared Lord Lacey never had regrets, never looked back, never second-guessed. He must have had his share of losses. Who hasn’t? And who hasn’t worried about it? Apparently, not Lord Frederick Lacey. And who hasn’t hesitated, wondering if only for a moment, if they were doing the right thing, making the correct decision? Apparently, not Lord Lacey. A major part of his great success was this singular ability to decide and act when others simply couldn’t. He became known as a man you only needed to see once. He inspired others to act as he did, or to try. Often times, those who thought themselves his equal, if not his superior, made or accepted offers they would have been best to consider more thoughtfully. There were those who wished to compete with Lacey, even in style, and they usually paid dearly for the indulgence.

In the spring of 1963 Audrey Lacey’s closest friend, Margaret Lansdowne, a young woman still in her forties, died of cancer. Kenneth Lansdowne, Margaret’s husband, sent Lord Lacey a collection of letters Audrey had sent to Margaret when they were teenagers. Margaret had saved them all as a treasure. Naturally, Lansdowne had not read them. He thought they would be comforting to Audrey’s father and felt Lord Lacey should have them. Among these letters was one clearly indicating that “J. J.” stood for John-John, not Joe Jr. The information inflamed Lacey. He made no mention in his journal of regret, nothing at all about Joe Jr. No indication of remorse. Lacey wrote only of how he immediately began planning to kill John F. Kennedy.

Luigi Pirandello came closer to getting it right than Yeats. Walter thought so, even though he hadn’t read Yeats since high school and his only experience with Pirandello was the time, in Chicago in 1983, when Gloria dragged him to a performance of Six Characters in Search of an Author. He didn’t need much of a push to understand that illusion frequently masqueraded as fact. Worse still, illusion was often the accepted truth. To Walter’s way of thinking, the truth is not always beautiful. If you thought it was, and if that was all ye knew, you were lacking some important information.

For openers, he didn’t believe in God—not the God—the one true God so many said they were privileged to have some sort of relationship with and practically demanded you to do likewise. So Walter discounted everything said to be done in the name of God, for the glory of God, and most of all, everything done by men who had the balls to claim they were actually doing the specific thing God Himself instructed them to do. He could do without athletes who thanked God, or his son, for their victory. Did they really believe God chose sides? In a prizefight? Had Jesus taken the under or over in the NFL? Walter had no use for what masqueraded as God’s will. He didn’t think about it often, but when he did, he couldn’t bring himself to accept things like the Twin Towers or the great tsunami of 2005. What god would allow that? He could never get his hands around the idea that any god would want disgruntled, displaced Europeans to slaughter all the Indians in North America so they could establish a place they called “God’s best hope for mankind.” If there was such a God, He would be one to fear, especially if you were an Indian. And Walter had been in Vietnam. He’d seen and done things no god would tolerate.

He was comfortable with facts. There could be no fact for him without evidence. He didn’t believe aliens landed in New Mexico in 1947. He didn’t believe in demonic possession. He was confident Neil Armstrong really did walk on the Moon. Walter had no use for conspiracies. He told his friend Billy he’d believe in UFOs when they stopped being UFOs. Nevertheless, he understood why lots of people believed in lots of bullshit. They had faith, something anathema to Walter and his way of life. “Faith,” he told Billy, who lived in fear of the Catholic God every day of his life, “is believing in something for which you acknowledge there is no proof.” That’s why he said they had to be Identified Flying Objects before he would say they’re real.

“You don’t have any faith?” Billy asked. “Nothing?”

“You make it sound like I’m missing something.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s for sure,” said Billy, shaking his head like he just got a phone call with bad news. “I’ll pray for you, Walter.”

He remembered Billy’s pained comment, talking with Conchita Crystal. “What’s your nephew, Harry, going to do about this?” asked Walter. “You have any idea?”

She didn’t look up, not right away. She sat next to Walter on a bench near the ticket booth for the ferry that ran between St. John and St. Thomas. They were all by themselves. The ticket window was unattended. “I don’t know,” she said. “To both questions.”

“What is it then you want me to do?”

“I want you to find him. Before they do.”

“Before who does?”

“I don’t know.”

“And when I find him, do what?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you have to know. I can’t just walk up to him, wherever he is, put my hand on his shoulder and say, ‘Tag—you’re it.’ Once I find him I’ve got to do something. And, more important, he has to do something. He can’t carry this around with him. So . . . ?”

“Hide him. I want you to hide him, somewhere safe.”

Walter’s hand lightly touched Conchita Crystal on her soft, brown shoulder. A small gust of cool air blew in off the water. The smell of her was enough to drive a man mad, he thought. How could she have been the child she said she was? She looked up into his eyes. He smiled at her, a fatherly gesture, he hoped.

“I have to tell you,” he said, “I don’t understand why this is so important, so dangerous. If what you say Harry has learned is true, sure, it’s astonishing. It will be something people everywhere will be interested in knowing. But why would anyone kill him to keep it quiet—to keep it a secret? Can it be that big a deal?”

Conchita said nothing.

“Tell me,” said Walter. “Who killed John F. Kennedy? The CIA? The Mafia? Who?”

“A man named Frederick Lacey.”

“You’re kidding me, right? A man named—”

“Frederick Lacey. An Englishman. Lord Frederick Lacey.”

“What happened to the Russians, the Cubans, the right-wing wackos?” Walter shook his head in amazement. “Frederick Lacey?” he asked. “Who the fuck is Frederick Lacey?”

“I’m not sure,” she said.

“But he did it? You’re sure of that?”

“Oh, yes,” Chita said. “I’m sure of that.”

“Why? And what makes you sure of that?”

Conchita didn’t reply and Walter continued. “If he’s hiding now, why would you want me to find him just so he can hide again?” Walter took a deep breath—almost a sigh—and looked at Chita with unanswered questions all over his face. “Frederick Lacey, you say?”

“That’s what Harry said. I’m no stranger to trouble, Walter. Or danger. I’ve been dealing with difficult situations all my life. There are people who would kill to keep this from coming out—kill to keep Lacey’s confession a secret, to get their hands on it, to learn what it says. Harry has good reason to worry. He’s disappeared all right, for now, but they’ll never stop looking for him. Never. And eventually they’ll find him. He’s not the kind of man you are. Wherever he is now, I know he can’t be safe. You see that, don’t you?”

“You think I will find him before they do? Whoever they are.”

“I’m familiar with your reputation,” she said. “This is not flattery, Walter. I don’t think you’ll find Harry first. I know it. You’ve found other people before, haven’t you? You’ve found people no one else could. You were not the only one looking for them, but you found them, first. Right?”

“I have,” he said.

“And you have been successful because you know everything there is to know about hiding. Am I right?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, but yes, I suppose you could say that, at least for the purposes of this conversation. But—”

“So, I’m asking you to reverse things. Walk on the other side of the street for a minute. Find Harry. Find him quickly, and take him somewhere no one else can find him, no matter how hard they look. You must know such a place.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, sliding off her sunglasses so she could wipe her tears away.

My God! thought Walter. I’ve never seen eyes as beautiful as these, and where did these tears come from so suddenly? Can she do this on command?

“I’ll have to figure that out later,” she said, clearing her throat in an effort to regain her composure. “For now, I need you to find Harry and protect him until we can think of something, some way out of this for him. Do that, and when you’ve found someplace safe, and I know where he is and that he’s all right, I’ll think of something.”

Walter lowered his head, rested his hands on his knees, looked down at the wooden planks of the pier, watching the water reflect the light between the cracks in the boards. I must be crazy, he thought.

“Twenty-five thousand a week,” he said. “Two weeks minimum. Plus expenses. In advance. Cash.”

“You’re no Philip Marlowe,” she said.

“I’m no who?”

“You’re not an old movie buff either, are you?” Conchita was far more amused than Walter could make sense of. “Philip Marlowe was a private investigator, a PI. The Big Sleep? Humphrey Bogart?” She looked at him but he registered nothing. “Marlowe only charged twenty-five dollars a day,” she said. “You might as well be asking for the Czar’s gold.”

“Huh? What’s the Czar’s gold?”

“It’s just a saying,” she said. “You know, like all the tea in China.”

If she expected something from him, a reaction of some kind, she didn’t get it. Walter had nothing to say. Finally, Conchita Crystal flashed him one of her famous smiles and asked, “Cash?”

“Yes,” he said, acknowledging their agreement. A warm smile had already replaced his otherwise slightly bewildered gaze.

“I’ll have the money delivered to your home this afternoon. When will you begin?”

“I already have,” said Walter.

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 & 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 & 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 & 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, attachés 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 & 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 & 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 & 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 & 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 & 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 café 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 façade 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 façades, 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 está usted?” she said. “Soy así que preocupado. ¿Está 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?”

“Sí.”

“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 esté 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, señor.”

“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 attaché 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.

PART TWO

It may be the devil or it may be the Lord

but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.

–Bob Dylan–

The day Anna Rothstein ran away from Memphis and married a kid named Eddie O’Malley, her father, Saul, worried about his wife’s sanity. Doris Rothstein was crying in the kitchen. Her sister Irene was on her way over but hadn’t arrived yet. They were always there for each other at a time of crisis. That’s certainly what this was, Saul said to himself. The word helpless ran through his mind. It was a very uncomfortable word. Saul Rothstein was not the kind of man who was used to feeling helpless. Despite his wife’s emotional meltdown, he saw this . . . thing, this set of fucking outrageous circumstances . . . as a challenge to the central rule guiding the Rothstein family’s life—I, Saul Rothstein, make the rules! The phone call from Anna pissed him off. Saul couldn’t believe she actually put this Eddie guy on the line. What can you say to a nineteen-year-old auto mechanic who’s just run off with your daughter?

That morning, Anna left for school before seven, saying she needed to be there early. A friend was picking her up, she told her parents. Saul Rothstein now realized the friend had been the little Irish shithead now calling himself Anna’s husband. Saul hung up the phone and muttered, “Fuck me? I don’t think so, you little Mick sonofabitch!”

The newlyweds returned home, to Memphis, by car from the small town in Mississippi where they had been married, a place called Langston, so small Saul had never heard of it, somewhere in the southwest part of the state not far from Louisiana. This Eddie O’Malley apparently lived in an apartment somewhere near the Memphis airport. Anna mentioned something about two other roommates who had gone off to let them have some privacy. Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley were holed up inside. This bullshit needed fixing.

What kind of assholes live in Mississippi? Rothstein pondered that question as he waited in the outside office of his old friend, the Honorable Milton Fryer, Memphis’s only Jewish judge. “How is it they allow children to get married over there?” he asked the judge. Anna was only sixteen. He thought she said the O’Malley guy was nineteen. Saul wasn’t sure, but he was certain he’d had enough of this already. He beseeched Judge Fryer to help and, in less time than it took cement to harden, the judge annulled whatever nonsense Mississippi had been stupid enough to sanction. Anna Rothstein—now never legally O’Malley—went home, to her parents’ house. Her mother, Doris, didn’t stop crying for weeks. Even Irene was no help. Saul wanted no part of that either.

Anna Rothstein was a nice looking girl, tall, five-eight, maybe more, hazel eyes and light brown hair—almost blonde. At fourteen she was full breasted and by sixteen, with a little makeup and a nice dress, she was able to look twenty if she wanted. She was a bright girl, clearly the favorite of her dad, also smarter than her older brother. She took after her father. Everyone always said that and it pleased Saul tremendously. But not now. Although she had gone home, Anna reacted harshly to the annulment. She said she was going to retain counsel and challenge the Judge’s ruling. She already knew the law much better than her father did. Saul’s friend Milton Fryer wasn’t there to help. He capitulated.

“Do you love this . . . Eddie O’Malley?” her father asked.

“That is not what we are talking about,” said Anna. “What’s at issue here is the legality of your bogus annulment. You and Milton Fryer have a relationship, the sort of which any judge, other than ‘Uncle Milty,’ would easily see as a conflict of interest for him. You know, Dad, the legal system of the state of Tennessee was not created for your personal use. I wasn’t even married in this state—they wouldn’t let me. My Mississippi marriage cannot be tossed out by some Tennessee judge, sitting in the company of my father, absent either myself or my husband or any representation either of us might wish to have. Do you see what I mean?” Saul couldn’t help himself. He was proud of his daughter.

“What is it you want, Anna? And remember, you’re driving your mother nuts here.”

So it was that a sixteen-year-old Jewish girl from Memphis, Tennessee, in the year 1953, granted her parents’ wish to annul her Mississippi nuptials in return for being allowed to keep the name O’ Malley. She didn’t think that was asking too much, and she was right. Her grandmother would get used to it, she said.

Two years later, when she left Memphis to attend the University of Tennessee, Anna O’Malley dropped the Anna for Abby. She liked the sound of it. She spent four highly entertaining, successful years in Knoxville, studying Political Science—and did it—“Thank you God!” her father had prayed—without getting married again. Eddie O’Malley was long gone, not missed and hardly remembered. In the autumn of 1959, Abby O’Malley enrolled at the University of Chicago Law School. She was the first woman to be Editor-in-Chief of the Law Review and graduated first in the class of 1962. She loved living in Chicago and, after graduation, accepted a position there with Farmers Mutual Insurance Company. She specifically asked to work in major fraud investigation. She liked the challenge and rose to meet it. She had a talent for taking disparate events and scattered pieces of evidence and putting them together, gleaning a method, a motive, a conspiracy. In 1963 she left the private sector for government work. Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy hired her to work on his organized crime unit, The Jimmy Hoffa Squad, as it was called. Abby had a nose for fraud, and fraud was the way the mob ran its whole national operation. Bobby Kennedy was pleased to have her. She moved to Washington, D.C. where she was a perfect fit. She was young, attractive, ambitious and smart. Then the President was murdered and everything at the Justice Department changed.

Bobby Kennedy had only one thing on his mind—who killed his brother? He recruited a small team of talented Justice Department lawyers to work only on that. Abby O’Malley was among them. Less than a year later, while only twenty-seven years old, Robert Kennedy handpicked her to take his investigation private. At first he put her in the Justice Department’s Boston office. This gave her easy access to his family’s resources and kept anyone in Washington from learning what the Special Assistant to the Attorney General really did. Shortly thereafter, Abby resigned from her government job and was hired by the legal department of a private investment firm, controlled by the Kennedys. Her position there served as cover for her real job—for which the family had allocated an unlimited budget—finding the person or persons responsible for the death of President John F. Kennedy. That mystery was finally solved and the investigation concluded in 1968. Less than a month later Bobby Kennedy was murdered.

Following his death, Abby O’Malley’s duties changed. Once Bobby Kennedy was confronted with the existence of Lacey’s confession, and its contents, once he was assured it was real, and that it was hidden away to protect Lacey, Abby’s job was to get it. Get it and destroy it. No cost was too much. That Bobby too was soon gone made no difference. From then on, while she appeared to be a high-level lawyer for an investment-banking firm, she devoted her efforts to a single mission—preserving the Kennedy mystique.

Rose had become depressed after Bobby’s death. In her melancholy, she said things to Abby, cried to her as only a mother could. To Abby O’Malley she said that which she could never have uttered in the earshot of her priest, her bishop or Cardinal Cushing. She was a good Catholic, but she was human. To keep the flame of Camelot burning brightly was to keep her boys alive and close. A woman of boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm had become despondent.

“Isn’t it enough he took my boys?” she wept in private to Abby. Was it God she spoke of, or Frederick Lacey? “Must he now destroy all they stood for?”

“No one can ever do that, Rose,” comforted Abby, still unsure. Could the wrath of God be directed through Lacey? Was Rose Kennedy in fear of each? Of both together?

“Oh, yes they can. They’ll ruin Jack now. With Bobby gone . . .” Rose paused for a moment and Abby could hear the upheaval in the old woman’s chest. The pain this woman felt at the death of the son who had always been her favorite stood exposed like fresh-butchered meat—raw, red and dripping blood. Abby expected her to cry out, Bobby! Bobby! Bobby! But she didn’t. Rose Kennedy wiped her eyes and nose with a nearby tissue, cleared her throat and said, “Without Bobby, there’s nobody to protect Jack. They’ll savage him.”

“No,” said Abby. “We will not allow that.”

“The women, Abby! The women alone will do it for them. I told Jack, but he didn’t listen. I told him ‘You’re the President of the United States, act like it!’ He never listened to me, and his father—he was no help. You watch, Abby. The business with the Monroe girl. The others too. Jackie will be of no help either. She’s done with us and if it weren’t for her children, I would . . .” She stopped herself just in time.

Abby O’Malley said, “Rose, I never believed all that would stay hidden, not forever. The President’s health also. People will find out and there will be those who will publicize it. It doesn’t matter. There might even be more. There may be things we don’t know, especially about his friends—deals they made, favors they called in—who knows what. Still, it won’t matter. I promise you. The American people love President Kennedy without reservation, for one reason and one reason only.” She looked at Rose, wanting to make sure the senior Kennedy was focused and completely lucid. “They love him because he was assassinated. And the same for Bobby. They love them both for the tragedy that took their lives, took them from us before their time. Nothing that is revealed will ever change that, unless the circumstances of their deaths, at the hands of Frederick Lacey, become known.”

“But, Abby . . . ,” said Rose, her voice rising above its normal high-pitched near scream.

“No buts.” Abby held up both hands. “The vast majority of Americans—the vast majority of people all over the world—believe the President was assassinated by a conspiracy. You know that. I know you know that.” Rose nodded silently, in acquiescence. “For as long as that notion of conspiracy is not confirmed, not proven—for as long as people feel they do not know who killed President Kennedy—his legend is safe. Camelot is safe. What you have struggled so long to build, is safe. Only Lacey can change that.”

“Oh, my God.” Rose Kennedy began crying again.

“Leave him to me,” said Abby. “I’ll take care of it.”

To do that she had to get her hands on Lacey’s document. Lacey himself was untouchable, but the document was another matter. Abby was single-minded and determined. She answered only to Rose Kennedy. The matriarch of the Kennedy family knew the awful truth, but Abby never told another living soul about Frederick Lacey’s confession. Except for Louis Devereaux. It was well known within the Kennedy compound that Abby did something very important and her authority was not to be questioned. Nothing about her task changed when Rose Kennedy followed her children into the arms of Jesus, albeit more peacefully than they had.

Abby met Louis Devereaux in Chicago, in 1971. He was twenty. She’d been invited back to her law school as part of a two-day seminar covering a wide range of legal topics. On the second morning, she sat on a panel discussing the Fourth Amendment. The then Editor-in-Chief of the Law Review, a young man from Louisiana named Louis Devereaux, delivered a paper in which he argued that the strictures of the Fourth Amendment did not apply to the President of the United States. Under certain circumstances, he maintained, the President’s power to investigate was basically without limit. Abby wasn’t sure he was serious, but she was fascinated with the skill of his presentation and the structure of his argument. She did, of course, pass off as a joke Devereaux’s idea that the President—any President—could break into someone’s house or office, secretly and without a warrant and, if caught, claim constitutional immunity. She did not fail to notice the subtle support for Devereaux’s claim expressed by some members of the panel after the young man’s paper. Louis was a force. He had a way about him. If he hadn’t convinced them, he sure scared them with the possibility. Later, when she stopped Devereaux in the hallway, she was even more impressed to realize he wasn’t at all committed to the ideas he’d just proposed. The thrill of the argument gave him a buzz. She admired that, her sense of the absurdity of others, very much a part of her character too. Abby liked to have fun. She recognized a kindred spirit and gave him her card. “Stay in touch,” she said. She meant it and he knew it. She was not the type to glad-hand people and he was certainly not the type to be glad-handed. They both saw something special in each other. Abby O’Malley fit exactly into Devereaux’s experience with his mother and sisters—older, strong, accomplished women. She was precisely the kind of person for whom he reserved his respect and admiration. The two of them shared a commonality of world-view—not a nitpicking uniformity on policy, but a grander agreement on the ultimate scheme of the universe. As well, they shared ambition and recognition of each other as someone they would surely meet at the top of the mountain. They were determined to greet one another at the summit as allies. They would never lose touch with each other.

Had either of them known that John Ehrlichman would read Devereaux’s Law Review article, expanding his Fourth Amendment idea, and then arrogantly spout the thesis of Presidential exception to the Senate Watergate Committee, they would have had a good laugh. Years later, when Devereaux listened to Nixon’s tapes, he was disappointed Ehrlichman failed to credit him. “That’s a great idea, John!” Nixon could be heard saying. “Where did you get it from?” Ehrlichman calmly claimed it as his own.

In 1975 Abby met and married David Lowenthal, a shy, gentle, sometimes mystical Fine Arts professor at Harvard. He was also a well-known sculptor. Their relationship would be intensely private. He was so absorbed with his pursuit of art and beauty that he never really learned the details of his wife’s job. She did not care much. She did not encourage his curiosity, not in that area. She wasn’t the type to come home telling stories of her day at work. He adored her and she him. That was all either needed. At more than one Boston party, David Lowenthal was heard to explain what his wife did by saying she had “something to do with investments.”

Abby O’Malley was a patient woman. She gave no ground as Frederick Lacey wilted slowly, living longer, much longer than anyone had a right to. The day he finally died, her decades of planning were over. Within minutes events were in motion.

The Heerensgracht was frozen over. All the canals were. The smell of ice was in the air. Biting winds swept in off the North Sea. The usual canal traffic—the small outboards, the long, low tourist boats and the water taxis that ferried people from the Leidseplein to the Van Gogh Museum and on to the Flower Market—were all on hold until spring. It was damn cold in Amsterdam. Walter brought the wrong jacket. He’d forgotten how unpleasant the Dutch winter could be. The city was beautiful, as it always was, but he was freezing in his windbreaker, even with a sweater underneath. Fortunately, the apartment at 310 Heerensgracht was a short cab ride from Amsterdam Central Station.

The train from Bergen op Zoom got them to Amsterdam late in the afternoon. Walter had been in Central Station often enough to feel familiar there. He could never get the picture out of his mind, the sight of German trains loaded with Nazi soldiers pulling in on the same tracks his own train now rode on. He’d seen it in documentaries and newsreels. Why it didn’t bother the Dutch more was a mystery to him. Perhaps, one needed to be a European to understand. Europe was more the same than different, now. But how could all—or nearly all—be forgiven, he wondered. It never occurred to Walter that he himself was an occupier. St. John was hardly one of the thirteen colonies and May 4, 1734, meant nothing to him. For many on St. John, the ritual suicide of that day marked it indelibly as the saddest day ever.

The apartment Aat arranged for them was on the first floor of a narrow, three-story building that probably had been there since the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Like most of the old buildings in Amsterdam, the first floor was actually well above ground level, up a steep, stone stairway. He told Walter there would be a key under the mat. It was there. Upon entering the house, their place was immediately on the left. To get into the apartment, they had to open a massive, black, solid wood door that looked to Walter to be all of ten feet high. There was only a single lock, a simple tumbler. Once inside, Walter and Harry were somewhat surprised to find the place furnished in an ultra modern style neither one of them found very attractive. Cold, straight lines seemed to be the theme of the day, minimalism carried to its extreme. The ceilings, like those in most first-floor flats along the canals, were twelve to fourteen feet high. The walls had been sprayed with a bright, white paint, punctuated in a few spots, apparently selected at random, by the sort of art Walter never cared for. For a moment he was reminded of the two very large canvases, filled with big, colorful, abstract shapes, that had hung opposite each other on Isobel Gitlin’s living room walls on West End Avenue in New York.

A tiny kitchen nestled in a corner at the far end of the room, exposed except for a table-high countertop. Two very strange, tall barstools, that Walter thought looked like somebody’s idea of skinny, black metal flamingos, were tucked up against it. Down the hall, past the kitchen on the right, was a small toilet and shower and, at the hallway’s end, a door opened to the apartment’s only bedroom. One bed was in the room, a platform affair, little more than a thin mattress without benefit of a box spring, apparently laid on nothing more than a slab of wood. Simple, thought Walter. Probably cost a fortune. The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was done in stark contrast, black or white. For a while it appeared that neither Walter nor Harry wanted to take that bed for themselves. Then Walter spoke.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, taking off his jacket and tossing it on one of the ugly barstools. “Take the bedroom,” he added.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Out here.” Walter pointed to the living room couch.

“It looks like something you might find in a prison,” said Harry, examining the couch.

“An expensive prison,” mumbled Walter. “Anyway, wash up and we’ll eat.” They had taken the time to stop, in Central Station, at a shop selling broodjes. “It means sandwiches,” Walter told Harry as he pointed toward the sign. They bought more than they needed because Walter said they couldn’t be sure when they could go out for more food.

“If we don’t eat them, we can throw them out,” Harry said.

“We’ll eat them. Don’t worry about that. Grab a couple of drinks while you’re at it.”

They don’t sell Diet Coke in the Netherlands. What they do offer is something they call Coca Cola Light. They replace the artificial sweetener used in America with corn syrup or some other natural sweetening agent. It still has basically no calories, but it’s a little sweeter. They don’t use the word diet on foods or drinks because something about it offends Dutch sensibilities. They are a very fit people who, unlike Americans, do not live in constant fear of fat. You’d have a hard time finding a Dutchman who ever heard of the Atkins diet. So, Walter threw a few cans of Coca Cola Light into the bag, together with a container of milk Harry handed him.

Darkness fell soon after they arrived. It was evening in the heart of winter and the sun sets early in Holland. Amsterdam is a lively city—many would say the liveliest in Europe—but there’s no nightlife, no restaurants, bars or coffee shops on the Heerensgracht. The Gentleman’s Canal was called such for good reason. Walter was not surprised when Aat told him that was where they would stay. Harry went to use the toilet and when he emerged he saw Walter standing next to the first of the two huge, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the canal. He separated the sheer curtains that fell lightly from a window treatment at the top all the way to the floor, and he stood there for a long time looking down the street in both directions and straight across to the other side of the iced-over waterway. Then he did the same thing at the other window. After that he opened their front door, pretended like he was coming into the building and counted the steps, to and beyond their apartment door, all the way to the stairway leading up to the second and third floors. All the while Harry stared at him. He was sure Walter was doing something important. Thus far, Harry had not seen anything about Walter to indicate that he ever did anything without a purpose to it. But, watching this little bit of theater, Harry had no clue what Walter was up to. Finally, Walter told Harry to open the front door of the building, twice. He had him close it carefully behind him the first time, allowing it to shut almost by itself, lending just a hand at the last instant to keep it from slamming. The second time Harry was instructed to let it close on its own, unimpeded.

“Just let it slam shut,” said Walter.

As Harry did this, Walter went back inside, sat down on the living room couch and, with the apartment door closed, he listened. When Harry was done he came back inside. Walter said, “Let’s eat.”

Aat van de Steen knocked on their door at eight, sharp. “Hoe gaat het met de oude jongen?” he said, wrapping his arms around Walter in a bear hug. “I am so glad to see you again. So glad.”

“Me too,” said Walter. “Look at you. You look great.”

“Ah, ha! Like you, Walter Sherman, I too am een oude waas,”

“A what?”

“An old fool, my friend. An old fool.”

Aat van de Steen was tall and thin. He had the kind of good looks more appreciated in Europe than in America where broad features, wide shoulders and a little extra weight around the middle was expected from a successful man in his sixties. He wore an overcoat and scarf, both of which he immediately took off and hung carefully on a coat hook near the door. He was well dressed in a gray suit, light blue shirt and maroon striped tie. His hair, like his suit, was gray and perfectly cut. He ran his fingers through it twice and it fell into place. He looked like a man who was comfortable with luxury, yet he wore only a simple watch and no other jewelry. In Holland, gratuitous display of wealth is a serious faux pas. In the social democracy of the Netherlands there were, of course, many rich people, but they dutifully observed the social contract not to flaunt their material excesses in their everyday life. You would never hear a discussion of investments, real estate values or how much you paid for your car at a dinner party in Holland. No matter what your social standing, no Dutchman would be so crude as to ask how much you earned or speculate on the salary of others. Unlike the United States, people in Holland kept their finances to themselves. Walter knew, but Harry surely didn’t, that Aat van de Steen had more money than he could ever count.

“No one’s looking for you here,” said van de Steen. “Not on the Heerensgracht.”

“Heerensgracht,” Harry said somewhat absently.

“Very good,” Aat smiled. “Your Dutch will be better than Walter’s in no time.”

“I’m thinking that’s what we have,” chimed in Walter. “No time.”

“The Heerensgracht,” said Aat directly to Harry. “You would say, the Gentleman’s Canal. So, you are in the right place. I apologize for the bedroom—only one, that is.”

“Already a settled matter,” Walter replied. Harry nodded agreement.

“Before I forget, Walter,” he said, striding over to where his coat hung. “Let me give you this. You never can tell when you might need it.” He reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a .9mm pistol, one that had a dull, silver finish. It was not a small gun. Then he reached into the other coat pocket and took out two extra clips. He put them all down on the delicate, modern glass table in front of the couch.

“Een achteloze mens kan een dode mens zijn,” he said.

Walter had heard his Dutch friend say that very thing before, the first time many years ago in the jungles of Laos. He knew he was right. In English, it meant, “A careless man can be a dead man.”

“Holy shit!” said Harry, actually jumping backward. “How did you get a gun in Holland?”

Aat van de Steen looked at Harry like he was crazy, looked at Walter in disbelief, then broke into uproarious laughter. Walter couldn’t resist. Soon he too was laughing. Poor Harry stood there wondering what was so funny.

Tucker Poesy landed at Schiphol long before Walter’s plane got in from Frankfurt. Before she left London, she read his file, the one she picked up from the Indian. The material faxed to The Standard by Devereaux included a recent photo of Walter Sherman, taken outside a restaurant in Atlanta called Il Localino. He was attractive, she thought, for an old man. She had Walter’s flight information and a dozen pages with the details of one of the more interesting lives she had read about. The pages about Vietnam contained things that might have frightened some people. It intrigued her. As she often did when studying someone else’s exploits, she imagined herself in the same circumstances and wondered what she would have done. Some of what she read about Walter Sherman had happened many years ago. He was near sixty now and not quite so imposing. Yet, something about him stirred fear in Ms. Poesy’s belly. One thing was certain. Walter Sherman was not a man to be taken lightly. That was a mistake she would not make.

As she waited for Walter’s flight to land, she thought about her earlier fuck-up with Harry Levine. She was angry with herself. Her frustration was more than a little out of control. What a mess she had made in London. Quite rightly, she took the blame for it when she called Devereaux. But now, with ample time for self-protective rationalization, her pride was winning the battle against her sense of responsibility.

“Fuck you,” she told herself she should have said to Devereaux. “I’m not a goddamn babysitter.” Her job was killing people and most of the people she’d killed she’d never even spoken to—not a word. Now, she was being told to pick this guy up and hold on to him until she could get her hands on some document, a document Devereaux wanted so badly. “Bullshit!” she told herself. “Not my fucking job!”

She followed Walter Sherman downstairs in Schiphol, to the trains. She joined him on the train to Rotterdam, sitting two seats behind him. She changed trains, as he did, and traveled on with him to Bergen op Zoom. In Rotterdam, before getting on the train to Bergen op Zoom, she went to the restroom, removed her dark blue jacket, turned it inside out and it became a red one. She piled her hair on top of her head and pushed it under a small cap. She quickly rubbed off all her face makeup. Then she boarded the train and again sat two seats behind Walter Sherman.

She watched him walk into the Mercure de Draak. She waited across the square on which the hotel fronted. Ten minutes later she spotted him again, this time with her old friend Harry Levine. The two of them approached the front of the hotel coming from around the corner. They must have gone out through the back, she thought. When they took a cab, so did she. At the train station, she stood far enough back from them that she could be unseen. The two men bought tickets and started toward the tracks. Tucker Poesy ran up to the ticket window just after Walter and Harry walked away.

“Oh!” she said, trying very hard to make the ticket agent think she was catching her breath. “I missed them! My uncle and my cousin—they just left your window. They probably think I’m not coming. Please,” she said with her best helpless young girl smile, “give me a ticket too, just like theirs.” With her ticket in hand, she saw they were headed for Amsterdam Central Station, end of the line. She didn’t even have to ride in the same car. Not this time. They were all headed for the last stop. Not only that, she could actually close her eyes and get some sleep. When they arrived in Amsterdam, she didn’t need the sort of sweet technique she used buying her ticket in Bergen op Zoom. She trailed Harry Levine and Walter Sherman to a small food shop inside the station, watched as they bought some sandwiches and drinks and followed them outside to the cab line. When they took off, she jumped in a taxi and calmly told the driver, “Follow that cab.” The cabbie, a young man who looked distinctly Middle Eastern, glanced backward with some suspicion, but as soon as he caught the look in Tucker Poesy’s eyes, he quickly faced forward again. He never again looked in his rearview mirror after that. She frightened him.

“Keep going,” she said when they stopped behind the cab in front of them, the one letting Walter and Harry out at 310 Heerensgracht. “Go around to the other side of the canal. Now! Hurry!” They made a quick left and crossed the bridge at the next corner, turned back in the direction they had just come, and finally rolled to a stop directly across from the building Walter and Harry had gone into. She got out of the cab and sternly told the driver, “Go to the next corner and wait for me. You’ll be well taken care of.” As the cab pulled away, she stood on the narrow cobblestone street, just inside the bike lane, looking across the icy canal. She recognized Walter Sherman standing in the window. That was all she needed, for now. She walked to the corner, got back in the cab and told the driver to take her to the Hotel Estherea on the Single.

The sound woke Walter, a sound he knew he’d heard before. It was the sound of a door opening, the door at the front of the building. Someone from upstairs, he thought. Second or third floor. Coming home late. After all, it is Amsterdam. Must be alone because he heard no voices. Two or more people, they’d be talking, wouldn’t they? Laughing, maybe giggling, urging each other not to wake the neighbors. The door had opened. He waited for the sound of it closing. It never came. Someone must have grabbed the heavy wooden door just before it thundered shut and then silently slipped it into place. An act of consideration at—he glanced over at the small clock he always traveled with—2:53 am? Perhaps. He listened for footsteps. One, two, three, and they stopped. It was seven steps to the stairway leading to the upper floors. It was three to the door of their apartment. Someone was standing just outside, on the other side of the door. Someone was right there, an inch or two away. Walter lay on the couch, in the darkness. Reaching down to the floor beneath him, using only his left hand, he found the pistol Aat had given him earlier that evening. He held it aimed at the middle of the door just left of the latch. If it opened, whoever came in would walk directly into his sights. Then he sat up, moving his body slowly, trying to keep the couch from making noise while he shifted his weight. When both feet were firmly on the floor, he stood in one quick move. The .9mm held its aim throughout, now leveled at what he figured to be chest height. Gliding on the balls of his bare feet, Walter reached the door in two long steps, flipped the latch, turned the doorknob and threw it open. Instantly, the barrel of his weapon was jammed against the forehead of the man standing in the hallway.

“Not a sound,” Walter said. “Just follow my lead.” With that he pushed the gun forcefully against the man’s head to the left as he stepped to the right. This placed the man inside the apartment with his back to the couch, the one Walter had been sleeping on. Now, closing the door, he pushed him harder, into the apartment. As he did so, he flipped the light switch. “Put your hands on top of your head,” he said, very quietly, very calmly, almost reassuringly. “Get down on your knees and lay flat on the floor, face forward.” The man did as he was told. “If you make any movement or gesture,” Walter went on, “anything at all that disturbs me, I’ll shoot you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” the man said in a voice muffled by the fact that his face was flat on the floor and he was unable to raise his neck with his hands on the back of his head as they were.

“Good,” said Walter. “I’m going to search you and then ask you to remove your coat. Don’t be alarmed. I will not hurt you, unless you make me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said the man.

With the gun pushed against the back of the man’s head at the base of his skull, Walter ran his free hand down and across the man’s body, his arms and legs, looking for a weapon, including any small ordnance that might be hidden in his socks or hitched on his ankle, around his waist and belt, under his armpits and into his groin. He was unarmed. Walter removed the man’s wallet from the left breast jacket pocket, opened it and dropped it on the floor next to the man’s head.

“I’m going to ask you to do something, Sean,” he said. “When I do, do exactly as I say. Take as much time as you need. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said the man.

“Good. Roll over on your back. Take your hands from your head and unbutton your coat. Then remove the coat, one arm at a time, without getting off the floor. Do it now.” Walter stepped back a pace and watched the man turn over and begin unbuttoning his long overcoat. “If you make a move other than with your buttons, I’ll shoot you. You understand me?”

“Yes,” said the man.

“Good,” said Walter.

When his overcoat was unbuttoned and the man lay on top of it, Walter reached with his right foot and kicked the coat from under him, away in the direction of the ugly barstools near the kitchen. It slid on the hardwood floor nearly the length of the room. “Now take your pants off.”

“What?”

“Don’t speak. Just remove your pants and your underwear.” The man hesitated. This was not the first time Walter had engaged in this particular piece of melodrama. He was not surprised by the man’s reluctance. He knew that any man who did not instinctively recoil from such an order was a very dangerous man indeed. Any man who could maintain his concentration and keep his cool while his balls were set free to flap on the floor was already working on a plan of escape. Such a man, Walter knew, would be devising a way to kill him. This one was not such a man.

He managed his pants without incident, but again stopped before taking his underwear off. “Do it,” said Walter, this time with an edge to his voice. The man was clearly frightened and that pleased Walter. When he lay there, his genitals fully exposed, Walter said, “Pull your shirt up over your eyes. Let it cover your head.”

“Hey, wait a . . .” He was stopped by the sound of Walter’s gun clicking into a ready position. “Okay, okay,” the man said and did as he had been told. Finally, he lay there, on the floor, naked below the neck, his face covered and his hands at his side.

“Hands on head,” said Walter. The man complied immediately. At that point Walter brought the gun down and moved the hammer to rest. If that sound made the man feel better, Walter couldn’t tell because the man’s face was covered by his shirt. It made Walter feel safer. He certainly did not want to shoot someone, in the middle of the night, on the quiet and reserved Heerensgracht. How much attention would that bring? And there was Harry. He didn’t want to wake him.

Walter asked, “Where are you from, Sean Dooley?” The man on the floor mumbled something through his shirt. “Speak up,” said Walter.

“Waterford.”

“Waterford?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Where’s that?”

“Ireland.”

“Right on the River Suir,” came a voice from the hallway at the end of the room. It was Harry Levine. “Waterford, you know, the glass people. Nice town. Very pretty really.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Walter said.

“Well, I’m up and look what I find. Somebody, naked, face up on the living room floor. And you’re holding that gun on him.”

“At least you’re in a good mood,” said Walter, then turning his attention back to the naked man on the floor, he asked, “Who are you working for?” Dooley said nothing. “Look Dooley,” Walter said with a sigh, “When I ask a question, you have to answer me. Those are the rules. Otherwise I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you, Sean?”

“Thirty-one.”

“If you’d like to be thirty-two, you need to know that any inclination you might have to tell me less than what I want to know or to give me information which is less than truthful, could lead to me killing you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” and this time he added, “sir.”

“Then tell me what you are doing here and who sent you.”

Harry found himself much more accepting of the situation than he ever dreamed he would be. Of course, he never dreamed anything like this at all. It was like fishing, he thought. You drop your line and hope for a catch. Only thing was, he wasn’t wading in cool water somewhere along the Chattahoochee River, flicking his rod, tossing his lure way out from shore. He was a world away from a warm spring morning in the north Georgia mountains. To be sure, he was the fish. And it looked like Walter Sherman just caught the fisherman.

Fear gripped Sean Dooley as surely as if he had come face to face with the Devil himself and Beelzebub had thrown him, naked, into Hell’s firestorm. The flames nipped at his dick. Satan’s spear surely awaited him. The anticipation of jagged pain made his stomach churn and he convulsed involuntarily, right there on the floor. Walter had pegged him right. Now he was afraid the Irish pussy might throw up. This Sean Dooley was no more than a regular guy, not a trained operative. Too often, Walter knew, when you use loud aggressive threats with civilians, instead of cooperating they tighten up, harden their resistance as a reaction to the violence they sense is about to come their way. They can’t help it. They instinctually react in a manner inconsistent with their own self-interest. With them, the calm and quiet assertion of authority, coupled with the prospect of impending bodily harm or even death, works much better. Be reasonable, he told himself. They respond to reason. On the other hand, Walter found over the years, pros fell into two groups. The first were people who would die before talking. It was a waste of time to question them. The second bunch often needed a specific sign of what was to come before giving in. They could manage the abstract threat of violence, but not a taste of the real thing. A kick in the groin, a gun barrel shoved up their ass. Something to get their attention. Why they didn’t believe, at the start, in the certainty of their own misfortune was a mystery. One thing was for sure, you could never tell what impulse would make a man willingly give his life rather than surrender information. It was irrational, but what could you do? Sean Dooley talked, and Walter was well enough convinced, after a while, that the Irishman told the truth. How many men had Walter interrogated over the years? More than he could remember. He knew how to ask the same question, in different ways, in unconnected context, to test the truth of the initial answer. Mostly these were simple questions, the kind a regular person, a truthful person, had no time to figure out.

“When did you get to Amsterdam?” Walter asked. Dooley told him he’d just arrived. “You came here straight from the airport?”

“Yes,” he told Walter, “straight from the airport.” A few minutes later, Walter asked, “What time was it when you got off the plane?” The question demanded an immediate answer and he got one. He knew that someone like Sean Dooley would look at his watch as he walked off the plane, leaving the jetway and entering the terminal area. People in a hurry, on a schedule, always do. Dooley gave Walter the right answer. He really had come straight from the airport. How the hell did he know where to go? Walter motioned to Harry pointing at the overcoat on the floor near one of the flamingos. Harry snatched it up. “Check the pockets,” Walter told him. Dooley’s plane ticket was there, one-way from London to Amsterdam. He’d been in Holland less than an hour. Harry pulled something else out too, unfolded it and gasped.

“What is it?” Walter asked.

“My picture,” said Harry.

It was indeed. There, on the page, was a photograph of Harry Levine and underneath it, written in hand—Harry Levine, 310 Heerensgracht, first floor. Amsterdam.

At the top of the page was a fax-generated telephone number—the sender’s number—an American number with an area code Walter didn’t recognize. He looked at Harry.

“Area code 617,” he said. “You know where that is?”

“Boston.”

Walter looked down at the man lying on the floor. “Sean, are you with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who do you know in Boston?”

“I dunno.”

“Young man,” said Walter, now sounding every bit the genial family doctor. “Tell me who sent you a fax of Harry Levine’s picture or I will step on your balls and crush them into the floor. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. Please don’t . . . It was Miss O’Malley. She sent it for me.”

“Who is she?” asked Walter looking over at Harry who shrugged. He had no idea who this Miss O’Malley might be.

“She’s a woman I done some jobs for before. American, but that’s all I know of her. I don’t ask questions.”

“What sort of jobs?”

“You know, just jobs, all kinds of stuff here and there.”

“Tell me about this job.”

“There’s this thing, she called it a document. She said that Harry Levine has it. She wants it.”

“And your job?”

“Get it.”

Sean Dooley was not the brightest light shining from the Emerald Isle. It went on this way—Walter asking a question and Sean giving a short, simple answer—for what seemed to Harry to be a half-hour. Actually it was only a few minutes. Finally, Walter said, “Pull your shirt down.” The Irishman did and for the first time Harry saw his face. Sean Dooley may have been only thirty-one, but he looked like fifty. His Irish mug was both puffy and deeply lined at the same time. Probably the result of a lot of time spent outside, Harry concluded, and a lot of beer drinking when he was indoors.

“Put your pants on. Go ahead, it’s all right.” Dooley pulled his pants up from around his ankles, tucked his shirt halfway in and buckled his belt. He was breathing easier now. Walter thought the vision of his balls ground into the hardwood floor was still very much in Sean Dooley’s mind. “I want you to do two things for me, Sean, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. First, I want you to give Miss O’Malley this number.” He handed the Irishman a small slip of paper. On it was written a telephone number. “You won’t lose it, right?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I won’t lose it.”

“And second—and Sean, listen very carefully because your life depends on this—I want you to leave Holland, right now, and never come back. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave right now. When you walk out of here go straight to the airport. Sleep at Schiphol, if you have to wait before you can get a flight back home.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dooley.

“Here’s the part where you have to listen carefully.” Dooley looked up at Walter from the floor and nodded in a manner that showed Walter he wanted to comply completely and he was eager for Walter to know it. Walter said, “If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Tell Miss O’Malley that if I see anyone else she sends, I will kill them and then, Sean, I’ll come back and kill you too. Even if you’ve done everything I’ve said, I’ll come back for you. Miss O’Malley sent you. If she sends anyone else, you’ll pay too. You have good reason, a powerful incentive to convince Miss O’Malley of my bad intentions.” He waved Dooley’s driver’s license in his face and then tossed it over to Harry. The rest of the wallet he gave back. “I won’t have any trouble finding you, you know that don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Walter. “Get the fuck out of here.”

–––––

“Pack,” said Walter as Harry poured himself a glass of milk.

“What? I beg your pardon. What do you mean?”

“We have to leave. It’s too dangerous here.”

“But you let him go. You threw him out.”

“It’s not him I’m concerned about. Our boy Sean hasn’t been killing anybody. Sir Anthony Wells, and your Ambassador Brown, they were killed by pros, mean ones at that. They were beaten for information. Can you imagine a hundred-year-old man taking that sort of abuse?” Walter stopped for a moment and shook his head. He didn’t have to ask what kind of man would do such a thing. He knew. “We need to get out of here,” he said, looking at the little clock next to the couch. It said 3:20 am.

Ten minutes later, after Walter made two phone calls, a taxi pulled to a halt in front of the building. Walter and Harry walked quickly down the stone steps and into the waiting cab. As they drove off, Walter looked in all directions. He saw no one. He gave the driver specific instructions—“turn here . . . turn there”—taking them through the empty residential neighborhoods in the Jordan section and then, quickly and unexpectedly, in the opposite direction toward the newly developed part of Amsterdam where clusters of gleaming glass skyscrapers surrounded the Heineken Music Hall. The streets were empty. Nobody followed them. Finally, no longer visibly on edge, Walter leaned forward and said to the cab driver, “Rotterdam.”

Louis Devereaux was angry. Tucker Poesy was pissed. He was talking mostly to himself, but she held the phone to her ear anyway.

“Twice? Jesus fucking Christ! Twice?”

“I . . .”

“You lost him, again? First you lost him when he was in your apartment?—in your apartment! And now you lose him—again!”

“Look,” she said.

“No! You look . . .”

“I am not a fucking babysitter!” She was shouting at him. “Do you hear me? I don’t find people. I kill people. You tell me where to go, I go. You tell me who to shoot, I shoot. All the rest of this is bullshit! Now if you have nothing more to say, I’ve got better things to do than chase around Europe after Harry Levine and some psycho named Walter Sherman.”

“They’re not in Europe anymore,” said Devereaux, his boil having quickly receded to little more than a simmer. The total transformation from furious to . . . calm took Tucker Poesy by surprise.

“What?”

“When I know exactly where he is, I’ll call you.” With that Devereaux hung up.

Years ago, while getting his doctorate in European History at Yale, Devereaux took a Greek History course with an offbeat professor named Yataka Andrews. He remembered him now, after hanging up on Tucker Poesy. Yataka Andrews was a flamboyant character on the New Haven campus. He seemed so old at the time, so grown-up, but he was probably no more than forty, if that. Tall and thin, smooth skinned and handsome, his straight black hair flew about as he shook his head this way and that, all hands and arms, gesturing wildly while he paced about the classroom in jeans and a turtleneck sweater. His mother was Japanese; his father English, rumored to be a Duke or Earl or something like that. Dr. Andrews spoke with a distinct, clipped upper-class British accent. Close your eyes and you heard a Shakespearean actor, English, Irish or Welsh. Open them and you saw a towering Asian. Devereaux recalled a spirited discussion, one afternoon. It centered on Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War.

The thirty-year truce, agreed upon at the conclusion of the conquest of Euboea, was broken in less than half that time when the Thebans invaded Plataea. They massed their forces at the gates to the city, approaching in secret, in the dark of night. The assault was an inside job, facilitated by a Plataean traitor named Naucleides who, thinking he would gain a political advantage after a Theban victory, quite stupidly opened the gate and practically invited them in. Professor Andrews posed the question: “What do you do when the wolf is at your door?” Obviously, this had implications well beyond the Greeks. The discussion was wide-ranging, covering wars, and threats of wars, from ancient Greece to Vietnam. Agreement within the class was hard to come by. Plataea was pushed to the background, forgotten in the heat of the moment by some. Finally, one student said, “When the wolf is at your door, it’s best to have a big gun.” A funny comment, of course, since, as Dr. Andrews was quick to point out, neither the Thebans nor the Plataeans had explosives of any kind. But the point was made. In the face of a threat, mighty force was the best defense. “No,” said Yataka Andrews, dashing up the aisle of sitting students, jumping, standing like a colossus on an empty desk in the back row. They all turned to see him. “That is not the answer,” he said. “Nor is it the meaning of the lesson. It was not for the Greeks to answer this question. Hardly. It was—” He paused momentarily for effect, then nearly leaped to the front of the class, turned to look at his students and announced, “It was Joseph Stalin who said, ‘When the wolf is at your door, you need a better place to hide.’”

Breaking through his anger with The Bambino, decades later, Devereaux heard it all again, the sonorous tones of Yataka Andrews reciting the words of the Soviet tyrant. It rang in his ears—“a better place to hide.” Of course. That’s where Walter Sherman was headed, to a better place to hide. Devereaux smiled. He couldn’t help but also remember that the Plataeans, despite the surprise advantage of their attackers, had routed the Thebans in their pre-dawn battle. They fought furiously with wild abandon, men, women and children. Even the slaves fought against the invaders. Better the master you know than the one you don’t.

Devereaux knew what lay ahead for Harry Levine, for the Lacey Confession, for The Locator. He just didn’t know the fine details. No matter, he was sure of the outcome. He poured himself a cup of tea, tore off a chunk of the French bread that lay on the kitchen tile next to the stove, and picked up the phone again. This time he called his old friend Abby O’Malley. After a minimum of small talk—they were truly glad to hear each other’s voice—Devereaux said, “I’m on it, Abby. I was close, and missed, but I’ll have it soon.”

“You mean . . . Lacey?”

“Lacey. I’ve got a man working it as we speak. Actually, he doesn’t exactly work for me, but he works for me, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I do,” said Abby. “I certainly do, Louis.”

“His name is Sherman, Walter Sherman. I’m positive he’s got Levine—and the document. I thought we had him in Holland, but he’s out now. We’ll find him again.”

“Walter Sherman?” she said, quite openly amused. “I thought we had him in Holland, too. But it’s okay, Louis. Really it is.” Abby O’Malley was laughing now, a gentle laugh meant for an old friend, with no hint of mean spirit.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“I have his cell phone number,” she said. “He left it for me.” And now they both laughed.

They slept most of the way to Juarez. The last road sign Harry saw said Torreon. He never heard of it and had no idea where he was. The sign next to it had an arrow pointing right. Monterrey, 382 km. Well, at least he’d heard of Monterrey. What was 382 kilometers? About 250 miles? Something like that. Harry thought back to when Walter first said they were taking a bus. Why? He knew it was easily a thousand miles from Mexico City to Ciudad Juarez, a thousand miles to Texas. In Harry’s mind, he was certain a Mexican bus meant a rickety, old half-truck, sputtering its way along dirt roads, luggage loaded on the roof. He pictured old men, Indians no doubt, chewing something vile, spitting on the floor, and behind them, sullen-faced fat women surrounded by chickens. He remembered Turkey and especially Egypt. Could Mexico match what went for public transportation on the outskirts south of Cairo? Of course, he was wrong about Mexico. This bus turned out to be an ultra-modern vehicle, air conditioned, complete with comfortable tilt-back seats equipped with headphones offering a selection of music channels, clean restrooms, even a cold drink machine, and easy-on-the-eye recessed lighting. You could sleep or you could eat or you could read without invading the privacy of the person next to you.

Harry had no idea what lay at the end of their journey or where that might be. Walter told him things one step at a time. By now, Harry could hardly remember what day it was. Just because it was sunny didn’t mean it was daytime. Not for his body clock. In Rotterdam—when was that, yesterday? Or the day before?—they took a train to Brussels. They had breakfast there, in the train station, Harry remembered. Walter had even made a joke, a bad joke about Belgian waffles. Then they cabbed to the airport where, just before eight o’clock, they took an Iberia flight to Madrid. After Rotterdam, everything was waiting for them. Arrangements had been made. Probably the Dutchman, Aat van de Steen, Harry thought. They stopped only to pick up tickets. Walter knew just where to go and what to ask for when he got there. In Madrid they made their way to The Palace Hotel, ornate, elegant, the domed lobby perhaps the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Harry tagged along as Walter walked up to the desk and announced himself. It was not yet eleven in the morning. Their rooms, Harry figured, would not be available for hours. Then it struck him—arrangements had been made. The desk clerk handed Walter a key and minutes later they were shown to a suite overlooking the plaza. As the bellhop swung open the high, double-door windows, Harry saw the Ritz facing them across the busy plaza below. When they were finally alone, Walter pointed toward a bedroom down the hall.

“You take that one,” he said. “I’ll take the one over here. Get some sleep. We won’t be here long.”

Harry was awakened at three that afternoon. Walter nudged him gently. Nevertheless, he jumped out of bed—scared, or ready for the fight? Who knew? Walter was pleased. In circumstances like these, it was better to travel with someone on edge. He was sure of that. But he didn’t want to pursue the thought for fear it might be fear, not readiness that put the spring in his companion’s step. He had enough to worry about without that.

“Take a shower,” he told Harry. “Might be awhile before you get another one. It’ll help wake you up too.”

Refreshed, and with a change of clothes, Harry saw that Walter had ordered lunch. The tray sat on the low coffee table in the living room. Salads and pasta with some grilled shrimp, water with ice. No coffee or tea. Through the open windows off the terrace, cool air blew in from the plaza. They ate, then left the hotel.

At six o’clock Harry and Walter buckled themselves in, in seats A and B in the second row of First Class on AeroMexico flight #4, nonstop from Madrid to Mexico City. “Drink as much water as you can,” Walter told Harry. “It’ll help.” Favorable winds got them in forty-five minutes early. Still, it was a twelve-hour trip. Harry had difficulty sleeping on airplanes and even in First Class, twelve hours was enough to drive him nuts. Time was starting to really get away from him. It was early in the evening in Mexico City, around eleven, when they arrived, but for Harry and Walter it was already past breakfast time the next day. Walter seemed untroubled. Harry was trying desperately to accommodate. That was when Walter told him not to get comfortable. “We’re going straight to the bus station,” he told him. Seeing the bewilderment in Harry’s face, Walter said, “Ciudad Juarez.” With a light clap of his hands, like a magician freeing a white dove and, with what he hoped was a comforting smile, he added, “We’re bound for Texas.”

Like the flight from Madrid, the bus to Juarez was nonstop. A second driver slept in a sort of cubbyhole of a seat directly behind the driver at the wheel. A heavy curtain enclosed him. Whoever was in there was already hidden away when Harry and Walter boarded. At some point in the trip, he would emerge, take the wheel and allow the first driver to get some sleep himself. Harry wondered how many turns they took for a thousand-mile trip. The bus would stop only for gas and, while doing that, to let the passengers stretch their legs. “Why are we taking a bus?” Harry had asked as they left the airport. “Isn’t it a long trip? A thousand miles or so?” It was, Walter told him. “Eleven hundred and three miles,” he said. “I need the time to think. Nobody’s looking for us on a bus in Mexico. We’re safe here and I need the time.” Harry asked no more questions.

Rolling along the Mexican highway, Harry tried to put it all together. What day was it? It all began on Saturday—Sir Anthony—McHenry Brown—The President of the United States and some guy named Louis Devereaux—Tucker Poesy. Christ, where was she now?—Sean Dooley. How many days had gone by? What’s next? Who’s next? And, of course, Frederick Lacey. My God! Harry closed his eyes, hoping to fall into a dreamless sleep.

They crossed the border into El Paso on foot. It was some ungodly hour, early in the morning, still dark. Walter bought a newspaper from a street corner box. It didn’t seem to bother him that it was yesterday’s. Harry watched him turn quickly to the pages advertising car dealers. After looking for just a minute or so, he tossed the paper into a trashcan and began searching for a cab. Harry followed. Walter asked the taxi driver something Harry couldn’t hear. He spoke in Spanish. They hopped in and the cab drove for a while before pulling into a La Quinta Inn.

“Is this one okay?” the driver asked.

“Yes, this is fine,” said Walter.

Inside, Walter registered for both of them, paid cash and handed Harry a key.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Meet me here, in front, at noon.”

Four or five hour’s sleep and a hot shower gave Harry a whole new attitude. He was getting his bearings at last. Holland, Spain, Mexico and now Texas. Tia Chita said to trust this guy. What choice did he have? The girl at the front desk called them a taxi. At a used-car lot, with a large sign reading Texas Monster Motors, he told the driver to let them out. “Let’s go,” he said to Harry.

“What do you have in a four-wheel drive?” Walter asked the kid who came bounding out of the tiny, one-room mobile office building, sprinting to meet them.

“Lonnie P. Meecham,” the kid said with a smile meant to charm a snake. He wore electric blue pants and a red golf shirt with a Monster Motors logo on the front. Naturally, he had on the obligatory cowboy boots. He stuck out his hand toward Walter.

“Four-wheel drive,” said Walter without shaking hands.

“And you are?” asked Lonnie P. Meecham, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Four-wheel drive.”

“Absolutely. Why yes, absolutely.” Walter, with Harry trailing just behind, followed as the used-car salesman showed them to a section of the lot filled with SUVs. They walked down the line, stopped a couple of times and Harry observed as Walter gave a once-over, to first one vehicle then another. Walter paid no attention at all to whatever Lonnie P. Meecham was saying about the cars. The young Mr. Meecham, who talked endlessly, took no notice of Walter’s disinterest.

“That one,” Walter said, pointing at a 2002 black Isuzu Rodeo. “You have a key?” A few minutes later, after a quick spin around the block to see if the car actually ran, Walter said, “I’ll take it.”

“That’s great,” said Lonnie. “That’s great. Y’all made a great selection.”

“How much?”

“Well now, this particular one here is priced at seventeen, seven-fifty, but I . . .”

“I’ll take it,” said Walter.

“Seventeen, seven-fifty?”

“Look Lonnie—can I call you Lonnie?”

“Why sure, you sure can, Mister . . . ?”

“I’m in a real big hurry, Lonnie.”

“Un huh.”

“And I just don’t have the time to take care of all the paperwork I know you have to do on a transaction like this.”

“Un huh.”

“So here’s what I’d like to do, if it’s okay with you. I’d like to take this Isuzu, right now, and drive it out of here, and let you do all the paperwork without me.”

“But . . .”

“No, no,” Walter interrupted him. “I’m aware of how much trouble this puts you to. Believe me, I know. Why, you don’t even know my name, do you? So, I’m going to pay you the seventeen, seven-fifty and I’m going to throw in another two thousand two hundred and fifty just for you.”

“Two thousand two hundred and fifty?” Lonnie P. Meecham was flabbergasted.

“Twenty thousand altogether,” said Walter. “Cash.”

“Twenty thousand?” The kid could hardly swallow properly.

“Give me the keys, Lonnie.”

It’s a straight shot on I-25, about 325 miles, less than five hours, from El Paso to Santa Fe. They would stay there overnight and in the morning, as Walter planned, they would drive the last hundred miles or so, to a small cabin in the middle of nowhere, near the tiny town of Albert, New Mexico.

The fire provided all the heat they needed. The twigs Walter placed under the four heavy logs in the fireplace burst into flame as soon as he touched the match to them. The wood crackled as it burned, hot splinters spitting and bouncing off the screen in front. A large stack of firewood was piled high behind the cabin. Walter knew it had been there for years. The small cabin was pushed into the side of a hill. It overlooked a dirt road winding and bending a full quarter mile from the main road. The cabin was well built and someone had gone to a lot of trouble, once, to make sure it was comfortable in winter. The windows and doors had been carefully insulated sometime after they were installed. The three small space heaters Walter and Harry bought before leaving Santa Fe were plugged in but not turned on. Everything in the place worked. The water, the toilet, the stove, even the small refrigerator under the counter in the kitchen. The cabin had been empty for a long time and it was dirty, dusty. They cleaned it once the fire was going.

Walter remembered the one time he’d been here before. How could he forget? Michael DelGrazo had greeted him. Michael DelGrazo, The Cowboy. It was of course, Leonard Martin, pretending to be the slow-witted Michael. “Can I use your restroom?” Walter had asked him. That always worked, always got him inside. After Michael DelGrazo let him in, he walked back to the small bathroom, opened its window and peered out, looking for something, anything, a sign to tell him Leonard Martin had been there. All the while, he was right there, sitting on the couch in the living room near the front door. He flushed the toilet even though he hadn’t used it and on his way back to the front room, Walter took a good look into the cabin’s only bedroom. He saw nothing remarkable except for the fact there was no bed, only a bedroll stacked against the far wall. No bed, just a closet and a small, three-drawer dresser. Back in the living room, Michael talked about “Mr. Marteenez.” His boss, he said he was. Marteenez. Shit! It was Leonard Martin all along. It still pissed Walter off. He had missed him, missed him completely. He spent more time looking at the cabin than at the man. He’d been made the fool. He stood in front of the warm fire with Harry Levine, thinking, unable to drive the past from his mind. “Now look at me,” he said, half out loud. The cat had become the mouse.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

This was the perfect place to put Harry. No doubt about it. Leonard Martin had hidden here for two years. The whole country—Jesus, the whole world—searched for him. Walter was the only one who had found him. And when he did, he didn’t know it. He fell for the Michael DelGrazo act and drove off that day thinking he had not yet seen Leonard Martin. Now, he struggled to keep his attention on the matter at hand. He knew it was a personal risk coming here. He’d replay it all. He was afraid of that. But this was the best place he had ever seen to hide out. This was the place where Harry Levine would be safe. Walter was sure nobody would discover him here.

It wasn’t just Leonard, of course. He couldn’t think of him and not think of Isobel. Isobel was part of it then and part of it now too. He checked before leaving for Europe. Through her organization, The Center for Consumer Concerns, she had handled all the expenses since Leonard left. She paid the taxes, the electricity, the water, everything, and why had she done that? Was it sentimentality? He didn’t know. Somewhere in the back of his mind, behind those heavy metal doors, he wondered if Isobel thought someday Leonard might need to come back. Was that possible? Was he only dreaming? He didn’t know. And what would Leonard say if he could see Walter now, if he could see he had come here, again, this time not to find, but to hide? Where was Leonard Martin? Alive, or dead? Did Isobel know? What Walter didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Leonard’s last instructions for Isobel told her to pay the bills, keep the place. She did not know why and Leonard didn’t say. What Walter did know, however, was that Leonard Martin had never returned to New Mexico. Not after the day Walter drove up and drove off. Walk on the other side, Conchita Crystal had asked him. What side was more other than Leonard Martin’s?

After dinner Walter and Harry sat outside on the front porch. It was freezing, but they wore the heavy, down-lined jackets they bought back in Santa Fe and they were bundled up against the night air. The cold wind on their faces was compromised by the hot tea they held in their gloved hands. The steam warmed their cheeks. Neither man had seen a sky like this one before. Pitch-black, deep and wide beyond measure, tipping their sense of perspective, forcing them to look upward. With no nearby lights illuminating the horizon, nothing masked the stars. In the distance, only the abrupt absence of a million sparkling lights indicated the demarcation line separating land and sky, planet and space. All those bright shining spots in the highest regions of the night sky—the sheer number of stars they could plainly see—was enough to make both men gawk like teenage boys at the sight of their very first naked girl.

“Harry, I need you to do something while you’re here.”

“You don’t get to see this, do you?—not in a city anyway.”

“The stars?” said Walter. “No. You’re right.”

“Can you just imagine life before electricity? Everyone, everywhere on the Earth saw—this—every day, every time the sun set. It’s no wonder we’re a spiritual species.”

“I need for you to read the document you have, carefully. And I need for you to figure out who would kill to keep it secret. I don’t mean, who wants to keep it quiet. That’s not enough. I mean who would kill for it. That’s a decision you’ll have to make. Maybe it’s a list. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just one.”

“The Kennedys?”

“No,” said Walter. “Not the Kennedys. They sent Sean Dooley. I’m not making a judgment about how much the Kennedy family might want to keep this confession from ever reaching the public. I suppose they have a strong desire. But they sent Dooley and he’s no killer.”

“That’s why you let him go?”

“He wanted the document, and he might have pushed somebody around if he needed to. But he was unarmed and not skilled or experienced enough to beat anyone to death.”

“You know that? How?”

“His hands. Did you see them? No marks. No scars. His fingers were never broken. Same for his face. He’s no fighter. Bust and grab, break and enter maybe. But no fighter.”

“Still, the Kennedys . . .”

“No, Harry. Sending Sean Dooley, when they were absolutely sure the document would be there, makes no sense, no sense that is if they killed Sir Anthony and McHenry Brown trying to find it. You don’t send a killer to find something and a civilian to get it. Forget the Kennedys. Find me somebody else.”

“Well, so far anyway, I haven’t read about any other world leader Frederick Lacey assassinated.”

“Don’t be a smart ass, Harry.”

“How did Dooley know where we were staying?”

“I don’t know, yet. I have a few ideas. Your list might help me. Harry, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why didn’t you go to Scotland Yard or the Police? Why didn’t you just walk into the American Embassy and give yourself up? You could have. You hadn’t committed a crime of any kind. Screw Lacey’s confession. Hand it over. Wash your hands of the whole mess. Why not?”

“I did what Devereaux told me to do.”

“And you never thought about what I just asked? Never occurred to you?”

“I suppose not. The President of the United States told me to listen to Devereaux. I suppose I never thought of doing anything different. Should I have?”

“Not for me to say,” Walter said. “Not for anyone to say, except you. Anyway, we should look ahead of us, not behind.”

“What about you?” Harry asked. “What are you going to do while I try to make a definitive list of the people who want to kill me?”

“Kill us, you mean.”

“Us? Why us?”

“Recall what happened to McHenry Brown’s companion?”

“Oh, I forgot. Sorry about that. You’re right. I really am sorry. I know you’re in danger just being around me. However, I’ll ask you again, Walter, what do we do next?”

“I don’t know yet,” Walter answered. “You’re safe here and,” he added, “for now that’s good enough. I can’t stay here with you. You know that?”

“I guessed as much.”

“I have work to do, Harry. People to see and places to go. But you’re safe here.”

Walter’s cell phone rang at seven-fifteen the next morning. It woke him from his hard, wooden sleep, but whoever was calling would have had a hard time figuring that out from his voice. Decades of such calls had fine-tuned his senses. He sounded like the middle of the afternoon.

“Hello,” he said.

“Abby O’Malley. How are you doing?”

“Fine. Just fine. And yourself, Ms. O’Malley?”

“I like a man who’s up early, Mr. Sherman. Especially a man who sounds like it.”

“So you woke me,” he said, surprised she caught it. “It’s okay. And please call me Walter.”

“Very well, Walter. Where do we begin?”

“I’ll be home in the next day or two. What day is it today?”

“Thursday. I know, it gets a little confusing when you fly halfway around the world, doesn’t it?”

“Come see me Sunday. You know where I live?”

“I do. St. John.”

“Good. Get off the ferry, walk across the square to a place called Billy’s. Look for an old black man sitting at a table closest to the front. He’ll tell you where to go. See you Sunday?”

“See you Sunday.”

“Dress comfortably,” he said before cutting the connection.

Harry had been given very specific instructions. Walter wanted everything understood. No screwups. He was to use the prepaid, use-and-lose cell phone to call Walter every day. “I have to assume someone is bugging my phone. You call me with that prepaid phone and there’s no way to trace it back here. Just remember not to ever say anything about where you are. Not a word. Call me at eight o’clock in the morning on the first day,” Walter told him. Then he was to add an hour for each day thereafter. “So, four days from now you’ll call me at noon. And, on the fifth day—at one o’clock. Got it?” Harry assured him he knew how to tell time. “Don’t call at any other time, unless it’s an emergency.”

“An emergency?”

“Someone shows up. And if that happens you know what to do?”

“You think I can get away with it?”

“It’s been done before,” said Walter. “Remember Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man? Just act like him and say your name is Michael DelGrazo.”

A layer of gray winter clouds obscured the ground from Boston to the Carolinas. After that, it was clear skies, bright blue and sunny all the way to St. Thomas. Flight time was nearly four hours, and Abby had been awake since before five o’clock. The American Airlines plane lifted off from Logan at 7:40 am. After a pretty decent breakfast, she considered taking a short nap, but Devereaux had sent her too much material to sleep. Instead, she opened the large envelope and removed a single, full file folder. It was unmarked. His brief cover note was signed with a simple LD. Very much in the Kennedy style, she thought, and wondered if he signed all his papers that way or if he did it only for her. Louis had a sly side, a dry sense of humor meant as much to entertain himself as for anyone else’s benefit. Maybe this was his way of telling her he knew.

Early on she learned the Kennedys communicated, in writing among themselves, with initials—RFK being the first ones she saw. Later she had the President’s personal memos Bobby gave her to read. They were each initialed JFK. Whenever Abby received something from Rose Kennedy, all there was to show Rose had sent it was a little RK at the bottom. Like a good soldier, she assumed the position, took the Kennedys as Romans, and began signing her memos, letters and longer papers AO. The current generation of Kennedys, even those bearing the names of their Kennedy sons-in-law’s fathers, were never entirely sure what Abby O’Malley did. She had little to do with them, but when they were called upon, they were attentive and responsive, deferential. Abby O’Malley was a force to be reckoned with within the family. Among those younger Kennedys, she was referred to as AK, not meaning Abby Kennedy, as Abby first thought, but rather “Almost Kennedy.” Abby never minded. She decided early on that they used it, if not as a true compliment, certainly as a sign of respect. Going over Devereaux’s gift package, she recalled her conversation with him a few days earlier.

“Are you taking your bathing suit?” he asked.

“I’m sixty-eight, Louis.” Boston was freezing, but she was, of course, aware that summer never vacated the Virgin Islands.

“I didn’t know there was an age limit, Abby. I hear the beaches on St. John are among the world’s best.”

“You haven’t said ‘you’re still a beautiful woman, Abby O’Malley.’”

“Self-evident,” said Devereaux. “What are you going to offer him?”

“Money,” she said. “I find that usually works quite well.”

“Usually,” he replied. “But not always. Sherman’s as close to unbuyable as I’ve ever seen—for a sane man, that is—and Harry Levine . . . ?” He left the question hanging there. “There will be other buyers, you know that. Not to mention those who might see no reason to pay for something they can just take. You’re not the only player on this field.”

“We know that. I’m fully cognizant of the damage already done. I can’t worry about that. I need Lacey’s confession. Until I have it I can’t be concerned about protecting it, or him. There is nothing I can do to help Walter Sherman, except take it off his hands as soon as possible.”

“Sunday?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so too. But it doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“He’ll be ready, I believe. He thinks it was us—me—who ordered the killings in England—Sir Anthony Wells and McHenry Brown. That will help. It always does when you think you’re dealing with someone serious. Do I need to convince him we . . .”

“He already knows Abby.”

“Knows? Knows what, Louis?”

“That you are not responsible for the killings.”

“Not responsible? Why do you say that?”

“From what you told me about the way he handled your man in Amsterdam, I’d say he believes you’re harmless. I’m also just as sure Sherman also knows that somebody out there isn’t.”

Abby had been worried about that. Since this began, since Frederick Lacey’s death, she was well aware she wasn’t the only one waiting for Lacey’s diary, his personal journal. Whoever it was who really killed Sir Anthony Wells and the American Ambassador, she couldn’t be sure how much, if anything, they knew about the Kennedys. If others wanted Lacey’s document, for their own reasons, reasons unknown and perhaps unknowable to Abby O’Malley, and if they got it, they would learn the secret of the Kennedys. What sort of blackmail might ensue? She couldn’t let that happen.

“Do you think he knows who is doing the killing?” she asked Devereaux.

“Doing, not done?” he responded. “You expect more? No, I don’t think Sherman knows that, not yet. Give him enough time and he will. He’s that good, better even. If I told you what this guy has done . . .”

“I hear it in your voice, Louis. You’re an admirer of Mr. Sherman.”

“I met him, you know.”

“I declare—you’re star struck, Mr. Devereaux.”

“Had dinner with him. He can be shaken, but not easily. Once he reads it, he’ll figure out who it is.”

“Do you know?”

“Do I know? Of course not. How can I know without reading whatever it is Lacey’s written? I suspect there’s something in his confession—perhaps unrelated to the Kennedy family—something important to someone. Someone we don’t know. And there’s always the possibility that whoever that someone might be, they might kill to get the document, only to discover that whatever it is they’re looking for is not there.”

“No guarantees?”

“Guarantees? There is no guarantee Sherman even has the document with him. I’d say the odds were against you there. You can’t get it if he doesn’t have it, can you? Worse yet, Abby, it could just as well be that there is something in Lacey’s journal—forget what he did to the Kennedys—something that’s not just embarrassing, something instead that’s valuable.”

“Killing Joe Jr., John and Robert Kennedy is not just embarrassing, Louis. It’s historical treachery, an obscenity of mammoth proportions.”

“I meant no offense, really.”

“None taken.”

Tucker Poesy was enjoying the day. The beach at the Caneel Bay resort was crowded, and she liked it that way. The sun was hot and the water was surprisingly warm. She hated long trips and she was only now getting her land legs back. The quickest way to St. John was to fly nonstop from London to New York, stay over a night and catch the early morning flight to St. Thomas. No one told her there would be a ferry. How else could you go from St. Thomas to St. John? She would find it herself. By the time she arrived on the smaller of the two islands, it was Friday afternoon. Devereaux told her to look for Sherman on Monday. She was determined to get a suntan and catch up on her sleep over the weekend.

Devereaux called her two days ago. Walter Sherman was going to show up at home, on St. John, he told her. Harry Levine would not be with him. He was unsure if Sherman would bring the document with him to St. John. Devereaux figured Sherman’s plan was to flush out the competitors, setting up shop for bids. He did not tell The Bambino about Abby O’Malley. He did say potential buyers would appear within days.

“Get there,” he ordered her.

“Do you want him dead?” she asked.

“No, no,” he chuckled. “Don’t even try. I don’t want you dead either.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I read that stuff from Vietnam. Used to be a bit of a nutcase, don’t you think? I doubt he’s still the same man. Not at his age.”

“Hardly,” said Devereaux, a man with the keenest sense of the evil one man can do to another. “Had it been you, you would have done the same. And, watch out. He’s not that old.”

Ike saw her first. She strolled leisurely and unaccompanied across the square on her way to Billy’s. She had not gotten off the ferry. That’s for sure, thought Ike. That boat was still at sea, on its way from St. Thomas. He knew immediately she was no ordinary bushwhacker. She had the look of money—big money. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew it, what it was he got a glimpse of, but he knew it when he saw it. There was well off and there was wealthy. There was no mistaking her. Such women, he thought, particularly ones like her in her later middle age, did not travel alone. But she was.

Ike knew a few things. He was confident he hadn’t lost much. Not up here, he told himself, tapping his noggin. “Old is in the body,” he said, more than once. As far as he was concerned, he was as clear headed and sharp as ever. Hell, it could have been 1940 as far as his mind was concerned. Ike was primed to judge this woman, coming his way, without any more information. If Walter could do it, why couldn’t he? Walter was the kind of guy, Ike always figured, to make judgments about strangers right off the bat. Ike had watched him do that, more than once. No reason why he couldn’t do it too. She’s coming my way, he thought, with no idea in the world why. The old man was proud and certain. It thrilled him when she approached, stopped at his table and smiled.

“How do you do, sir,” she said, then quickly added, as she watched Ike struggling to stand, “Please, do not get up, not on my account.”

“Ike’s the name and it’s my pleasure to meet you Miss . . . ?”

“Abby,” she said, reaching out to shake the old man’s hand. He smiled at her in a way she knew he’d been doing for a million years. All yellow teeth and friendly manner. For just an instant she pictured him, fifty or sixty years ago, offering the same toothy grin to a lovely island girl. Undoubtedly, he had more hair then. “I understand you can direct me to Walter Sherman.”

“If I had to guess,” Ike said, “in an instant, you know, not with any thought behind it—if I had to guess who you came to see, other than myself, of course, I’d have said Walter. Sure thing, I would have. He’s right over there.” Ike didn’t point, motion with his head, move his upper body in some way, or shift his eyes at all. It was understood he meant somewhere inside the bar. “And I’ll bet he’s expecting you too, even if he don’t know you’re coming. If you know what I mean.” With that, Ike kissed her hand and reached deep inside his pocket for a fresh cigarette. “Over there, at the end . . .”

“I know,” she said.

Ike was right, and he was wrong. Walter was expecting her. But he also knew she was coming. He spotted her making her way up the bar, toward him. The day was warm, yet she showed no signs of perspiration. Her hair was in place. She had no tan to speak of, not even a fresh redness, the sort of lobster look commonly seen on new arrivals. Most revealing was her style of dress. She was indeed comfortably dressed, but unlike every other woman in Billy’s, Abby O’Malley did not wear shorts or jeans and she did not have on flip-flops or Nikes. Instead she wore a light blue summer dress, subtly festooned with small yellow flowers. She walked in heels, low ones, but heels nonetheless. Not work clothes, but still city clothes. She was there for business. When Abby was still ten or fifteen feet away, she smiled at Walter. Introductions were politely called for but he already knew they were unnecessary. Walter rose from his seat.

“Miss O’Malley. Good to meet you.” He held out his hand. She took it. Her hand was soft and smooth. Rich hands. Her handshake was firm, not too quick, yet she did not let it linger. Without further invitation, she sat on the barstool next to Walter.

“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sherman,” she said. “May I call you Walter? Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.”

“And please call me Abby.”

“All right, Abby. I’m glad you called.”

“Thank you for leaving your number with . . .”

“Sean?”

“Yes, with Sean. I hope he didn’t give you any trouble. I apologize for that.”

“I understand,” said Walter. Abby then proceeded to make a little small talk. She asked about the bar, about Ike, and wondered how long Walter had lived on St. John. He thought she might have been just a tad nervous to start with, but she seemed to loosen up just fine after a while. Walter told her about Billy’s, even the story about how it used to be Frogman’s, and he gave her the big picture on Ike, his storied history. He said nothing about his stay on St. John.

“Tell me,” Walter finally said, “how long have you known?”

“Known? Known about Lacey?”

“Yes. About his confession.” He watched for signs of stress in her manner, in her eyes, in the lines around her mouth, a change in her respiration. Nothing.

“Since 1968,” she said.

Walter shook his head, nodded to indicate—what? she wondered. Was he surprised? Was he impressed with such a revelation? She couldn’t tell. Almost forty years. He hadn’t expected that. Billy approached. Abby watched the two men as their eyes met. The look on Billy’s face asked if the lady was going to eat. This part of the place, the far end of the bar nearest the kitchen, appeared to be Walter’s private domain.

“Hungry?” Walter asked. “What do you like to eat?”

“Fish?” she answered, with a question of her own.

“Fish,” said Billy. “Fish is the specialty of the house. Red snapper in my own tangy mustard sauce? Seared tuna with capers on a bed of Yukon mashed potatoes? Grilled mahi-mahi served with pineapple rice and coconut shrimp? Or maybe something a little more casual, for the time of day. Grouper fingers—fish and chips?”

“That’s it,” she said. “Fish and chips and a bottle of beer.”

“Where you from?” Billy asked. It was clear to her he had only a professional’s interest in the information.

“Boston.”

“Sam Adams,” said Billy. “Good enough?”

“Perfect,” she said. Billy looked to Walter. Years of silent signals between them told the bartender to bring his friend another Diet Coke and put the lady’s order on his tab. Abby could not help but notice.

“That’s a long time,” Walter said after Billy left. “How did you find out?”

She started with Chicago. She told Walter about graduating from law school there, about her one-year tenure at Farmers Mutual Insurance Company. She came to the notice of the Attorney General, she said. That’s how she got to Washington. She put in a year on the Jimmy Hoffa Squad and then it happened—November 22, 1963. After that, all Robert Kennedy cared about was finding the one, or the ones, responsible for murdering his brother. Abby told Walter everything, unvarnished. It was really quite a treat talking to him. Walter Sherman was one person she could be sure—absolutely sure—would never breathe a word spoken between them. His own identity was so well shrouded, so carefully obscured, his history of discretion so solid. Many people, she thought, have told Walter Sherman things they would never want anyone to know. Famous and powerful people have actually told him the truth and benefited from the telling. She never considered doing otherwise.

She filled him in on her assignment to the Boston office of the Justice Department and later, when Bobby resigned from Johnson’s cabinet, her job placement as an investment banking attorney. “I had only one client,” she said. “And I never handled any investments. My job was to find out who killed President Kennedy. To help Bobby.” She stopped there. Billy brought out her fish and chips, asked if they wanted any more to drink, smiled and left.

Walter asked, “What did you discover?”

“Frederick Lacey,” she said. “A private matter.”

“Got a little out of hand, wouldn’t you say?” She didn’t. Instead, she was silent. And while she didn’t speak, Walter could see there was a lot she might have said. He saw movement in her eyes, a slight tightening in her temples, a blush in her cheeks. “Harry told me,” Walter assured her. “He told me why. He told me about Audrey Lacey.”

Abby reminded herself again, Walter Sherman was a free ride. For more than forty years she held it in, held it tight. She told no one, except Bobby. She never talked about her work, not with a single soul, not even her husband. Now, here she was, sitting in a bar in a dumpy little town on a tiny speck of an island in the American Virgin Islands. Here she was with a man who would not only listen but understand. In her life, Abby O’Malley, nee Anna Rothstein, had been nothing if not precise, specific, skilled in detail while also knowing how much was enough. For as long as she could remember, there had been few if any disparate facts she couldn’t make sense of. When she had it all together, especially in the early days with Bobby, her analysis was either conclusive or illuminating in a manner that held promise for the future. With Bobby, she loved the give and take, the teamwork, the endless gaming. Back then, she was sure she worked best working with him. And when she had, when she knew it was Lacey, it had been Bobby who told his mother. Abby couldn’t do it. He realized that and, besides, it was his job. No one else could tell her. She had lost two sons to the man. Only the third could tell a mother such a horror. Only Bobby. And soon, she would lose him too. Had she known that, she would have done anything—anything.

Then, with the Kennedy legend entrusted to Abby and Rose, both women agreed, Ted Kennedy should not know. When Rose died, the Kennedy flame was left to the care of a Jewish girl from Memphis. She was certain only four people ever learned the truth—she did, Bobby, Rose and Louis Devereaux—and a fifth, of course, if you included the killer himself, Frederick Lacey. When Bobby confronted him in London, Lacey said, quite clearly, that he had told no one. He had written it all down—his confession, his protection—but he never took anybody into his confidence. Neither Robert Kennedy nor Abby O’Malley doubted him.

And that was it, she told Walter. Since the death of Rose Kennedy, Abby and Devereaux were the only ones who knew the identity of the man who killed Joseph P. Kennedy Jr., President John F. Kennedy and Robert F. Kennedy. It never occurred to Abby that Devereaux would share that information with anyone, with another woman, no matter how close he was to her.

As soon as the chunky man in the dark suit with his back to the camera shot Lee Harvey Oswald, Abby took the lead in investigating him. Every good investigator knows to start with the most obvious evidence. It’s basic. If something stares you in the face, follow it. When you have a killing, and you have a live suspect, start with him. If, as was the case with the Kennedy assassination, the suspect too is murdered, start then with his murderer. The assignment was hers before anyone heard the name Jack Ruby—before Oswald stopped breathing—almost before he hit the ground. They all saw it. Like the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, in his Washington, D.C., home, and millions of Americans across the nation, Robert Kennedy’s special Organized Crime investigative team, including Abby O’Malley, watched it happen on television. She leaped from her seat, grabbed her coffee—which was old and cold, she recalled—and shouted, “I’ve got him!”

It didn’t take much to connect Ruby with the mob, she told Walter. He was tied in half a dozen ways. The biggest, of course, was his business. The nightclub in Dallas owed a lot of money to the Chicago family headed by Johnny Rosselli. Jack was behind in his payments. Not a good thing, for him. He was in over his head and to make matters worse, he had cancer. Anthony Rocco, a capo in the Chicago gang, known to his associates as T Rock, approached Jack Ruby. The deal he offered would wipe out Ruby’s debt and net him fifty thousand dollars on top of it. Abby reminded Walter that fifty thousand dollars in 1963 was like a half million today, maybe more. Jack Ruby had a short time to live and this was a way he could take care of his own. When he was told what was expected of him, he never hesitated. Everyone concerned figured Ruby to be a dead man over this. After all, he was supposed to kill someone in police custody. He would be going into Police Headquarters in Dallas, guns blazing. The necessary arrangements would be made to give Ruby access to his target—more than a few Dallas cops got paid for that one—but no one could protect him afterward. The cops would shoot back, wouldn’t they? Part of the deal even? He didn’t mind. The cancer was taking him out anyway. As soon as Oswald was captured, Jack Ruby got a call telling him where to be and when to be there. He was on time. He shot Oswald as planned and, fortunately or not, he was not killed in a hail of bullets from the Dallas Police. He was captured and he kept his end of the bargain until the end. Tracking Ruby’s movements were easy, Abby said, and the key was the timing. “You see,” she told Walter, “T Rock met with Ruby the day before the assassination.”

Walter listened. He asked no questions, but his interest was evident, his attention riveted. Abby continued. She knew the mob had not ordered the hit on the President because they would never use a patsy like Oswald or a cutout like Jack Ruby to clean up at the end. That’s not the way they worked and Abby knew it. Had it been them, they would have left no loose ends, no errant strings to pull, and no civilians in their wake. Someone else had killed JFK, and somehow managed to get the Chicago organized crime family to eliminate the fall guy. Abby traced Anthony Rocco to a meeting, a full week before November 22, with a man named Angelo Francese. The aged Francese was well known to be capo de capo, answering only to the Don whose family ruled in Naples, Italy. The meeting in New York had been arranged, as a gesture, by the Costello family. Once she had the meeting confirmed, Abby told Robert Kennedy. Why, she wanted to know, would T Rock from the Chicago mafia meet with someone from Italy, someone from the old country, someone so high up? And why would they meet in New York?

Bobby leaned on his father’s contacts on the East coast, Abby told Walter. A face-to-face was arranged for RFK. He went to a beach house on Long Island where he met with one of the Costello lieutenants. It was just the two of them. “This meeting never happened,” the young Costello soldier told the nation’s highest-ranking law enforcement officer. That’s what Abby told Walter Bobby had told her. Costello’s man, who insisted he be called only Dante, explained that an important family in the old country asked New York for a special favor. They wanted to contract with the Chicago people for a hit. Dante said they were never told who the target was or where or when this would occur. “We couldn’t refuse,” he told Kennedy. Their service was only that of an intermediary, an act of respect and kindness. “Never, never in a million years did we think this thing would involve your brother, the President.” That’s what Dante told Kennedy.

“He was telling the truth,” Abby said to Walter. “When I realized that Costello had misunderstood everything, that he thought the Rosselli crowd had killed the President, I knew Costello really knew nothing. And I knew the mob was in the clear. They did Jack Ruby all right, but they had no clue why, not when they agreed to do it. Of course, by the time Ruby shot Oswald, they had to know it had something to do with President Kennedy. Costello, and his capos, felt betrayed, used. These people are very patriotic, in their own way. Killing the President was out of bounds, like killing your mother. Killing Oswald, on the other hand, was just business. And, by then it was a matter of honor.”

With the mob no longer a suspect, out of the picture, for five years Abby chased other leads. She told Walter she couldn’t remember how many people she went after. “Everything,” she said. “We rejected nothing out of hand.” Who knew who, or what, or why? Who knew someone else who knew something—something that seemed important? Every theory was checked and then checked again. Assassination conspiracies ran amok in the press, in the media, in books and periodicals, not only here, but worldwide. The CIA killed Kennedy because he was about to abandon Vietnam. The Joint Chiefs did it. No, it was J. Edgar Hoover. Or the Cubans. Maybe the Russians. Abby covered every one. She looked at homegrown racist crackpots in the South, white supremacists out West. Abby went after everyone ever mentioned as having even the slimmest motive. She chased FBI agents, CIA case officers, even a few Dallas cops themselves. Every lead was treated as a good one. At one point she spent three months digging into a tiny cult of radical Catholics in Rhode Island. This bunch thought a Catholic in the White House would bring the Pope to power in the United States. They were beside themselves when it didn’t turn out that way and they despised Jack Kennedy for it. She investigated them all, even Lyndon Johnson and his motley crew of Texas associates. “God, Bobby hated that man,” Abby told Walter. Each time she found a string, she pulled it. And every time that string led to another, she pulled it too. Sooner or later, every string came to an end. None revealed the killer.

On a winter afternoon in early 1968, Abby O’Malley and Robert Kennedy sat in a small den in a house in Hyannisport. A fire from four big logs warmed them against the New England snowstorm raging outside. They were alone. A few months earlier, before the leaves changed and the temperatures plummeted, she asked him for a list of individuals, private citizens with no government or political affiliations, a list she told Bobby might contain the name that eluded them, the name of the assassin. Where else could they look?

“We’ve gone through everyone else,” she said to him. “We should look at it as if it might have been a private matter. It might have been.” The list was a short one.

Jack Kennedy was a man. Like most men, he had made enemies along the way. But, also like most men, none of his personal enemies seemed to be people who would actually try to kill him. Besides, who could kill the President of the United States? Who could manage it? With two exceptions, the men on what Abby came to call the Private List were all contemporaries of JFK. One of the two who were not was an old man, a long-ago business partner of Kennedy’s father. Bobby said this man indeed hated Jack, hated him since his brother was a young man—since he was at Harvard. Remembering it, Robert Kennedy laughed, as did Abby as she told the story to Walter Sherman. Apparently Bobby’s older brother Jack had been sleeping with this man’s wife. They were never caught in the act, in flagrante delicto so to speak, but one day in the midst of a bitter argument with her husband, the wife threw it in his face. Jack was still in college, said Bobby. The angry woman then went and told a few of her friends. Her husband was a laughing stock. He threatened Jack Kennedy’s life a number of times, in front of quite a few witnesses. Surely, all assumed, the man was all bluster. JFK himself knew nothing of these revelations, or the animosity and hostility they provoked, or the threats. His father shielded him. Bobby only learned of it when his brother became President. As Attorney General, he ordered a complete review of all the President’s perceived enemies. He made a list then, too, he told Abby.

“He gave me a copy of that list,” Abby told Walter. “I remember, it was dated February 1960. It must have been the first thing Bobby did when Jack took office.”

By 1963, this vengeful husband was divorced, eighty-one years old, and in the care of a nurse twenty-four hours a day. He had difficulty urinating. He could hardly remember the names of his children. It was doubtful he even knew who the President of the United States was. Abby scratched his name off. What surprised her about Bobby’s second list, the 1968 list, was another name, a name that had not appeared on the list he made in 1960. Frederick Lacey—Lord Frederick Lacey.

“Who is Frederick Lacey?” she asked JFK’s brother.

Finally, he told her.

By the spring of 1968, Bobby Kennedy was disheartened. Abby O’Malley told Walter she was worried about him. The murder of Martin Luther King Jr. affected him deeply. It seemed he was no closer to finding his brother’s killer than he was five years before. He viewed the list of private individuals he gave to Abby as a desperate move, an indication all hope was lost. While his run for the Democratic nomination did raise Kennedy’s enthusiasm noticeably, Abby could see the despair roiling his gut.

It was on a campaign bus in Indiana, rolling through the foothills in the southern part of the state, with a steady rain more dripping than falling, that Abby first told him it was Frederick Lacey who killed President Kennedy. “He looked at me in disbelief,” she told Walter. “I gave it to him—the whole thing, as I saw it, from start to finish—and he never said a word.” As Abby detailed a sequence of events leading to the assassination, Walter marveled at her concentration, her focus, her ability to relate apparently unrelated facts. Of course, he knew just how accurate her analysis was. He knew what Lacey had written. Abby did not. She knew nothing more than that Lacey had left something in writing, an admission, a confession.

Once she presented her conclusion to Bobby Kennedy, she asked him how he could have left Lacey’s name off the original list of the President’s enemies, the list he prepared immediately following the inauguration. His explanation was weak and tentative. It was almost as if he was making it up as he spoke. That was not like him, Abby said. Without Walter asking, she revealed that the real reason for Bobby’s oversight in 1960 was embarrassment. Robert Kennedy did not want his dead brother’s affair with Audrey Lacey coming to light then, just as he entered the White House, or later, after his death in 1963. In 1968, Abby could see his continuing determination that it never would. Bobby did not see the connections between Lacey’s masterminding of the murder and the evidence trails that, over five years, led them into the FBI and the CIA and others. Abby explained it by showing him that Lacey had contacts within all the suspect groups, all the different organizations. Sure the CIA was involved. And the FBI. Lacey was able to get information from each vital to the success of his plan. His reach extended even into the supposedly unreachable Secret Service. The strings she had been pulling, for five years, had been attached only to the coverup. The assassination itself remained a mystery. Like the mob, which was only hired for Ruby’s cleanup work on Oswald, the intelligence agencies also did not know what Lacey intended to do before he did it. Once the act had been accomplished, it was too late for all of them. In their rush to cover up their unwitting roles, they made many mistakes. There were dozens of sleuths chasing down the facts: newspaper reporters, magazine journalists and freelance writers, Kennedy conspiracy enthusiasts—nuts, if you will—of all sorts. Plus, everyone at CIA and FBI knew Bobby had a crack team working around the clock. Abby’s problem was simple, her delay perfectly understandable. She never heard of Frederick Lacey until 1968.

Robert Kennedy told his mother. Later, Abby was called to her side. Rose Kennedy took great comfort in her religion, and those people, from humble priest to lofty Cardinal, who were significant in it did all they could for her. Had she not forbidden him, Bobby would have flown to England that very day and killed Lacey with his bare hands. His mother insisted he put all thought of that out of his mind. Instead, she called Lacey herself. Abby was with her when she spoke to him. Abby told Walter how shaken she was at the civil nature of the conversation between Rose Kennedy and Lord Frederick Lacey. They had known each other for forty years, Abby said. At one point Rose said, “Frederick, you know why I’ve called.” She stood a few feet away from Mrs. Kennedy, but Abby could not hear Lacey’s voice. “Jack,” Rose said, in a voice cracking like broken glass, a voice fighting a losing battle with itself. Abby saw Rose Kennedy’s eyes tearing. “What . . .” she uttered. “What . . . what are you . . . ?” And then, in a helpless wail, she cried out, “My boys, Frederick! What about my boys!” This time Abby could hear Lacey. He screamed, “What about my Audrey!”

It wasn’t until two days later that Rose told Abby that it had been Lacey who was responsible for the death of Joe Jr. “A mistake,” she said with the most sorrowful laugh Abby ever heard. Abby could hardly believe the viciousness of it. The face of evil had shown itself. Joe Jr., too? It was a little after four in the morning, the next day, when Bobby called. He had just arrived from London. He needed to talk with Abby, immediately. Not later in the day. Not tomorrow. Right then. She was waiting outside her door when his limousine pulled up. They drove through the morning darkness, past daybreak, moving about the city with no purpose other than to stay in motion. Bobby told her how he had confronted Lacey, man-to-man, how the Englishman had told him about his oldest brother, twenty years ago, and Jack on November 22, 1963. “He killed them both,” Bobby said to Abby. “That sonofabitch! I told him I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do.” She believed him. That meant Lacey had too.

Frederick Lacey was not a man to be lightly threatened. Men far more capable than Robert Kennedy had said much the same thing to him. He had endured tribal curses in savage parts of the world other Westerners had only read about. He had survived the armies of Germany, the emissaries of Russian revolutionaries, angry Turks and other assorted Middle Eastern potentates. His life had been threatened by the best. For fifty years, powerful men had boasted they would do away with Frederick Lacey. Robert Kennedy should not have concerned him.

That was when Lacey revealed the existence of his private journal, the Lacey Confession. He told Bobby Kennedy he had it all written down and hidden safely away. With cold efficiency, Lacey instructed Kennedy, lectured him, scolded him like a child. If anything happened to him, he told Kennedy, the document would be released and the legend of Camelot would come crashing to the ground in a heap of wreckage. “Hypocrisy humbles the highest,” he said. Kennedy reacted badly. He threatened Lacey again. Lacey had disdain for irrational behavior. He rejected Robert Kennedy as unworthy. He also recognized a level of instability in the younger Kennedy, a lack of self-control on his part, a wildness that Lacey felt he had no alternative but to deal with. Who could be certain what such a man as President Kennedy’s brother might do? Bobby needed to be escorted out of Lord Lacey’s presence.

“I suppose the last thing Lacey heard Bobby say was, ‘I’ll kill you!’ He must have believed him,” Abby said to Walter. “Less than a month later, Bobby lay dead on the kitchen floor of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles.”

“What is it you want from me?” Walter asked. It was a friendly question with no hint of hostility in his tone or manner. Abby felt comfortable in his company and he sensed it. She was glad he asked so directly.

“The document,” she replied. He nodded in understanding. He had asked a question that needed to be asked and she had answered it by saying what they both already knew. This was part of a dance, a necessary part. His next question was also expected.

“Why should Mr. Levine give it to you?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“If he felt as you do, don’t you think he would already have given it to you?”

“I am prepared to offer Mr. Levine an amount of money he’s only dreamed of.”

“That’s why he should give it to you? That’s why?”

“That is a great deal of why.”

“I know you—perhaps not personally—but as a Kennedy, you are guided by money, the power of money. I’m not sure Mr. Levine is motivated by money,” Walter said. “I’m not saying he isn’t. I’m only telling you I am not sure.”

“I’ve seen men quake in their boots, Walter, when the sort of money we are talking about is actually spoken out loud.”

“What sort of money are you talking about?” he asked.

“Am I bidding now? Is this money for Harry Levine or for you? Or for both of you?”

“I didn’t bring it up. You did.” Walter’s mood had changed visibly and for the worse. This kind of talk violated his sense of duty, his concept of himself, and it did so in more ways than one. He was not a negotiator. He did not strike deals. He located. He found. And then he walked away. Not this time. Chita Crystal had convinced him otherwise. Had she tricked him? He didn’t like it. And, more important, he wasn’t for sale, except by his own choosing. This woman, Abby O’Malley, was not his client. All discussion of a price—for him—was objectionable.

“I apologize, Walter.” She knew she had made a mistake and she sought to make amends, quickly. “I know you have no personal agenda here. I’m sorry. But tell me what Harry Levine wants,” Abby said. “I’m confident it will not be too much. And we will pay cash at the exchange or wire the money into any bank, anywhere in the world, any bank of Mr. Levine’s choosing.”

“What if Harry believes this is a document of historical significance and delivers it to the President of the United States?”

“That would not make us happy,” said Abby.

“Have you thought about the possibility that others want this document for reasons that must be obviously different than yours?”

“I’ll worry about them when I have the document.”

“If there are others, who knows why they want the document so badly they would kill for it. The intensity of their need might dwarf yours. They might think your concerns are meaningless—to them, anyway. Others might get the document and simply disregard the revelations about Lacey’s relations with the Kennedy family. Others might pay more than you.” Abby offered no response. She sipped her beer, popped the last bite of the fried grouper in her mouth and looked at Walter out of the corner of her eye, like a schoolteacher might stare down a smart-ass student. “If there are men or forces willing to kill Harry Levine to get their hands on Lacey’s confession—and if Harry gave the document to you—don’t you think, in order to get it for themselves, they might be willing to kill you too?”

“Well, anything is possible. True,” she finally concurred, still chewing. “This is good,” she added, pointing at her empty plate. “You ought to try it.”

“Do you know a man named Louis Devereaux?” Walter asked.

“Who?” she answered. But it was too late. Walter caught the surprise. Abby was not schooled at this kind of thing. She was unable to hide her lie.

“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t know what Harry Levine will do, Abby. I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I’ll take your offer to him. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“As soon as possible, I hope,” she said. She badly wanted to say, “No! I can’t wait. Give me that document now, or else!” Louis was right, again. Walter Sherman knew perfectly well she was harmless. Threats would be useless. She would look foolish, or worse. Reason probably would not work either. Walter had to know the effect Lacey’s confession would have if it was ever made public. She was left only with the underlying strength of the Kennedy family, the foundation of its power. She prayed money would come through as it almost always did.

On her way out, Abby stopped to thank Ike. She said she would love to have a drink with him next time. Ike watched her walk across the square. A car he did not recognize pulled up to the curb. She got in the back seat and it drove off.

“Walter,” said Ike, ten minutes later. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Seems to me there’s been more than a few people come to see you here in Billy’s. Over time, I mean. More than a few I’ve seen with my own eyes. Now, I know you keep things close, but it appears to me that when these people come to talk business, you pick yourself up and leave—with them or without them.” The old man awaited confirmation from his friend.

“Okay,” said Walter.

“But this woman—and I like her, like her just fine—you must have talked for half an hour, maybe more. I wasn’t watching all the time. Right?”

“Okay.”

“Well, here’s what I want to know. Why? What’s different about this one? Why here? You know what I mean?”

“I do,” Walter said.

“And?”

“And, what?”

“So you ain’t talking, is that it?” said Ike. “You ain’t talking. I’m asking you and you ain’t talking?”

“I can’t help this one,” Walter said. “I can’t help her.”

“Oh, well, in that case . . . I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay, Ike.”

There’s a bend in the road approaching Walter’s house. It’s where the two-lane asphalt takes a steep turn up toward the crest of the mountain. It’s where the newest of many potholes sits, outlined in bright orange paint. Just ahead, there’s a single-lane, heavily wooded driveway that leads from the road, down the hill, to a gravel parking area in front of Walter’s house. A wrought iron gate guards the entrance. A button, on top of a short pole on the driver’s side, must be pushed to open the gate so a car can drive in. Someone once asked Walter if the gate was for security. “Goats,” he replied. St. John is overrun with livestock, goats, cattle even a few sheep. They roam at will. The goats used to run down Walter’s driveway and eat the flowers in the small, Asian-flavored garden next to his front door. Plus, they shit in the gravel and it was damn near impossible to clean. One day Walter got so pissed he ordered the gate. That’s what he said. Some people on the island doubted that story. Walter was a subject of continuing mystery to many.

Tucker Poesy chose a spot just around the bend, near enough to Walter’s gate, to have her car break down. She did this a little after three in the afternoon. Walter’s usual schedule took him home from Billy’s about that time. As he approached, some ten minutes later, Tucker Poesy stood in the road, looking frustrated with just the right touch of anger. Next to her was a rented Jeep Wrangler. Walter pulled over to the side of the road in front of her, stopped and got out.

“Need help?” he asked.

“Oh, you’ve saved my life!” she gushed. “I’m so . . . so furious. This damn car just quit on me. What am I going to do?” Her shoulder-length, brown hair was pulled back, tucked under a baseball cap with a St. John logo. Walter recognized it as a cap from the Caneel Bay Resort. She wore running shoes without socks, loose, light blue shorts and a black halter-top showing off plenty of what cleavage she had to show. She was not beautiful, but she was an attractive woman. Walter noticed the VI Rent-a-Car sticker on her rear bumper. The vehicle belonged to Virgin Islands Rent-a-Car, a company operated by Ike’s son Roosevelt.

“Do you have a phone?” he asked. “A cell phone?” She shook her head no. “You can make a call from my house, if you like. I live right over there.” He pointed to the big iron gate only ten or fifteen yards ahead. “I know the rent-a-car company. I’m sure they’ll send someone to help you in no time at all.”

“Thank you, Mr . . . ?”

“Walter Sherman,” he said, extending his hand. She came closer to shake it and Walter noticed the sweat on the rim of her cap. She had been in the sun for some time. “How long have you been stranded here?”

“It just happened,” said Tucker Poesy. “A minute before you drove up. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. My name is Caroline Henley.” She smiled at Walter and he smiled back. She acted as any reasonable tourist would. She made friends with him and now it was safe for her to allow him to help her.

“Hop in,” he said. “It’s a short trip. My housekeeper can give you a cold drink or something to eat, if you need it.” Tucker Poesy, posing as Caroline Henley, was effusive in her thanks. She reached into her stalled vehicle, pulled out a colorful, canvas handbag, big enough to carry beach clothes and other tourist essentials. She jumped into Walter’s car and they were off, past the gate, down the driveway, into his home.

“You have a beautiful house,” Walter’s visitor said. “May I?” she asked, indicating she wanted to open the glass sliding doors to the deck. No one seemed able to resist the view, the blue sea, the lush green, hilly islands to the north, and St. Thomas in the distance. “Wow!” she said.

“Please, sit down,” Walter said. “I’ll call Roosevelt and he’ll send someone out with a new car for you.” He called for Denise, who was downstairs in the laundry room. When she came up, he asked her to “bring something cold, for Miss Henley to drink.” Walter sat in the chair next to the small table with the telephone. His back was to the deck and he faced the kitchen. His guest sat across from him. Still unable to resist the incredible view over his shoulder, she quite purposely sat facing the deck. A few puffy, white clouds drifted their way from the west. The mid-afternoon sun was high in an otherwise clear blue sky. It shone behind Walter and directly in Tucker Poesy’s eyes. Denise brought out fruit punch over ice for the girl, “Miss Henley,” and the usual for Walter. He watched closely as the girl’s expression changed from stranded tourist to determined actor. “I don’t really have to call Roosevelt, do I?” he said.

“No,” she said. “All you need to do is give me the document.” As she said that, Tucker Poesy’s right hand came out of her bag holding a pistol she pointed at Walter. “You’re good,” she said. “You figured it out pretty quickly. Couldn’t surprise you for long, could I?”

“You didn’t surprise me at all,” Walter said, taking a sip from his small bottle of Diet Coke. “I recognized you immediately. Made you before I stopped the car.”

“Really. How so?” She hadn’t figured him for a braggart.

“You were waiting for me—long enough to work up a nice sweat under that little baseball cap. I saw that, but that wasn’t the main thing. As I said, I spotted you before I got out of my car. I already knew who you were. I’ve seen you before. You have less clothes on now. Lovely breasts. I’m sure many men have regretted looking at those.” He pointed to her chest, and to his satisfaction, her eyes went with his finger just long enough to tell him what he needed to know. “You look a little different, but not that much.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Amsterdam Central Station. And, of course, you were standing on the other side of the canal, the Heerensgracht. You saw me. And I saw you.”

“If that’s true, why am I the one sitting here with a gun on you? How did you let this happen?” She looked very serious. Walter, on the other hand, smiled warmly and chuckled a little as he might have had she instead been Ike and the subject, well almost anything with that old man. He crossed his legs and took another, longer drink.

“Denise is in the kitchen, right behind you,” he said. “She is, at this moment, aiming a Glock nine millimeter at your skull. She’s a crack shot. If I raise my left hand off the armrest of this chair, she will pull the trigger and blow your head off. Most likely, the bullet will exit right where the last remnants of your high school acne are still visible.” He saw the movement in Tucker Poesy’s eyes. It wasn’t much. Few people would have seen anything. It took only an instant, but it was there. She couldn’t help herself. Instinctively, she looked down toward an area of her face just below her nose on the right cheek, then to the side where Denise should be. She had to look—she had to try to look—to see if Walter’s housekeeper really was behind her, really was ready to kill her. Her rational mind, of course, said no. Don’t look. It wasn’t possible. Surely no one was behind her. That was the oldest trick in the book. School children used it. Grade B Westerns and detective movies used it. Her rational mind was sure she had not only the upper hand, the only hand. But her rational mind had to wait until her instincts played themselves out. When her eyes darted, Walter’s right fist smashed flush into Tucker Poesy’s jaw. She tumbled over, dropped the pistol and lay unconscious on the floor. When she came to, she was sitting at a marble table, under a covered roof on Walter’s deck. Her hands rested on the arms of a wicker chair, held there by duct tape. Her legs were pulled apart and back slightly, taped securely, with the same metallic duct tape, to the legs of the chair. To her great discomfort, she was totally naked. Denise was pressing an icepack, wrapped in a towel, to the side of her face. She hurt too much to talk. Walter could see she was still woozy.

“Billy,” Walter said into the cell phone. “I need you. It’s important, my friend.”

“Name it,” said Billy.

“Come to my house . . .”

“I’m there already. Ten minutes?”

“Make it a half-hour. Come prepared.”

“Understood,” Billy answered without missing a beat. “You okay till then?”

“I’m fine. Thirty minutes.” He slapped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket, looked at Tucker Poesy, motioned to Denise to give the girl some water. “Put a bathrobe on her,” he said. Denise went downstairs and returned with one of her own. When Tucker Poesy’s dignity was partially restored, Walter rose, turned and went to the kitchen. When he returned he was munching a Granny Smith apple.

“I’ll talk. You listen,” he said. “When I’m wrong, you correct me. Do you understand?” Tucker Poesy shook her head appropriately. “If you were in Central Station, you were also on the train. That means you were in Bergen op Zoom, weren’t you?” Again she shook her head, yes. “No way you could have known I would be in Bergen op Zoom unless you followed me. You did know I was coming to Holland. You had to know that. You were at the airport. You followed me. I led you to Harry Levine. You followed us both to Amsterdam.” He leaned toward her to see if she was hurt worse than he thought. She was not. “You haven’t said anything. I’m right, so far?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Where did you come from?”

“London.”

“Good,” said Walter. “Good.”

“What’s good?”

“It’s good you’re telling me the truth, right away. I hate it when people don’t cooperate. So,” he continued, “someone told you I was on my way to Holland and you arranged to be there when I arrived. You had plenty of time. My flight would take eight or nine hours. London is a short hop.” He was watching her injured face carefully. The muscles in her cheeks were relaxed. There was a swelling on the left side, a big one, and her lip had been cracked at its outer edge. The bleeding had subsided. Only a little drip at the corner of her mouth still ran. The lines in her forehead showed no unusual disturbance. He asked, “How long have you known Louis Devereaux?” No sooner had he asked that, than everything in Tucker Poesy’s face changed. She didn’t know it, but he did. He could see her thinking of an answer and finally giving in to the simple truth.

“A few years,” she said.

“I looked at your gun,” Walter said, holding it up. “Israeli. Hard to find, I think. You don’t see too many of these.” She said nothing. She knew she didn’t have to acknowledge everything Walter said. “You don’t follow people. That’s for sure,” he said with a laugh. “You don’t follow people if you carry a unique and very dangerous weapon. What do you do?”

“Kill.”

“Good,” said Walter, holding her pistol in his hands, examining it. “I don’t mean it’s good you kill—you kill people I assume—I mean it’s good you’re telling me. I respect that.”

“Bullshit,” she mumbled.

“Huh?”

“Go fuck yourself!”

“What did you say?” Walter said. “Fuck me? Fuck you! This is my house!” he bellowed. “You came into my house! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you. You’re lucky I don’t kill you now.” He wanted to reach out and grab her swollen jaw. It was hard to restrain himself. He needed a moment. Finally, he looked at her, naked except for a bathrobe thrown over her like a light blanket. “Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he said.

“Clothes. My clothes,” she whimpered.

“No,” Walter said sternly. “You’re fine the way you are.” He heard her curse him again as he walked away.

When Billy arrived, Tucker Poesy could see the two men talking. Walter gestured, pointed to her out on the deck. He was still unnerved, angry, his raw edge showing. She took note that Billy registered no surprise or shock. He removed a gun from his belt and showed it to Walter, then shoved it back in his pants. Here she was tied to a chair, barely covered, otherwise completely naked, legs spread apart and this guy just glanced at her and then returned his attention to Walter. Shit! she said to herself. A professional!

The two men talked for another minute or two and Billy left. Walter returned to the deck where she had pushed aside most of the cobwebs clouding her brain and regained her sense that she was buried neck-high in shit and had not the slightest idea how to extricate herself. Not yet, anyway.

“Billy will be back to get you,” Walter said. “He just went to get a piece of equipment he needs to move you in that chair.”

“What? You can’t keep me in this chair . . . like this.”

“When he does come back, he’ll take you somewhere else. If you keep your mouth shut, you won’t be gagged. If you make noise, we’ll tape your mouth too. So, if you’re going to fuck around, get ready to breathe through your nose. Billy will keep you until I’m done.”

“Like . . . this?”

“Someone will feed you. If they feel up to it, you’ll be taken to use the toilet. It’ll be a hardship. You’ll be hosed down to stay clean.” Tucker Poesy looked at Walter in disbelief. Fear crept over her like red ants on a helpless grasshopper, some pinning the poor insect down, others boring into its head, eating it alive. “You’ll be alive,” he said. “But not much more.”

When the telephone rang, Sadie Fagan was preparing dinner. She was also watching the Six O’Clock News on channel 2. She gathered a bunch of long celery stalks on a wooden cutting board, sliced them into small pieces and threw the pieces into the same bowl where she had already put shredded carrots and cut cucumbers. Then she looked around for a green pepper. The local TV anchorwoman had her serious face on. She reported on a home invasion in one of Atlanta’s finest neighborhoods, Inman Park. No one was injured, but a man named Otto Heinrich, a violinist for the famed Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, had been home when the break-in occurred. Nothing had been taken and Mr. Heinrich said the man who entered his house surprised him but said nothing. Police were investigating the incident and offered no more information at this time. She didn’t mention it, but the anchorwoman herself lived only a few blocks away from the scene of the crime. The touch of real fear in her eyes played well on screen. They cut to a reporter standing outside the violinist’s gable-roofed, Victorian-style house. It was already dark outside. Behind the reporter, the lights of neighboring homes could be seen twinkling through the leaves and branches of the tree-lined block. Inman Park always had that gingerbread look about it. The television camera caught a street scene of bucolic splendor, right there in the middle of the city. A home invasion? Sadie was mortified. How could such a thing happen—there? It was almost as if it happened in her subdivision. When the reporter, a lovely young woman with perfect hair threw it back to the studio, the anchorwoman, still appropriately grim, wrapped the piece with the news that Mr. Heinrich was the husband of Isobel Gitlin, Executive Director of the Center for Consumer Concerns. Isobel’s fifteen minutes ended a while ago, and she was glad of it. Apparently beyond her control, a residue lingered. Isobel Gitlin? Sadie had heard the name, but couldn’t place it. Anyway, the phone rang. She turned from the TV, wiped her hands dry with a paper towel, and answered it. She never heard the anchorwoman say, “Isobel Gitlin will be remembered, of course, for the pivotal role she played in the Leonard Martin affair.”

“Hello,” said Sadie.

“Aunt Sadie, it’s me.”

“Harry! Where are you, my darling? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Aunt Sadie. Really, I am. I wanted you to know everything’s going to be all right. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Worry? Me? Oh, Harry, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

“I would have called sooner, but things have been kind of hectic. I’ve been traveling.”

“I know, dear,” said Sadie, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her kitchen apron. “I spoke with Chita. She told me. And I met Mr. Sherman. He found you? And you’re safe now?”

Harry assured his aunt of his safety. He told her about his trip to Holland, to Bergen op Zoom, Roswell’s sister city. He mentioned that Walter had located him and how he and Walter went through Belgium and Spain on their way to Mexico and finally to the cabin in the mountains of New Mexico. No one would ever find him there. “Walter said this was a safe place. It certainly is in the middle of nowhere. It’s really amazingly beautiful here.”

“How long will you be there?” she asked. “What’s going to happen with all this?”

“I can’t say, Aunt Sadie. I don’t know. Chita said to trust Walter Sherman, and I do. I am.”

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you too. I really shouldn’t talk too long.” Walter had warned him not to use the phone at all. “Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me again for a while.”

“Have you spoken with your Aunt Chita?”

“No, not since we got here. I’ll try her, but you know she’s tough to get a hold of. If you talk to her first, tell her I’m all right and tell her I love her. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” Sadie hung the phone up thinking about her brother David. Missing, what a terrible word. It had no ending. David would always be missing. It broke Sadie’s heart, all these years later. He had never seen his son. Never held him as a baby. Never rocked him to sleep when his belly hurt. Never . . . She started crying all over her vegetables.

Earlier in the day, a few minutes after nine that morning, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man walked into the lobby of building number two at Atlanta’s Colony Square complex on Peachtree at 14th Street. He rode an elevator to the seventh floor, where he made his way to the reception area at the Center for Consumer Concerns. He smiled at the receptionist and said, “Isobel Gitlin, please. Christopher Hopman to see her.” A moment later the girl at the front desk looked up, with concern written all over her face, and asked, “Mr. Hopman? Mr. Christopher Hopman, is that right?”

“Yes, it is,” the man answered, still smiling and keeping a respectful distance from the reception desk, allowing the girl to talk into her phone with some assurance of privacy. She did just that, then took the phone, and pressing her other hand over the mouthpiece, said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Gitlin has no Christopher Hopman on her schedule.”

“Please tell Ms. Gitlin I’m here because of Walter Sherman.” The smile was still there, warm, friendly, engaging. He was a handsome man, the receptionist thought. Finally, after one last whispered phone conversation, she said, “Someone will be right out to show you in.”

Isobel had no idea what this could be about. In her years as a reporter with The New York Times, she had fine-tuned an attention to words, a deep respect for language. “Words have meaning, don’t they?” a Times editor once said to her. “There’s no need for you to answer that, is there?” he immediately added. “Or, for that matter, that question either. Why? Because my words meant something and you understood their meaning as soon as I said them. That should be your goal for everything you write. Your reader should never wonder ‘what did she mean.’” The man calling himself Christopher Hopman—that absolutely could not be his name—said he was here because of Walter Sherman. He did not say Walter had sent him. For just a second she wondered if she should have alerted Security.

“Ms. Gitlin, pleased to meet you,” the man said. Apparently the smile had been pasted on with epoxy. He extended his hand. Isobel stood; they shook hands. It started like any normal business meeting.

“What’s your name?” Isobel asked. The man’s smile opened to a polite chuckle. “You can’t be Christopher Hopman because he was killed, shot down on a golf course outside Boston, by . . . ?”

“I’ll take your word for that,” he said.

“By . . . ?” Isobel repeated.

“I believe a man named Leonard Martin confessed to that murder, among others.”

“So, what is your name and why are you here? What does this have to do with Walter Sherman? He didn’t send you, did he?”

“No, he didn’t send me. He is, however, responsible for my visit. As for my name, that’s not important.”

“Well, you can get the hell out of here!”

“I represent some people who need to know where Mr. Sherman took Harry Levine. They believe you know where that is.”

“What are you talking about? Who the hell is Harry Levine? Get the fuck out of here!”

“Calm down, Ms. Gitlin. This is a very serious matter. You need to hear what I have to say. You also need to provide me with whatever information you have that might be helpful. This is, I assure you, not a matter to be taken lightly.” He paused, removed his coat, which he carefully laid down on the chair next to him and then pulled his seat forward, directly across from her. She said nothing more, which he took to be agreement on her part, at least to pay attention. He looked her in the eye and spoke with an ease of manner that, considering what he said, was more than a little frightening.

“Harry Levine—you don’t know Mr. Levine, or so it would appear—is in the company of Mr. Sherman. To be frank, Mr. Sherman is hiding him. The people I work for desire to talk to Mr. Levine. I have no idea why—they didn’t feel a need to tell me, and that’s fine with me. I am little more than a facilitator in this matter. As you have already guessed, Leonard Martin fits in here too. My employers believe that Mr. Sherman has taken Mr. Levine to whatever location Leonard Martin used during that period of time when he was avoiding the rest of the world, including the authorities. If that’s so, if that is where he is, everyone agrees Harry Levine can’t and won’t be found. Not without help, anyway. Your help, Ms. Gitlin.”

“I have no . . .”

“Please stop,” the man said, sounding less like an unnamed menace and more like an Assistant Principal who knows he’s about to be regaled with a tale something akin to, “an elephant ate my homework.” “We do not want to begin this way,” he said. “I certainly don’t want to, and I don’t believe you really want to either. Lies are uncalled for. They’re counterproductive. Of course you know where this location is. That is not in question. Actually, there is no question here. I am merely trying to be polite by asking you. You have to tell me. You are the only one. We—and now I include you too—we are aware that Walter Sherman is a man, a very capable man, a man with numerous resources. He will tell us nothing and there’s an element of risk even approaching him. That leaves only you, Ms. Gitlin.”

“They can’t pay you enough to go after Walter, can they?” Isobel angrily interrupted.

“So,” he continued, “we’re asking you. My employer will not stop at asking.”

“You can’t hurt me!”

“No, no, no. You misunderstand me. Please. I never meant to say you would be hurt in any way.” For some reason Isobel breathed easier. Why, she asked herself, do I think I’ve won something? “Is that a picture of you and your husband?” he asked, pointing to a cube-framed photo on her desk. “Your husband, Otto Heinrich, plays with the Atlanta Symphony, doesn’t he?” Isobel’s sense of satisfaction left her as quickly and completely as her last breath. “A violinist, right? I’m told he plays beautifully. A man like that must have exceptional fingers, especially on his left hand. Isn’t that right? How does he manage to care for his hands, his fingers? Exercise? Warm water and soap? Custom-made gloves? Some sort of special lotion, probably. I could never know. You do, of course. Tell me about his hands.”

“No,” said Isobel in a voice no louder than a whimper.

“A man like your husband has to make sure nothing happens to his hands. I guess they’re as much a part of his instrument as . . . as the bow.”

“Y-y-you can’t . . .”

She had never been there, but she knew where it was. Long ago, Walter told her. He told her about his drive from Santa Fe, up into the mountains near Albert, New Mexico, near the Indian forest. She remembered his description of the cabin, even the road leading to it. He met Michael DelGrazo there—Leonard Martin, the Cowboy with the floppy hat. She had never been there, but she knew exactly where it was. She paid the taxes on the property. Each year since Leonard Martin walked off into the void. She paid the electricity. The water bill. The Center cut the checks. She never questioned the expense. It was, after all, Leonard Martin who founded the institution she headed. She was following his instructions. Would Leonard ever return? Is he even alive? She didn’t know. Who did? Walter? The genial, well-groomed imitation of a businessman, sitting in front of her, was totally correct. She knew where it was, yet her natural inclination was to tell this thug to go fuck himself. My God! she thought, Otto!

Washington, that was where Walter was headed. Headed to Devereaux. To Devereaux, whose arrogance had so unhinged him in Atlanta. And now—the sonofabitch sent someone into his home! There was a late flight out of St. Thomas he could still catch. It would take him to Miami. He’d stay over there and fly to Washington in the morning. He knew he would be calm by then, calmer anyway. Passing the cruise ships, on the long cab ride from the St. Thomas ferry dock to the airport, the sight of those massive floating resort hotels, all done up in pastels, blue and sea green, yellows and light shades of red, towering like buildings many stories above the water, he realized his blood pressure had gone from a boil to a simmer sooner than he expected. A few minutes later his cell phone rang as he waited in the airport.

“Yes,” he said.

“Walter, Walter,” came a familiar voice, with an unfamiliar tone. It jolted his awareness to a sharp point. The frustration and anger he felt about Devereaux and his hired girl was counterproductive. He knew that and was grateful for the intrusion. It was Isobel Gitlin’s voice he heard.

“Yes,” he said, hoping his hurt pride was not showing too much.

“I had no choice,” she said. Was she crying or coughing? Did he hear the sound of a stuffy nose, a simple cold or something else? “It was Otto. Otto.” Definitely crying, thought Walter. He decided to let her cry it out. He waited.

“Walter, I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. They took Otto and threatened to c-c-cut off the fingers! B-b-break his hands. His arms. His elbows. Oh, my god! I’m sorry, Walter. I’m sorry. Otto, he could never play again. They came to our house, into our house. Walter. I had to.”

“Had to what, Isobel?”

“Had to tell them. Tell them where. Where it is. They knew it was somewhere. They just didn’t know where.”

“Where what?”

“Where Leonard was, before. In New Mexico.” Walter closed his eyes. He was getting lightheaded. He felt cold sweat across the back of his neck. His arms and legs tingled. His stomach growled in disgust, tightening with newfound fear. He was a deer, alone on a dark lonely road near Rhinebeck, in upstate New York. He saw the truck come barreling around the turn. The headlights blinded him. He was unable to move, every inch of his body paralyzed. He shuddered as the truck ran over him, bone and blood and soft tissue pushed together like a pasty soup. He saw his brain shut down.

“Who?” he said, breathing deeply, slowly. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “The one who came to see me was in his forties, tall, lean, light complexion, light brown hair, well dressed, well spoken. I thought I detected an accent, but I’m not sure. Very confident. He was very confident.”

“Name?”

“He said his name was Christopher Hopman.”

“Oh shit!” said Walter.

“He knew you. He knew who you were. I think he’s afraid of you. I think so. He said he wanted something somebody named Harry Levine had. You too. He knew you were involved.”

“He thought Harry Levine was in New Mexico?”

“Yes. He didn’t know it was New Mexico. He said they thought you had taken him to wherever Leonard had been.”

“They? Who’s they?”

“He just referred to them as ‘his employers.’ I remembered what you said, where you said it was.”

“I know,” Walter said. “You’ve been paying the bills there since Leonard Martin disappeared.”

“How did you know? Oh, my God!”

“Yes, that’s right, Isobel. That’s where I took him. And that’s where I left him.”

“Oh, m-m-my God!” she mumbled again. “I’m so sorry. Otto . . .”

“Goodbye,” said Walter.

Today’s call from Harry wasn’t due for another ninety minutes. He knew there would be no call. It would never come. Never. He went to the ticket counter and changed his flight plans. No matter where he was going, he had to fly to Miami first. He dropped his Washington flight and found a late-night opening, Miami to Houston. It was an awful flight, turbulent over the Gulf, and local thunderstorms in the Houston area. He felt like crap and took two antacid tablets as soon as he landed. A six-hour layover in Houston and then on to Albuquerque. Four more hours after that to Albert. Twenty minutes to the cabin.

Harry Levine’s body lay crumpled, face down on the floor near the small refrigerator. A single shot in the heart had killed him. Walter noticed powder burns on Harry’s shirt. The hole was small. Someone must have held Harry very close, perhaps right up against him. Whoever it was had reached in with a small caliber pistol, pushed it hard against Harry’s chest and fired. There was no exit wound. The bullet had not been very powerful, just deadly. It would take a coldhearted bastard to kill this way. The body was otherwise unmarked. Whoever killed him didn’t have to beat him to find the document. Harry wouldn’t have hidden it. After all, Walter told him he would be safe here. “Damnit!” Walter said out loud. On the floor, not far from Harry’s feet, Walter found a cigarette butt. The ash was only halfway down and it had been stepped on, apparently casually ground into the kitchen floor. Something about it looked familiar. When he picked it up he saw it was not a regular cigarette, certainly not an American cigarette. The paper was unusual. He slid it around between his fingers. It felt like rice paper. And the cigarette itself came with its own cardboard holder. The brand name had been smudged. All he could make out were the letters MOPKAHA.

The cabin was freezing. The fire was dead, burned to cold ash. The space heaters were not turned on. The killer was long gone. Walter’s coat was all he had. He could see his own breath, still he felt a sweat come over him. A dull pain grew in his chest, his stomach gone sour again. He sat down at the table, in the same wooden chair he dragged out to the porch when Harry marveled at the stars and the purity of the night sky. The horizon was much closer now. Walter felt suddenly overcome by fatigue. His eyelids closed. They balked at his feeble attempts to raise them open. Sleep. He needed sleep. He couldn’t help himself. He fell asleep right there, in the chair, still in his coat. He awoke about five. It was already dark and colder than before. He thought back to everything he had touched, now and when he had been there earlier and wiped all of it clean until there was no trace he was ever there. This was not the first time Walter had covered his tracks this way. He made no mistakes. He looked for any sign to tell him who did this—who killed Harry Levine. He found nothing. He, who could find anything, found nothing. The anger rose within him. He shivered, the cold radiating into his chin, down his left arm. “Harry,” he said although no one could hear him. Walter wondered, was the Cowboy in him?

It was the beef and the greed that killed Leonard Martin’s family. Walter remembered, better than most. Bad beef, born of corruption and venality, deception and disregard. Hamburgers. And where was Leonard Martin when he was needed? Where was he? Walter remembered that too. While Leonard’s wife, daughter and grandsons were joyfully broiling the poisoned meat, he was with another woman. When his family needed him most, he was absent, cheating, fucking. The only reason Leonard Martin lived was because he skipped that poolside barbeque, skipped it to have sex with a woman who was not his wife, not the mother of his child or grandmother to his grandsons. For Leonard, getting laid that morning gave an evil twist to getting lucky. He always felt his affair was manageable, acceptable so long as Nina didn’t know, so long as no one got hurt. He never thought the hurt would come like this. Afterward, when he held Nina’s lifeless hand, and then tried to comfort his daughter, Ellie, as she died, frantically worrying about her boys, Leonard’s cowardly soul burned in Hell, charred from head to toe with dirty ash, the filthy soot of his guilty fire. His life became an inferno, the flames quenched only with the blood of vengeance. Walter accused Leonard of that, confronted him with the charge that his revenge was not so righteous after all. “Where were you?” Walter shouted at him. And now. “Where were you?” he screamed at himself. “Where were you?” He saw Michael DelGrazo, the Cowboy, Leonard Martin, each pointing an accusing finger. “Where were you?”

He made three phone calls before driving away, this time for good. He would never set foot upon this place again. He swore it. The first call was to Isobel. “It’s Walter Sherman,” he told the receptionist, and when Isobel picked up the phone, before she could speak, he said, “He’s dead.” He shut the cover on his cell phone before Isobel said a word. The second call was to the New Mexico State Police. There was a body, he told them, in a cabin . . . He told them where, then hung up. His final call was to Billy. “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?” he asked the bartender.

“Yeah,” said Billy.

“I need a few more days. I’ll be back Friday. Everything all right?”

“Yeah.”

“No problems?”

“None.”

“Turn her loose.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. You tell her I know she had nothing to do with it. Tell her if I ever see her again, I’ll kill her. She’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Just tell her.”

“Okay, I’ll tell her.”

PART THREE

And I can hear the devil whisper,

“Things are only getting worse.”

–Alan Jackson–

Walter didn’t stop in Santa Fe this time. He had no desire to walk among the Indian women sitting around the Plaza, fat women, younger than they looked in their layers of warm clothing bundled against the cold, selling their jewelry, keeping their spirits up with hot tea and little flasks filled with whiskey. No gifts today. No pendants changing shape in the wind and sun. He made it straight through, all the way to Albuquerque, took a room at an airport motel and booked an early flight to Atlanta. He didn’t sleep. How could he? He took a couple of Mylanta he carried in his travel bag. Tylenol too. Didn’t help much. He must have dozed off for a few minutes here and there because somehow the morning came. He slept on the plane.

When he landed in Atlanta, Walter rented a car and made the drive to Roswell. Sadie Fagan was not expecting him, and when she saw the pain written on his troubled face, the misery in his eyes, she knew something terrible had happened. She didn’t hear a thing he said. It only took a few minutes. She did not invite him in for a cold drink. Harry was dead. He told her, then it was plain he had to leave. All the Levines were gone now. David, Elana and Harry. Long ago Sadie became a Fagan. She cried for her father. Walter had no part in Sadie’s grief. No part except that her torment was his fault. They both knew it. When he got back in his car he was feeling no better. He hadn’t eaten since—he couldn’t recall. Perhaps something in his stomach would make a difference.

Walter was alone, in a booth at a Waffle House restaurant in Roswell, Georgia, just at the entrance to the GA 400 highway, when he collapsed. He felt the bottom fall out, the air in his lungs desert him, his strength disappear, draining from his head to his feet like water in a flushed toilet. That’s where it all was headed. Into the toilet. At the same time fatigue swamped him, the pain in his chest took a gargantuan leap from a bothersome ache to a brutal squeezing pressure, gripping his upper body in a vice-like nutcracker, pushing out from within and in from without, threatening to crack his body like the fragile shell of a walnut, while simultaneously an unseen hand pulled the pin on a grenade buried deep inside his chest. His left arm hurt so bad he couldn’t lift it. A lump the size of a softball crawled up his throat. Perspiration, warm and chilly at the same time, swept over him. He could feel his balls shrivel up, his knees weaken, his hips give way, his head spinning. Even fear could not save him. He passed out leaning forward, his last conscious act a desperate effort to get up. He fell with his face in his eggs, knocking a glass of Diet Coke to the floor.

First there were the lights, zooming swiftly by. One at a time. One after the other, straight above his head. Bright dots, headlights in the window, reflections in a darkened sky. Then there were the hills across the river. The hills that never changed. Frozen in winter, lush in summer, always the same. When he was a boy, Walter saw them for the first time. The hills across the Hudson. They never moved. They were always there just as they had been before. Today, yesterday, forever. They rolled north from Kingston, beyond the bridge, surely all the way to Albany and then to who knows where, past the known world, to other mysterious places. No matter what, he knew he could go to the river, look to the other side and find comfort. And now, his father came to see him. How could that be? Snow was everywhere. There was nothing but snow. No trees. No shoes. He had no shoes, yet his feet were not cold. How could that be? Maybe it was he who went to visit his father. Which was it? Who cared. He didn’t. But he couldn’t visit his father. His father died when he was six. For a while his mother used to go to the cemetery. For a while. Sometimes she took him with her. He remembered the long rows of gray stones, the place where she finally stopped and cried. She always said they were going to visit his father. But Walter never saw him. Was that a visit? Not like this one. How old was he the last time? Nine? Ten? Who cared? He didn’t. The pain and the warmth swam together, one overlapping the other, then separating, then joining again in wave after wave. The pain. The warmth. The pain. Where was the warmth? Where was it? Come back!

Johnny Sherman, Walter’s father, was right there waiting for him, sitting in an old wooden chair, open on the left with a wide, desk-like area sticking out by the right armrest. It was a place big enough for a tray of sandwiches and hot chocolate or maybe beer and sausages, a newspaper or magazine, even big enough for a child to sit on. It was empty now, only his father’s arm resting there. Those chairs had a name. What was it? The chair was in the snow, encircled and surrounded by snow as if set down in the middle of a great open field. The sky was bright, white and cloudless. Johnny Sherman wore a green t-shirt, like Army green except he was never in the Army. He had on jeans, the sort that used to be called blue jeans, heavy, dark blue, coarse denim with the cuffs rolled up two or three times showing the material’s lighter underside. Walter was sure nobody had worn jeans like these for fifty years. His father had no shoes. They both had no shoes. How could that be? Snow was everywhere. His father’s legs were crossed, right over left, at the knee. Was he smiling? Was he? He said nothing. He didn’t move in any way. His eyes looked at Walter, into Walter, through Walter, but they never blinked. He made no motion with his head. He was silent. Yet Walter heard him, understood him, knew perfectly well what his father was telling him. There was no mistaking him.

“Sit,” his father said without a word, without a gesture. “Sit here, on this chair by my right arm. Sit down with me and all your pain will go away. Be with me, my son. I love you.”

The struggle between what is and what will be, between darkness and the light, between the flashing lights and the clear sky. “Sit down,” his father beckoned. “I’ve been waiting.” The struggle between life and death. Goodbye Gloria. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. No! Walter would not sit.

Dr. William Byron, Dr. Willie to anyone who knew him and every patient who had seen him more than once, looked down into Walter’s face. Dr. Willie’s was a friendly presence made up of smiles and good cheer. The joke among the Cardiac staff at Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta was that Dr. Willie could tell someone they had six months to live and they would be happy to hear it. From him, that is. The first time Walter saw him was when he opened his eyes.

“Must be my magic touch again,” said Dr. Willie. Two residents and a nurse, standing just behind him, politely laughed and nodded to one another. Walter failed to comprehend. “You’ve come about, Mr. Sherman. Opened your eyes to the world. And you’ve done it with me right here, standing in your room, next to your bed. My magic touch, I tell you.”

“Where . . . am I?”

Dr. Byron told him. Further, he told him, pay no attention at all to the nameplate on his white coat. “Call me Willie,” he said. “Everyone does.” As for Walter, Dr. Willie said he’d had a heart attack. Paramedics saved him. The emergency doctors and nurses at North Fulton Regional Hospital, up in Alpharetta, stabilized him—somewhat, that is, since he never really regained consciousness while with those folks—then transferred him by ambulance to the Coronary Intensive Care Unit at Emory University’s downtown hospital.

“What day . . . ?”

“It’s Friday, Mr. Sherman. You had your MI on Wednesday and you’ve been out of it pretty much until now. But I think you’re gonna be fine. We did an angiogram, a cardiac cath procedure, yesterday.”

“What’s that?”

“We inserted a long, thin tube in your groin—you might feel a pressure bandage there—and slid it up into your heart. Shot a little dye into your coronary arteries, took some pictures and got a pretty good idea of why you had so much trouble the other day.”

“What happened?”

“You had an infarct—that’s a heart attack—because a branch of your right coronary artery closed off.”

“Big heart attack?”

“Well,” chuckled Dr. Willie, “the only minor heart attacks are those that happen to someone else, if you know what I mean.”

“I think so,” said Walter.

“You need a bypass operation, Mr. Sherman. We’ve been waiting for you to come out of this, regain consciousness, get strong enough to undergo surgery. You have widespread artery disease. You’ll have another heart attack—and the next one you might not be so lucky with—if you don’t get some plumbing work done. I’ll schedule you for tomorrow with Dr. Ortega—great surgeon, the best. It’ll be four or five days . . .”

“No,” Walter said. “No surgery. Not tomorrow anyway. How soon will I be well enough to leave?”

“Without a bypass operation . . .”

“How soon, doctor? Please.”

“Monday. We’ll keep you the weekend. It’s a big mistake, Mr. Sherman. How old was your father when he died?”

“How do you know my father is dead?”

“Forty? Maybe younger? You talked about him, the day they brought you in. You’re nearly sixty, Mr. Sherman. You’re on borrowed time and your loan could be called any day. You understand?”

“How long will it take me to recover from bypass surgery?”

“Well, we can get you home—wherever that is—in four or five days, end of next week if everything goes well. Follow up and recovery, rest—four to six weeks. A man your age and weight, in the sort of physical shape you’re in, a couple of months. You may think you can’t spend a couple of months this way, but there’s a big upside to this.”

“What’s that?”

“Staying alive. You do want to stay alive? You don’t have to answer that. I know you do. I’ve been watching you. You do want to live, Mr. Sherman. You want badly to live. You need a bypass and you need it now.”

“I . . .”

“By the way, who is Gloria?”

“My wife.”

“Oh, well then,” said Dr. Willie, turning to look at the nurse holding Walter’s chart, “That’s good. We don’t have any contact individual for you. Nothing in your personal belongings to tell us where your family can be reached. We should call Mrs. Sherman immediately.”

“My ex-wife, doctor. No need to call.”

“As you wish.”

Saturday morning, Walter underwent quintuple bypass surgery. The following Thursday, a week after arriving at Crawford Long Hospital and eight days after his heart attack, he flew home to St. John. Dr. Willie gave him the name of a cardiologist on St. Thomas.

He didn’t call Conchita Crystal. Instead, he sent her a check returning her money, all except expenses, including the twenty thousand for the Isuzu Rodeo sitting in long-term parking at the Albuquerque airport. Although he wished he was, he wasn’t wealthy enough to forget the expenses. In addition to the car, travel alone had been more than thirty thousand dollars. He sent the check with a note explaining his refund and the embarrassing necessity for keeping the expense money. He really didn’t want any of it. She never cashed the check and she never called either.

Nothing was ever said between Billy and Walter about Tucker Poesy. Just a look, eye contact the first day Walter returned. He knew well enough if there had been any trouble Billy would have mentioned it. The trip home had taken its toll. The flight from Atlanta, the taxi to the ferry, the boat ride over to St. John, all of it was more than he counted on. Walter was tired and weak when he walked into Billy’s. Ike was shocked at Walter’s appearance, sunken eyes, thinner, older. He never expected to see his friend look like that. Billy was worried. God only knows what happened to Walter. He was a week late coming back and he looked like shit. What kind of a beating had he taken? Helen, however, could smell a hospital a mile away. She knew right off the bat. Heart attack. Had to be. He told his friends she was right and that he would be all right soon, that he was going to rest awhile at home and he would see them soon. “Maybe a few days,” he said. “Maybe longer.” They said they would check on him, if he didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t. St. John is a small island. Everyone knows everyone else. They were all family. “I’ll see you guys,” Walter said and then sat down to wait for Sonny to bring a car around, to drive him up into the hills, to take him home.

The bushwhackers thin out a little bit in March and a little bit more when April arrives. Rental prices go down—owners are more willing to take short-term guests, even for long weekends, instead of the two-week minimum at high season—and the room rates at the Westin and Caneel Bay are no longer scary. After February, Billy’s isn’t usually crowded before lunch. Walter recuperated quickly, as quickly as a man his age could. Dr. Willie knew what he was talking about. Walking was good for Walter. It was too hilly where he lived, so he drove down to the beaches and would trek across the sand from one end to the other, and back again. Sand walking was like water walking. Good for the stamina. Good for building up strength. As time went on, he took to doing it twice a day, in the morning before breakfast and again late in the afternoon. For her part, Denise showed a lot of her aunt in her. Even though she was more than thirty years his junior, she took command, asserted herself as she had not done before and assumed the mantle long worn by Clara before her. She cooked—she cared—she was there. And Walter was happy with it. He needed her. Dr. Willie had been right again. Six weeks. And all that time to think—think about what happened—think about who—think about the Cowboy.

As he saw it, there were three players—Devereaux, the Kennedys and the Georgians. Sure, he realized it wasn’t really the Kennedy family, probably none of them except Abby O’Malley, and yes, the Georgians were not really Georgians, strictly speaking. But that’s how he thought of them—Kennedys and Georgians. Devereaux was the easy one. He was out there all by himself, a guilty-looking sonofabitch.

He started with the Kennedys. Was he wrong about Amsterdam? Had the Kennedys simply made a mistake by sending the Irishman? Must they have been the ones who killed Sir Anthony and the American Ambassador in order to have killed Harry? Or, could they have killed Harry and not the others? Who wanted Lacey’s confession more than they did? Their motives were the most obvious, their need already demonstrated by Sean Dooley and by Abby O’Malley’s visit. If it was them, if the Kennedys killed Harry and took the document, how did they know about Leonard Martin? Whoever it was who intimidated Isobel already knew Harry had been taken to Leonard’s hiding place. And, they should have known, all along, that Harry had the document. If that was so, why did they have to kill Sir Anthony and Ambassador Brown? If they didn’t learn about Harry until later, how did they find out? Walter was confident he had been right in Amsterdam. Sean Dooley was no killer. Why send him if you had someone else, someone who had already shown he could kill a helpless old man and two naked homosexuals. Dooley didn’t do that, so why send him to Amsterdam? More to the point, how did Abby O’Malley discover them in Amsterdam in the first place? Tucker Poesy knew. Devereaux obviously told her and she was waiting. But, Abby O’Malley—who told her? The questions did overwhelm him. As he had been doing for decades, Walter lined them up, pieces in the puzzle waiting to be fitted properly.

Walter could not forget, it was him they found, not Harry Levine. He couldn’t bring himself to forgive his own stupidity. He led them to Harry, in Holland and in New Mexico as well. Christ! If Harry had just stayed on his own, who knows, maybe he’d still be out there hiding somewhere, still alive. Walter covered himself with a blanket of doubt. If he had not fallen for Conchita Crystal’s act—it was an act, wasn’t it? If he had just said no to her. If he never found Harry . . . Shit! What an asshole. Aat was right. He was an old fool. Devereaux made him in Atlanta. The girl had him down in Holland. Was it all gone, into the crapper? Did he have anything at all left? Ike was right. The old man had it cold. He should have stayed retired.

Leonard Martin had changed everything. Lost more than a hundred pounds. Cut his hair short. Grew a beard. Stopped wearing suits and ties and switched to jeans and down jackets, boots and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. Yes, Walter thought, he made himself a better man, a different man. He became the Cowboy. Somehow Walter felt a need to do the same. He’d already hardened his body some and was in even better shape now, after his heart attack, after his bypass surgery. Sixty? Shit, he was feeling more like forty. He didn’t have a new heart, but he had the closest thing to it. Revascularization, they called it. Revitalization, as far as Walter was concerned. In much the same way as Leonard Martin, he thought of himself as a better man. Like Billy said, Walter was every bit as better as Tommy John. Transformed. Could he be the Cowboy? Why not?

Harry Levine wasn’t family, blood, kin. He didn’t really know Harry that well, although you can get quite close to another person traveling around the world with killers on your trail. No, he was not family. But Harry Levine was his responsibility, his charge. He had been hired to keep him safe, not get him killed. Things had turned out bad before. Not every client was satisfied, not every conclusion the right one. Still, he’d never had anyone killed—murdered—while in his care. And he’d never been played the fool at the cost of another’s life. He had a duty, an obligation. Walter took it upon himself to find whoever killed Harry Levine, and then . . . he would know, wouldn’t he. Could he be the Cowboy?

“You look great,” said Ike. “A couple of months here, do that for anyone.” St. John is what he meant and they both knew it. From his barstool to Ike’s table, Walter sent his friend a nod of thanks. Territory had been firmly established years ago. Ike already had his table when Walter arrived. Billy’s former management—Frogman’s, it was called back then—either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The owner, a man named Jorge Castillo, lived on St. Thomas where he’d come from Kansas City or Milwaukee or some place like that. The Virgin Islands were filled with people, Americans who came from somewhere, none of them—for reasons nobody ever talked about—too eager to go back. When Billy bought the place, he did not change the way it looked, the placement of tables or any of the fixtures, including the barstools. He did allow for a more or less official recognition of Walter’s and Ike’s already settled presence. The hostess and wait staff knew to keep customers away from their spots without certain knowledge that either of them would not show up. Billy never minded. In fact, Billy liked it that way from the beginning. Ike was thinking about that, watching his friend at the end of the bar, near the kitchen, getting healthier and healthier every day.

“You look great,” he said again.

“This surgery you had, Walter,” chimed in Billy, “I think it made you even better than before. You think I could be right?”

“Yes,” Walter said. “Yes I do. But I think Ike’s right too. Don’t I look great?” His smile quickly turned to full blown laughter. “Seriously though,” said Walter, “I think he’s right about being here, on St. John. If I lived in Cleveland, or someplace, I don’t believe I’d feel as good as I do or look as good either, thank you very much.”

“Damn right, Walter. Shit, that’s true for us all, isn’t it?” laughed Billy proudly, extremely satisfied with his own observation.

“Wise man,” said Ike. “Billy, you definitely a wise man.” For his part, Billy was as happy as he could be with Walter’s recovery.

Billy Smith—previously William Mantkowski in another life altogether—knew a little something about recovery. He had seen men, including himself, injured in a way no one ever thought they would come back, come back all the way that is, come back to their old selves. He knew there was a lot more to it than drugs and doctors. Billy was certain as the day was long that among other things, the grace of God, the loving hand of Jesus, as well as his own good food had done wonders for his friend’s robust improvement. If Walter wasn’t praying, Billy was sure his own would suffice.

“They took something from your leg—is that right?” Billy asked.

“And they used it for my heart,” said Walter.

“Bypass,” Ike said, at the same time he was sucking into his lungs a volume of cigarette smoke that might have killed a first-time smoker. “Bypassing. Gotta go around something. Gotta use something to do it.”

“True, true,” said Walter.

“Like they did with Tommy John.”

“Tommy John—again, Billy?”

“Let me tell you something, Ike,” Billy said, dropping his bar rag on the counter and leaning over, with both hands on the bar, in the direction of the old man. “There’s been other players in baseball besides Negroes. Players like Tommy John.”

“White boy, huh? The one you always talking about? Must be your favorite player, or something.”

“White boy, huh?” mocked Billy. “Tommy John threw out his arm. You know, that’s what they called it back then—throwing out your arm. When a pitcher did that, it was all over. But, with Tommy John, they operated on him—took something out of his leg, I think, and used it somehow to fix his bad arm, you know his elbow or shoulder or whatever it was he threw out. Anyway, he recovered and he was better than before. Better.”

“Tommy John,” laughed Ike. “Must be a Negro, with two first names, you know.” He laughed again. “Walter?” asked Ike. “You better than before? Now, before you say anything, I want you to know I think you look better. You know what I mean?”

“I think so, Ike. And again I thank you.”

“You know,” the old man said, with a sad shake of his head, “You walked in here, after you came back, and you looked like—” once more he shook his head the same way. “You looked like shit, you know what I mean?”

“I feel a lot better now,” said Walter with a generous smile. “Living here. The sand. The water. The weather. Billy’s food, of course, and . . .” He held up his bottle of Diet Coke. “Couldn’t have done it without this.”

“Denise too,” added Helen from her spot over by the wine cooler, the newest addition to Billy’s behind-the-bar equipment.

“Yes indeed,” said Ike. “Denise. Good girl.” And again Walter lifted his bottle. It was not necessary to say more. Good girl.

“So,” said Billy unwilling to give up on Tommy John just yet. “Tommy John was a good pitcher. Maybe even a great one. That’s not for me to say. But he’s better known for the surgery than for his pitching.” He glared at Ike. “That is among people who know who he is at all.”

“There’s others,” Ike interjected, coughing and spitting up phlegm into a bar napkin. one he then rolled up and left on the table in front of him. Still, despite his obvious discomfort, he dragged a huge inhale, exhaling from his mouth and nose simultaneously, once more, for the millionth time, appearing as if he was on fire himself. “There’s others more famous for what they did than what they did.”

Helen looked at the old man with a stare that had hopelessness written all over it. No one was going to change this man, not now, not ever. He was, she was sure, going to kill himself with those cigarettes.

“Damn!” Billy said, looking over at Ike.

“Ike,” said Walter. “You ever hear of those Buddhist priests who lit themselves on fire in Vietnam?”

“I have,” the old man answered. “Fine people, every one of them.”

The conversation turned back again to Tommy John and the surgical procedure that came to bear his name. Billy felt that alone was proof of his argument. “The man’s name is on it,” he said. “Like Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“Jim Brown,” said Ike, with a period, like that was all that was necessary. More was required, however.

“Jim Brown? What about him?”

“I tell you, Walter, Jim Brown’s more famous for what he’s done after football than for when he was playing.”

“What’s that for?” Helen chided. “Throwing women—small women at that—off hotel balconies?”

“That too.”

“That too? Geez, Ike!” said Helen obviously too upset to say anything further about Mr. Brown.

“I don’t agree with that either, Ike,” said Walter. “Jim Brown—for all his difficulties, Helen—was the greatest player ever to suit up in the National Football League. Number thirty-two for the Cleveland Browns. Nothing he’s done since—movies, or anything else, good and bad—outshines that. I think we’re talking more about somebody like . . .”

“Mike Tyson,” shouted Billy. “Mike Tyson. I’d say Michael Jackson, but he’s even crazier than Mike Tyson, too crazy to talk about.”

“Well, how about Ronald Reagan?” the old man offered for consideration.

“Now you’re talking, Ike,” said Helen. “More famous for being President of the United States than for his time as a second- or third-rate actor. Good one, Ike.” The old man flashed her one of his patented, yellow-toothed smiles complete with a tip of his cap, which today was a John Deere hat. It had to be one of Ike’s jokes. There couldn’t have been a half-dozen pieces of John Deere equipment on the island of St. John, all of them probably lawn mowers.

“Or Kennedy,” said Billy.

“Kennedy? For what? Which one?”

“Either one of them, Helen. They’re both more famous for being dead than for anything they did when they were alive.”

“Now Billy, John F. Kennedy was the President of the United States. How much more famous are you going to get than that?”

“Yeah, and when you think about him, what do you think of? Come on, don’t sit there with that silly look on your face. What do you think of? That’s right, you know it. The same with his brother Bobby too.”

“Billy, do you know who Roosevelt Grier is?”

“Sure, I do, Walter.”

“Well, since you bring up the Kennedys, I’ll go with him—Rosey Grier. All pro, famous as you can get as an athlete. Yet, better known as the man who caught Robert Kennedy’s assassin, Sirhan Sirhan.”

“He did too,” said Ike. “Jumped on the man, right there in the kitchen where he shot him. That’s a good one, Walter.”

Billy broke the pause, the momentary silence among them, with a question. “You want me to write it up?”

“Put me down for Roosevelt Grier,” said Ike. “Thank you. Walter, if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll take Tommy John,” said Billy, showing loyalty to himself and his unwillingness to be moved off his original conviction. “Walter, what about you?”

“No,” said Walter. “Don’t write it, not yet. You say the Kennedys are more famous for being dead. Okay, I say the same for Wild Bill Hickok.”

“Wild Bill Hickok?”

“That’s right, Billy. Aces and eights.”

“Well now, boys,” cautioned Ike. “This is getting out of hand, if you know what I mean. Billy, you say the Kennedys, either one. Walter, you have Wild Bill Hickok—which I think is a good one—but I’m taking John Lennon.”

“That’s a stretch, don’t you think? Christ, he was a Beatle.”

“You don’t like it, Walter, don’t vote for it. Go on now, Billy,” said Ike, “Now you write it up.”

On the chalkboard, near the old register, Billy scrawled, KENNEDYS/WILD BILL/THE BEATLES.

“Beatles? Not what I said, but that’ll do,” said the old man with the silly cap. “They ain’t all dead yet, but that’ll do.”

“And just what does this prove?” asked Helen pointing toward Billy’s handiwork. “I don’t get it, and I’m not sure you fellas do either.”

“It shows,” Ike pronounced, “you never can tell what you’ll be remembered for. Isn’t that right, Walter?”

“As rain, my old friend. Right as rain,” said Walter. Helen seemed unconvinced.

Walter went to Boston. He spent two days there, talking to people, some at Harvard, others in the financial trade. He also had former clients in Boston. One in particular, a mature woman from a legitimate old New England family—not one like the more popular, Johnny-come-lately Kennedys—was eager to help Walter. So many of the pre-Revolutionary Protestant families hated the upstart Irish, thought of them as twentieth-century fakes. Plus, Walter had helped this woman in a way she could never have hoped for, at a time when she thought she might lose everything. Now she could do him a service and she was truly thankful for the opportunity. He wanted to know as much as he could about Abby O’Malley. He wanted to know who her friends were, where she spent money and how much, and especially who she talked to on the phone, both hard-wired and cell phone. Such information could be had. He had done it before, more than once. All you needed was the right contacts and sometimes enough money.

“Would you like me to hire an investigator?” she asked Walter.

“I don’t want anyone to do anything that might alert Miss O’Malley.”

“Of course not. And the last thing I would ever do is something that displeased you, Walter. You know how grateful I am.”

She said she would retain an investigator of the highest respectability, someone who would act with great discretion. The investigator’s work would never be shown to anyone but her. When he was finished, his work product would disappear just as he would. That was important, Walter said. No records. She said she would call Walter when she had something. He thanked her, said he would be in Boston for a few days and would wait for her call. He never asked about her daughter. That’s not the way he worked.

Sean Dooley was more than a little surprised to hear from Walter. A man doesn’t hold a gun to your head, strip you naked on the floor and threaten to crush your balls beneath his foot, then call you up on a Sunday afternoon.

“You remember me, don’t you Sean?”

“That I do.”

“Good. I need a favor from you.”

“A what? A favor . . . from me?”

“Tell me about Abby O’Malley.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me everything. I’ll listen.”

It wasn’t much. Dooley told Walter he’d never seen her. Spoken to her a few times, but never in person, always by phone.

“How’d she find you?” asked Walter.

“I don’t know,” answered Dooley.

“You don’t know? You get a call from a stranger and you never ask how?”

“Not with the kind of money she was offering.”

“To do what exactly?”

“Mostly to watch this old man. Englishman, a Lord or something. You never know with them. Follow him around. See where he went, write down how long he was there. Things like that.”

“How many times did you break in?”

“A few—broke into a few places . . .”

“Places where the old man had been?”

“Yes, that’s right. But I never found nothing.”

Louis Devereaux didn’t call for very much research. His background information was easy to get, some of it public record—Yale, University of Chicago, CIA. Of course, there came a time in Devereaux’s public resumé when he began taking on titles at the CIA Walter knew to be pretense. The truth behind those things was harder to get at, perhaps impossible. But it hardly mattered. Walter was certain Devereaux had told him the truth about himself when they were in Atlanta. Men like that don’t tell small lies, he told himself. Devereaux was eager to get Lacey’s confession. But why? Walter was sure he was working on his own. It made no sense to think the CIA was behind such a thing. No, it was Devereaux. The question of motive, however, remained open. What could Devereaux want with Lacey’s confession and why would he kill for it?

Walter considered the situation, the series of events that led him to this point. What Devereaux had going for him was the President of the United States. If the President wanted Lacey’s document, if the President knew Harry Levine had it, why didn’t he just ask for it? And wouldn’t Harry have delivered it to the President? Walter was sure he would have. Why didn’t he then? Perhaps he did, or perhaps he thought he was. Perhaps the President did ask for the document and put Devereaux in charge of getting it. Walter considered that as a possibility. Harry had never told him about details like that. He never said what the President specifically told him to do.

Of course, Walter thought, it was Devereaux. It had to be. He figured Devereaux for a killer, a big-time killer. Walter couldn’t be exactly sure what Louis Devereaux did for the CIA, but he knew Tucker Poesy worked for him, and Tucker Poesy was definitely a hitter and probably not much else since she proved inept at what she tried to do in Walter’s house. She paid a high price for that misstep. A busted jaw maybe, and a week, naked, tied to a chair, hand fed and watered, never knowing what might happen next, shitting and pissing all over herself. That’s a high price, he thought. But in the end he let her go. She didn’t kill Harry. She pulled a gun on him, in his own house. Ten years ago he would have killed her without a second thought, without a moment’s hesitation. Ah, fuck her! he thought, with some degree of frustration.

Abby O’Malley and Louis Devereaux had some unknowns hanging out there. Still, Walter had every reason to believe all their unanswered questions would be resolved, soon. It was the Georgians who presented a more pressing problem. Walter had no idea who they were. Aminette Messadou was all he had. He’d never heard of her great-uncle or the story of his retreat from Georgia. He didn’t know very much about the Russian Revolution except that was how the communists got their foot in the door. He didn’t know the Czar’s name. Never saw the movie. Never heard of the transwhatever federation.

After a few hours looking up these and other things on the Internet, Walter placed a call to Dr. E. Bard Leon, a professor at Marlboro College in Vermont. One of the skills Walter had perfected over the years was his ability to call a perfect stranger, tell the stranger he needed their help, and get it. Despite whatever decline he was in, if he’d kept anything he’d kept that. Like so many had done before him, professor Leon agreed to see Walter. It was an easy drive from Boston to Marlboro, Vermont, just a few miles west of Brattleboro. Before getting to the campus, he stopped at a small diner, on the side of the road, in an old wooden building, not a modern aluminum diner, and had a bowl of macaroni and cheese made with pure, white Vermont cheddar. It was the best he’d ever tasted.

Professor Leon turned out to be a walker, a nature lover, one of those fifty-year-old men who wore hiking boots and old chinos, sweatshirts and woolen hats. He had long hair, longer than Walter’s. Grayer too. They walked about the hilly, wooded campus as they talked. Walter thought of telling Dr. Leon he was recovering from bypass surgery, but decided against it. If the walk proved too much, he could always stop and explain.

“Djemmal-Eddin Messadou was quite a fellow,” said Professor Leon. “Remarkable man.” Dr. Leon was the author of six books on Russian history, including a two-volume edition on the last of the Czars and a seventh about the long-forgotten Transcaucasian Federation. He loved to talk about all of them and spoke, uninterrupted by Walter who had no reason to stop him, for at least an hour while they strolled leisurely across the small campus and down the single, picturesque road leading to it. They walked slowly enough not to tire Walter at all. Everything Aminette Messadou had said was pretty much the way Professor Leon told it. The arrival of the Georgian had caused quite a stir in Europe.

“What about the personal fortune Djemmal-Eddin had? Jewels, gold, whatever?” Walter asked. “How did he get it out of the country before the Bolsheviks overran him?”

Dr. E. Bard Leon, distinguished Professor of History at one of the country’s elite liberal arts colleges, looked at Walter as if he just realized he was talking to someone who knew nothing at all. “Djemmal-Eddin had no personal fortune, as you put it. That’s not what he came west with. That is not what caused all the excitement. Not at all. Oh, no, Mr. Sherman, that is not what Djemmal-Eddin Messadou brought with him to Europe. Let me tell you about Solly Joel.”

According to professor Leon, Djemmal-Eddin had amassed many tons of the Czar Nicholas II ten Ruble coins. “Tons,” he told Walter eagerly, with a wonderfully warm smile. “Can you imagine it!?” Gold paid the bills for an independent Georgia as well as the ill-fated, short-lived Transcaucasian Federation. Djemmal-Eddin’s son-in-law Frederick Lacey was a great help to the struggling new nation. He assisted in the negotiation of international trade arrangements supplying Georgia with needed materials of all kinds in exchange for some of the Czar’s gold. While the coin itself held no monetary value for a supplier in England or the Netherlands, Italy or anywhere in Europe, the gold in the coin was always worth the value of .2489 ounces. No one turned it down as a form of payment.

With Dr. Bard Leon’s help, Walter was now familiar with the history of Djemmal-Eddin’s independent Georgia. In 1917, Georgia combined with its nearest neighbors to form the Transcaucasian Federation. By the spring of the following year, it was obvious the arrangement was not viable. In May 1918 Georgia declared its full and complete independence. The Federation of Georgia, Azerbaijan and Dagestan collapsed. Stability was never really established. The region was embroiled in chaos, overwhelmed by war. In early 1920, when both the British and the Americans pulled their expeditionary forces out of Russia—“How many people know they were even there?” Professor Leon had asked Walter—the fate of Georgia was sealed. The infant nation fell to the Russian Army on February 25, 1921. Professor Leon had described Djemmal-Eddin’s retreat through the Klukhori Pass and Lacey’s pivotal role in the operation. Lacey brought three ships to the port of Sukhum-Kale. Djemmal-Eddin used those vessels to evacuate many of his fighters, their families and whatever else they could load on board.

Here is where it got really interesting, Dr. Leon told Walter. Many historical gossips and more than a few academic historians as well believed Djemmal-Eddin escaped with as much as twelve tons of the Czar’s ten Ruble coins. Only someone as close as Lacey—someone who was family—could have moved such a fortune without thievery. In Europe, those with whom Djemmal-Eddin did business during the time of his exile received gold in return for goods and services. Still, stories had it that the Georgian had hidden away more than eight tons of the coins. Lacey had done it, of course. He was responsible, and all who knew him or knew of him knew the gold was safe. If Djemmal-Eddin was a man of substance, Frederick Lacey was a man who instilled fear in the hearts of bandits, equally among those on horseback and those wearing suits and ties. After hearing this, Walter understood the appeal of Lacey’s confession to those who could care less about John F. Kennedy. If the document contained the location of such an amount of gold, it held the secret to a treasure worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

There were three balls in the air. Walter was not about to play favorites, pick one over the others. Not yet. No matter what he learned, his information served only to make a case for one or the other, not one against the other. This was the process he followed for decades. The time for judgment would come later, a time when he had all the data, when he could lay everything out and reach a conclusion in which he had confidence. What he learned in Vermont was valuable. The Georgian ball was still in the air, more so now than before. If Solly Joel was right, Lacey may have hidden gold worth five-and-a-half million dollars—then! Today that same gold would bring almost three hundred million, nearly a third of a billion dollars. It made sense that people who thought it was theirs would want it. No doubt people who had no claim to it would too, and Walter was equally sure either or both would kill to get it. The Georgians were a real possibility. He needed to find out. There was something he had to do. It was not personal. It was just professional. He called Isobel Gitlin.

The first time he called Isobel was about Leonard Martin. At the time she was writing obituaries for The New York Times, taking a terrible beating for her insistence that Leonard’s first three killings were done by a single man. No one—not even her—had identified him then. A local man, in Tennessee, a man with a personal grudge had been arrested for the murder of the third of Leonard Martin’s victims. Isobel thought the Tennessee authorities had the wrong man. Walter, of course, knew she was right. By then he was already on the job, trying to find who Leonard Martin was and then determined to locate the man himself. “I know you’re right,” he told Isobel back then. He also said he was old enough to be her father, so she needn’t worry about him. He was right. How could he have known he needed to worry about her? The first time she agreed to meet, she said she was bringing a gun. She was real cute.

Five years can be forever. Their conversation now was brief. He felt the tension and knew she did too. Isobel was, of course, polite. Yes, certainly she would see him. Whenever he suggested. They agreed to meet in Atlanta the next day. When she hung up, Isobel sat at her desk remembering New York, her kidnap of sorts by and her interview with Leonard Martin. When that strange ordeal ended, when she was safely home, she called Walter. He listened. He told her to catch the morning flight to St. John. Time passes, yet somewhere not far below the surface, Isobel wished he’d said that now. Take the morning flight to St. John. Ike and Billy would be there too. How would she have answered? Would she have gone? Instead she said she would meet him at a place called Malone’s, a restaurant near the Atlanta airport. He told her to be there at three-thirty, too late for lunch and too soon even for the early-bird dinner crowd. The place was sure to be almost empty. They would have all the privacy they needed. He would be there when she arrived, he said. Look for him in a booth. “Find me.” That was it. A quick goodbye and then a day to wait, for both of them.

You always deal with what you know, not what you think. Walter didn’t have to, but couldn’t help reminding himself of that simple fact. Speculation was a flame, hot to the touch. Sometimes too hot. But fact was the fuel that fed the fires of discovery. He knew Harry Levine was dead. That was fact. He knew Harry had been found only after the intimidation of Isobel Gitlin. That too was fact. Whoever it was in Atlanta threatening to cut off her husband’s fingers, there was no doubt he was directly involved. Fact? Not yet, but more than likely. Walter was proceeding his way, as he had done for forty years. He could not afford any thoughts about Isobel. Not today, he hoped. No personal commitment—that was the special ingredient in the formula for his success. If he expected to find Harry’s murderer, he could ill afford to screw that up now. His past with Isobel was pushed deep into the dark hole beyond the heavy metal doors guarding his soul, his sanity. He’d opened those doors for her once, doors closed tightly when Gloria left, and he was burned for it.

Isobel knew about Leonard Martin’s secret all along and kept it from him. She betrayed him, then rejected him. Hard as it was to move those massive plates, once they began to part he lost control. It was years since he closed those doors behind him again. To keep her out. Just as he had done so long ago with Gloria. He was taken by surprise at Il Localino. Still, it was Louis Devereaux who unnerved him more that night. It wouldn’t happen again.

“Wow,” she said, approaching the table near the back of the restaurant where Walter was sitting. “You l-l-look great.”

“Nice to see you, Isobel. Please sit.” The formality caught her off guard. Walter looked stronger, younger, far more fit than the last time she saw him briefly at Il Localino and certainly he looked better than how she remembered him from years back. She wanted to say more about it. She wanted to ask what he had been doing to look so good. But clearly he was not about to make this a personal meeting. “Please sit,” he said. That meant business.

When the waitress came over, Walter looked to Isobel. She stumbled a little and finally ordered a glass of Merlot and a steak sandwich with French fries. Walter already had a Diet Coke in front of him and it was plain to see he’d already ordered whatever it was he intended to eat. She wanted to ask what happened—what happened with Harry Levine. But she was afraid. The look in his eyes said it all. It turned her stomach. She was ashamed, but strangely not regretful. She could never let them hurt Otto.

“They killed him,” Walter said, without her asking.

“I’m s-s-sorry.”

“I didn’t come here for an apology.”

“Why did you come here?”

His resolve was jolted, on its way to shaken. Could she do this to him with a simple question like that? Damn! He wanted to say—For you. I came for you! Asshole! he berated himself. “I need to know about the guy who threatened you and your husband. I have to put him somewhere, with someone. He leads me to them and right now I don’t know who they are.”

“Walter, what is this all about?”

“You mean, who is Harry Levine? Who was Harry Levine?”

“That would be a good place to start.”

He told Isobel about Harry, his position in London in the Foreign Service and the quirky circumstances that brought him to Sir Anthony Wells’ office. He told her about Lacey’s confession. He told her the mystery surrounding the assassination of President Kennedy was solved. He knew she would believe him, and he was right. He said it made sense that some people might kill to get it or to keep it from public view. He said he found Harry in Europe and told Isobel how he took him to New Mexico to keep him safe. That’s all. He never mentioned Conchita Crystal. After all, she hired him and thus deserved the anonymity he so scrupulously protected for all his clients. It made no difference that he sent the money back, even less that she never cashed his check. He related the story of Frederick Lacey and Joseph P. Kennedy. He repeated what Harry told him about the summer of 1940, about the suicide of Audrey Lacey. He left out nothing about Lacey’s wife and the continuing interest from her family. He told her about Devereaux, calling him by name. He said he was the one who took him to Il Localino. Isobel winced when Walter reminded her of that clumsy moment. Walter gave her the full story. Finally, he said, “So, we have the guy who showed up saying he was Christopher Hopman.”

Isobel’s steak sandwich came during Walter’s talk. So did his seafood salad. She picked at her plate. He didn’t touch his. He recalled how she practically attacked her burger that day in Billy’s when she got in from St. Thomas after her long flight from New York. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, in that white top with the spaghetti straps. Back then she ate and talked with equal fervor. Not now.

“Walter, do you remember when we were in New York, at my apartment, going over everything we had, trying to figure out who killed Hopman and the others, trying to identify Leonard Martin?” It was a foolish question, one that came perilously close to offending him. All the more because she was not looking for an answer.

“There was a point, then,” she continued, “a point where you refused to tell me something—a feeling you had about Leonard’s son-in-law, Carter Lawrence—we called him Kermit—and I was hurt. My feelings were hurt because I trusted you and you held back. I know you remember.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You said to me, you said you told me everything you knew, just not everything you thought. I remember it clearly. That was the way you worked, you said. I think you were sorry—sorry that you hurt my feelings—but you couldn’t help yourself. Right?”

“Yes,” he said.

“After that, you changed. You did tell me everything. I know you did. It was thrilling to work together like that. But now, you’re not telling me half of what you know. Forget what you think. You’re telling me maybe a tenth of what you know. Basically, you’re telling me squat.”

“You didn’t tell me . . .” He could feel those iron doors struggling to break free, to swing wide. He’d have no part of that now. “Tell me about your visitor,” he said, fighting his stronger instincts. “You said he had a trace of an accent.”

“He did,” Isobel replied. “I’ve thought about him—I’ve thought about little else since . . . since.”

“His accent?”

“Eastern European maybe. Actually, I was thinking even farther, into Asia. There’s a section of Russia—or what used to be Russia—stretching from Central Asia to Europe. The republics at the western edge are very Western. The people are more European than Asian, genetically that is. They’re white people. In fact, they’re Caucasian, which is the name of a mountainous area . . .”

“Azerbaijan? Dagestan or Georgia? Which one do you think? The Transcaucasian Federation? Was he from there?”

“What?”

“I’ve heard of them. I can even point them out on a map. I’m not as dumb as you think I am, Isobel.”

“I never th-th-thought . . .”

“Yes you did!” Oh shit, it was all coming apart for him. He’d loved her. Christ, he really had. He would have changed so much for her. And worse, he planned to, never thinking she would turn him away. But turn him away she did. She had a life to lead and he was nothing more than an old man, a dumb shit, a way to pass the time. “You want to know more?” he challenged her. “Here’s more. You killed him. That’s right. No fucking around, you gave him up. You traded Harry Levine’s life for Otto’s precious fingers.”

“No, no,” Isobel sobbed. “I didn’t understand . . .”

“Bullshit, Isobel! You knew damn well. The sonofabitch who threatened you wanted Harry and you gave him up.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Fuck you!” Walter reached in his pocket, took out some bills, threw them on the table, and walked out on her. Oh, Christ! he was thinking. Am I only getting even?

Tucker Poesy’s life was an open book, to Walter anyway. He knew where she lived. Harry told him. He had her cell phone number he’d taken from her purse. She might ditch the phone, but she wasn’t going to move just because Harry Levine had seen her apartment. She had the nerve to pull a gun on him in his own home, but Walter saw himself as a forgiving man, especially now in the bloom of his reinvigorated good health. If he could get over her transgression, she ought to be able to deal with being stripped naked, tied to a chair, and held as a hostage for almost a week. He smiled thinking about it. He had no regret. She must have gotten over it by now. Had she sought revenge, he would have seen her already. Patience was not one of her strong points. Walter was certain Tucker Poesy had gone home to lick her wounds. He called her in London. Fortunately, she had not changed the phone.

“Hello Tucker, it’s Walter Sherman,” he said.

“You cocksucking sonofabitch! Who the fuck do you think you are? You prick! Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on, mutherfucker!”

“Got that out of your system?”

“Go fuck yourself!”

“We need to talk. You need this every bit as much as I do. You just don’t know it yet.”

“Fuck off!”

“Fine, but if you really meant that you would have hung up by now.” Then the phone went dead. Oh, shit, Walter laughed. Better be careful not to push her too far. He called the number again.

“Is that you again?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, what the fuck do you want?”

He told her enough to pique her interest—not all of it, but enough. Then he said they had to get together, meet face to face, talk it out, decide what they should do and how to do it.

“You want me to meet you?” she said with a purposeful note of incredulity.

“What am I going to do? Bust your jaw? Tie you up?”

“Don’t fuck with me, you fucking . . . old man.”

“Ouch!”

“I said, don’t . . .”

“Meet me somewhere safe,” he said, “somewhere you feel comfortable. I’ll go anywhere. My intentions are pure, honestly.” Tucker Poesy agreed to meet Walter in two days. She was quite specific in her instructions. When she was done, she said, “No exceptions, no deviations. Do not fuck with me.”

“See you day after tomorrow,” said Walter.

It was an easy trip for him, a short hop from St. Thomas. It was not necessary for Walter to stay overnight and he made no reservations. In fact, he booked an evening flight home. He figured to be back by nine, ten at the latest. Maybe a late dinner at Billy’s—that would be nice. She told him to be there at three, sharp. “A minute late, and I’m gone,” she said. She obviously didn’t know him, he thought. If there was one thing she could count on it was his punctuality. Short of a heart attack, he was always on time. He hoped it wouldn’t be too sunny. Her instructions said no hat, no sunglasses. He’d be standing unprotected, at the height of the afternoon sun. That’s what she wanted. Who could blame her, he thought. Standing a few minutes in the sun was nowhere near as bad as being tied up for almost a week.

All the beaches in Puerto Rico are public. The luxurious, beachfront hotels and resorts cannot reserve the sand to themselves and their paying guests. In the fashionable Isla Verde area of San Juan, a string of upscale hotels overlooks the ocean. Among them is the El San Juan Hotel. The El San Juan has been a landmark in Puerto Rico for many years. In the old days, tawny oak and deep mahogany set off the elegant atmosphere of the hotel’s lobby area. In those days, in its famed casino, men in dark suits, some wearing tuxedos, played high-stakes craps, accompanied by beautiful women in sequined gowns who stayed close by, hanging on every roll of the dice. Lately, like just about everywhere else, things were different. Renovations at the El San Juan, particularly after its purchase by the Wyndham Group, had replaced many of the older, finer touches with more modern, sleek furnishings. The crowds were also different. These days they wore shorts and golf shirts with the tails hanging loose, not even tucked in. The women looked older and fatter. Where had all the beauties gone? In winter, the hotel was filled with lobster-red New Yorkers, too many of whom brought their noisy kids with them. Walter had a preference for elegant, traditional, older hotels. He felt the same about casinos. Although gambling was not among his favorite pastimes, he enjoyed an occasional visit to a busy casino. He liked looking at the women and he always got a strange buzz around so many desperate people with so much money on the line. Not these days, however. No more big shots and beauties at the tables. The place crawled with children now—thirty-year-olds who made a quarter-mil a year. They wore Nikes and sweat pants from Hugo Boss and tossed money around like it meant nothing. Their mothers played the slots, carefully guarding their plastic pots filled with the bogus coins created for playing the machines. Not even real money anymore. Walter had no use for it. The romance was gone. He remembered when you might actually pay a hundred dollars to stay in a fancy room at a place like the El San Juan. He supposed now it would take five times that and you’d have to share a bathroom with your wife.

Tucker Poesy told him to be standing on the beach in the middle of the sand, halfway between the end of the hotel’s patio and the edge of the surf directly in front of the El San Juan. Three sharp. Empty handed. He was to wear only bathing trunks. No hat, no sunglasses, no towel, nothing but his bathing suit. All that he complied with. He was standing there when she came up beside him. She too wore only a bathing suit, this time a bright yellow string bikini that covered so little of her as to almost not be there. That tiny suit, however, gave her a look far more sexy than when he saw her completely naked. Of course, then she was bound up with duct tape and had a badly swollen jaw, broken or something close to it. Her face looked fine now. No damage.

“Jesus, what the hell happened to you?” she asked, pointing to the still very red scar on his chest and the puffy, jagged one running in a crooked line halfway down his right leg from the knee past his ankle.

“Bypass,” he said. “Scary, huh?”

“Yeah, you look like Frankenstein—like shit.”

“No, I don’t look like shit. Shit is brown and mushy. I’m neither. I’ll give you the Frankenstein. What I look like is someone who’s been sliced up pretty good.”

“You can say that again.”

“You, on the other hand, look spectacular.”

“We don’t have to go into that,” she said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Now that you see I’m harmless, can we go somewhere—more comfortable?”

“Sure,” she said. She had expected this. She knew if there was anything really to be said between them, they couldn’t do it on the beach. What little he already told her was enough to get her here. She wanted to know more. “Let’s walk over to the bar by the pool.”

“Here?” he asked. “At the El San Juan? You told me to come empty handed. I have no money or anything.”

“Don’t fret it. I’m staying here. I’ll sign for anything you drink, you sonofabitch.”

Seated comfortably under a brightly colored beach umbrella that rose up like a plastic tree from a hole in the middle of their table—and with Tucker Poesy’s complete attention—Walter began. He took the saltshaker, moved it to the edge of the table on his left and said, “This is where we begin. This is Schiphol.” She nodded and he knew she understood. Then he reached over, took the peppershaker, moved it to the opposite side of the table. He let it stand there for a moment, perched on the edge. He looked at Tucker Poesy. Neither one of them said a word. Then, gently and with a touch of grace, using the index finger of his right hand, he toppled the peppershaker from the table to the tile patio surface. It rattled about noisily before coming to rest somewhere, where neither of them could see it. “That,” he said referring to the missing condiment, “is where we end.”

“You’re telling me we don’t know where that is, is that it?”

“I’m saying we have been led to believe the end was here.” He pointed to the place the peppershaker had been, for a moment, until he knocked it over. “This is where it was supposed to end for us. Someone meant it to be that way.”

“But there’s more?” she said, not so much as a question but rather to finish his thought. He nodded, a trace of a smile crossing his sun-tanned, leathery face.

“I’m going to tell you what I know and some of what I believe has been going on here. When I’m done, if you think I’m a crazy old fool—well, you’ve bought me a drink and you made a trip to Puerto Rico for nothing. You could do worse. But, if what I say makes sense to you, if you see what I see, we have work to do. You and I need to be the ones who say where that peppershaker ends up.”

“And where is this ‘you and I,’ huh?” she asked.

“There is none,” replied Walter. “Not yet, that is. But there should be. You see, we’ve been had, Ms. Poesy.” Tucker Poesy looked at Walter in disbelief. He could see she was starting to question why she bothered to come all the way to Puerto Rico in the first place. “We’ve been played,” he continued, “like a cheap piano. Someone banged the keys and stomped on the pedals. We’re at each other’s throats, thinking that means something. It’s all bullshit—all of it! I know it now and you should know it too. When you do, then there will be a you and me.”

“Like a cheap piano, Mr. Sherman?”

“Call me Walter, will you?”

“Fine, fine. You call me Tucker if it makes you feel better. Tell me, who’s playing us and, for God’s sake, why?”

“From the day I got hired for this job, you were figured in. I think the plan was all there. All we did was play our roles. Walk on stage when we were told to. We did exactly as we were expected to do.”

“Well, what the fuck are we doing here, today? Looks to me like we’re sitting on the beach in Puerto Rico, with each other. What’s that all about?”

“That is my fault,” said Walter. “I screwed up. Instead of just coming on stage and saying my lines, I bumped into the furniture.”

“Oh, yeah. Just how did you do that?”

“I didn’t kill you.” He saw the chill sweep across her eyes and he only imagined the anger fomenting in her brain. Tucker Poesy was nobody’s fool. She was a stone killer, balls of steel and all that crap. Walter looked in her eyes—she hadn’t said a word—but he was certain she knew he was right. The rest would be easy, he thought.

Walter had never mentioned Tucker Poesy to Isobel. But now he told Tucker everything. He related the story of Isobel’s visitor, the threat to her husband and the fate of Harry Levine. The Lacey Confession was missing, once again, he told her. Whoever killed Harry took it, had it. Working backward, he told Tucker about Abby O’Malley, Sean Dooley—Fuck! she thought. She spotted Walter and Harry in that apartment in Amsterdam and then went off to her hotel thinking they would be there the next day. Dooley actually tried to do something—and also, Walter spoke of Devereaux. Walter’s sense of duty and honor meant he still said nothing about Conchita Crystal. Even though he tried to return the money, she would always be his client. He owed it to her to keep her name out of this.

When his narrative ended, bringing him back to the very table at which they sat, at the bar by the pool of the El San Juan hotel, he stopped. Drawing conclusions was uncalled for. This was no time for contemplation. The information was here. She had it now. A decision was called for. Making demands was unnecessary. He remained silent. He just looked at her.

“I’m ready,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation. Then Tucker Poesy bent down and picked up something from beneath the table. She stood up, reared back, and tossed a strike, flinging something that flew over the patio, past the thatched-roof poolside bar, and landed somewhere on the beach, in the sand. She noticed a slightly bewildered take from Walter. “Peppershaker,” she said.

Tucker Poesy couldn’t get an appointment with Abby O’Malley. She did everything Walter told her to do. But it didn’t work. She said everything he said she should. But she couldn’t get past O’Malley’s secretary’s assistant. Leave your number, she was told, Ms. O’Malley’s secretary would get back to her. Fuck! Ms. O’Malley’s secretary. Not even Ms. O’Malley herself. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

“Tell Ms. O’Malley I’m calling for Walter Sherman,” she said the next time she called. “Tell her also, if she doesn’t talk to me now—and I mean right now—I won’t call again.”

“I’m sorry, but Ms. O’Malley . . .”

“Did you fucking understand me? You have a second job to go to when you lose this one? I’ll wait twenty seconds.” In half that time, Abby O’Malley picked up the phone.

“Abby O’Malley,” she said.

“Look,” said Tucker Poesy, still pissed. “My name is Helen Valdecanas.” That was the name she and Walter decided she would use. Tucker was no stranger to phony names. She used them all the time in her line of work. She thought this one had a certain lilt to it—Helen Valdecanas. “I have a message from Walter Sherman.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Meet me at a place called the Chelsea Royal Diner. It’s an old wooden building, painted white with green trim and the name all over it, on Route 9W about two miles outside Brattleboro, Vermont, going west. You can’t miss it. I’ll be there at four. I’ll recognize you. Come alone. If you don’t, you’ll make the trip for nothing.”

“Miss . . .”

“Valdecanas.”

“Yes, Miss Valdecanas, please tell Mr. Sherman . . .”

“You better leave soon. It’s a long drive.” With that Tucker Poesy hung up. She was sitting in her room when she made the call, a very comfortable room at that, at Toomey’s Inn. As she spoke, she was eating the marvelous breakfast that had been delivered only moments before. Norman and Ethel Toomey ran a delightful place. The accommodations were a little pricey, she thought, but the best part of it was the location, just down the road not far from the Chelsea Royal Diner. Tucker planned to go back to sleep after breakfast. These must be 750-count sheets, she was happy to note. In six hours she would know exactly where the Kennedys fit in this whole thing. If Walter Sherman was right—and she was ninety-nine percent sure he was, especially after her conversation with Professor Leon yesterday, at Marlboro College only fifteen minutes farther along on Route 9W—then Walter was some kind of guy. She was beginning to get over what he did to her.

Abby O’Malley showed up right on time. She was alone. No one had driven up to the diner in a half-hour and everyone was there who had been there when Tucker Poesy arrived. When Abby walked in, Tucker stood up and signaled to her. The two women shook hands, exchanged smiles and sat across from each other at a table by the window, looking out on Route 9W.

“You’re younger than I thought you would be,” said Abby. “I suppose you sound older when you’re angry.”

“I couldn’t get through to you. I couldn’t even get to your secretary. How do you do business like that?”

“I don’t do business. I guess, if you stop to think about it, I don’t talk to anyone I don’t already know.” Tucker Poesy frowned and shook her head as if to say, what the fuck is wrong with you, lady?

But instead she asked Abby, “Are you hungry? I’ve already eaten—great cheeseburgers here, with white cheddar cheese—but I suggest the macaroni and cheese—same cheese. Must be Vermont cheddar, wouldn’t you think?”

“I would. But coffee will do just fine.” Tucker hailed the waitress, ordered coffee for her guest and another cup of tea for herself. When they had their coffee and tea, and the privacy they were looking for, Tucker spoke.

“How much are you prepared to pay for the document?”

“Do you speak for Walter Sherman?”

“I do.”

“Or, do you speak for Harry Levine?”

“Does it matter? Walter has an offer for you—the document for the right amount of money. What’s it worth to you?”

“Miss Valdecanas, I’ve met Mr. Sherman. Have you?”

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

“Walter doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would sell the document, if he had it—which he most likely does not. And I am not an old lady with attention deficit disorder. I know Harry Levine is dead.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here?” asked Tucker Poesy. “This is a long way to come if you think I’m full of shit.”

“I didn’t say that. I merely asked who you represent. It can’t be Walter Sherman, or the late Harry Levine, for reasons I’ve just made clear. I’m sure you can see that I am aware that this promises to be a costly transaction. You can’t expect me to deal with—you’ll pardon me—just you. If you have it to offer, you must make a good faith sign by telling me—in a way I can verify—for whom you work. At that point we can do business, as you say.”

“So,” said Tucker, in a much more relaxed tone of voice than she’d been using, “you came here, all the way from Boston, hoping to buy Lacey’s document, from me.”

“For no other reason, Miss Valdecanas.”

“I don’t have it,” said Tucker.

Before leaving Puerto Rico, Walter put Tucker Poesy through a short course in understanding people as you talked to them, especially people under pressure. He explained how he noticed the tiny acne mark still there, just above her lip on the right side of her face, and how he knew she would glance at it, even if just for a split second, and how he was certain he could coldcock her with a right cross when she did.

“It was that bullshit about Denise, wasn’t it? You said she was behind me and I, stupidly, looked. That was it, sonofabitch!” she said.

“That didn’t help you, but that wasn’t it.”

“What was it?”

“Your breasts. When I told you, you had lovely breasts—you looked. Your eyelids gave you away,” he told her. She shook her head slightly, looking at him with what he took to be admiration. He thought he saw the beginnings of a smile.

They didn’t have much time. Walter concentrated on changes in respiration, lines around the mouth and eyes, expansion of the pupils, sweat starting at the hairline. She was using that lesson talking to Abby O’Malley. She decided Abby was telling the truth. She decided Abby was a buyer, and therefore, not an owner and therefore, not a killer. Just as Walter said she should, Tucker moved forward.

“You knew Walter and Levine were in Amsterdam.”

“I did,” said Abby.

“Sean Dooley was your man.”

“He was. Has Walter told you everything?”

“Well,” laughed Tucker, “one never knows, does one? Walter is weird.” Abby smiled and reached out to touch Tucker’s hand. It was a friendly gesture, some kind of sign they had become friends.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked.

“I’m not done yet,” said Tucker. “Did you know when Walter’s plane got in to Schiphol?”

“You mean in Amsterdam? No. No, I didn’t.”

“You learned he was in that apartment later?”

“Later, yes. I was told he was there, with Harry Levine and that the document was with him, or them as the case may be.”

“I knew when he arrived,” said Tucker. “I was at the airport. I followed him to the train and I got on and rode all the way to a town called Bergen op Zoom. Ever hear of it?”

“No,” Abby said. “Nice name though.”

“I followed them back to Amsterdam, all the way to the apartment. And then guess what I did?” Abby sat there transfixed. And now Tucker’s session with Walter paid off, in spades. The lines around Abby O’Malley’s mouth tightened. Her breathing quickened. Tucker swore she could see the flush come over the other woman’s face. “Go ahead,” Tucker said. “Take a guess. What do you think I did?”

Abby O’Malley was nobody’s fool, still she was stunned. She sat back, her arms and shoulders gone limp, the blood nearly drained from her face. “My God!” she said, fighting for a clean breath of fresh air. “You work for Louis, don’t you?”

Rogers Messadou lived on 77th Street, just off Fifth Avenue. His home was a three-story brownstone building. In front it had a tiny plot of grass, no more than a yard wide, plus something very rare in New York City, even in the most upscale private residences—a garage. The man could actually drive a car into his house, or more likely, have one driven for him. Not bad for a kid, thought Walter, walking up to the entrance. Nice house, if you’ve got fifteen or twenty million dollars. New York City had been a part of Walter’s life for fifty years, since the first time his mother took him there by train, down the Hudson River from Rhinebeck, into Grand Central Station. He felt comfortable in New York, very much at home. He knew the restaurants, hotels, neighborhoods, Greenwich Village and Chinatown. Central Park too, since he had made it a forty-year habit to stay at the Mayflower Hotel on Central Park West at 61st Street. He was not a big fan of change and he knew he would always be angry they tore it down. But he’d been away, on St. John, for a long time. Time went by differently in New York than in the Caribbean. Fifteen to twenty million is what he pegged the young Messadou’s house for. Just as he might be losing something in other areas, he was well behind the times for the Big Apple. Had Rogers Messadou been willing to sell this place for fifteen or twenty million dollars, he would be selling cheap. And Rogers Messadou was not a man who sold anything cheap. He had agreed to meet Walter, and at his home, as Walter requested. Actually, he seemed quite friendly on the phone. He was the first person Walter called after Puerto Rico. That’s the way he and Tucker worked it out. He’d find Messadou. She would deal with Abby O’Malley. Afterward, they would talk and move on from there.

A male servant—not from around here—Walter said to himself, showed him inside. The man was tall and very thin, wore a black suit, white shirt and skinny black tie. He looked like a very well-dressed funeral director except for the cheerful smile and bright eyes. Walter wore his big-city, mainland clothes, his New York outfit—gray slacks, open collar light blue dress shirt, no tie of course, and a double-breasted navy blue, gold buttoned blazer. He knew he was underdressed, but it didn’t bother him. Mr. Messadou was upstairs and would come down immediately, the long, lean servant said to Walter as he took him to a study off the main hallway on the first floor. No chance to look around, Walter thought. Not here.

“Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Sherman. May I get you anything?” Walter asked him if they had any Diet Coke. “Of course, sir,” the male servant said, and closed the door, leaving Walter alone. Seeing how people lived was a key to knowing what sort of person they were. Walter knew to look about carefully. Everything told a story, or part of one. Furniture, tables and chairs, lamps and light fixtures, rugs, paintings and sculptures, nicknacks and personal memorabilia, particularly books and magazines—all of it was important. But, most of all, he knew that when he was shown into a room, and left to wait alone, that room would give up no useful information. Only a fool lets a stranger into anyplace meaningful, unescorted. From his research, minimal though it may have been, and from the looks of the house itself, Walter did not make Rogers Messadou for a fool.

The young man arrived a few minutes later. He fairly bounded into the room, a glad hand extended and a big, white toothy smile lighting up his face from ear to ear. He wore a Nike running suit, complete with matching shoes, and it was clear he had just been exercising. Drops of sweat still rolled down his neck from under his long, deep brown hair. He could not have been more than thirty-two, if that.

“Rogers Messadou,” he introduced himself. “Call me Roy, everyone does.” He stopped, like an action figure caught in midstep, or in a freeze frame just after somebody hit the pause button on a DVD player. His smile was fixed in cement and his finger pointed stiffly toward Walter.

“I got it,” said Walter. “Roy—Rogers.”

“Hey, good for you, Walter. Sit down. Jake will be right in. You did ask for something, didn’t you?”

“A Diet Coke.”

“Great, great. Love that stuff, but I’m not crazy about the artificial sweetener. Now, what can I do for you? It isn’t everyone who calls me up and wants to talk about my great-uncle.”

“I’m here about the Czar’s gold coins,” said Walter, getting right to the point. In setting up this appointment, Walter told Rogers Messadou—Roy—he worked for important people and he thought Roy might be able to help him with something that came up regarding his great-uncle. Roy was friendly, even eager to talk about that. “Djemmal-Eddin Messadou,” he said on the phone. “Quite a man, Mr. Sherman.” Here, in the home of a Messadou, Walter felt it necessary to demonstrate some knowledge of Djemmal-Eddin before asking for information about him, especially this kind of information. So Walter began with a review of the man’s exploits and achievements. He saw Roy was impressed just with the mention of the Transcaucasian Federation. When was the last time he met anyone who’d ever heard of it? Of course, he did not think less of the Federation for its obscurity. To the contrary, he thought only that Americans were ignorant, and completely deficient in matters of history, their own and everyone else’s. At times like these Roy Messadou forgot he too was an American, second generation. Family loyalty is a deep vein in the mine that runs over and across any lines of nationality. Walter passed the test—he wasn’t going to come in here and make bad jokes, mispronounce exotic names and not know the Messadou family had not been Muslims for more than a hundred years—and when he saw he had won over Roy’s confidence, he started talking business.

“I want you to know, right off the bat, my employers have no personal interest in the coins. Frankly, they don’t even know of their existence. It’s only me—and I too have no interest in them. I’m not searching for gold, Roy. I need the information about the coins in order for me to complete my work. I am not asking you to tell me where they are or even if you know where they are. But, knowing what happened to the gold—or what people think happened to it—will bring me closer to finding the person I’m looking for. That’s it.”

“How so, Walter? Tell me.”

“I’m not sure who it is I’m going to find when I reach the end of my search,” he answered. “I have reason to be believe he or she or they may themselves be after the coins. Knowing that—if it’s so—will point me in their direction. Likewise, if I have others—let me call them suspects—on my list, and I discover they either don’t know or don’t care about Djemmal-Eddin’s gold, that information also gets me closer to where I have to be.”

“What makes you think I can help you?”

“Your last name,” said Walter.

“You know, Walter,” said Roy, sounding nothing like the exuberant youngster who met him a few minutes ago, “most powerful men, men of great influence, are rich. But not all rich men are powerful. Not all rich men have influence. I believe it’s fair to say I am rich. Look around you. You could say wealthy, without argument. But I have no power—don’t seek any—and I have even less influence. All of which pleases me immensely. Everything you see around you comes from money I’ve earned. There is no Czar’s gold here.” He continued his tale of the self-made man unaware that Walter knew most of it already. That’s the way Walter liked it. Getting information you already have is a good way to assess the veracity of the person giving it to you. This works particularly well when the source is certain you have nothing to start with.

Roy spoke of his grandfather, who came to the United States after World War II. Roy’s father was born here, in New Jersey, in 1948. His grandfather opened a restaurant, a small place that catered to the new population of Georgians in the New York area. Of course, it was a tiny population even at its postwar height. Still, the restaurant persisted. The family persevered. Roy’s father and his uncles and aunts grew up, went to school, on to college, and the family made ends meet because of that restaurant. “My father had ambition,” said Roy. “We imported many of the foodstuffs that went into the menu and Dad thought the market for those foods might be wider than just our little restaurant in Jersey City.” He laughed, the same friendly laugh Walter saw earlier. “He was right too.” Roy Messadou’s father eventually opened an import/export business specializing in Russian products coming in and American luxury items going out. It was nothing huge, but it was much bigger than the restaurant. For Roy’s generation, a home in the suburbs, new cars and the finest colleges were part of the deal. Roy Messadou’s father saw the upper middle class as the culmination of the American dream. America was a great country—the Messadou family, proof of it.

“I went to Princeton and then got my MBA at Harvard,” said Roy.

“I thought it was Columbia and the Wharton School,” said Walter.

“Good, good,” said Roy, once again the jovial host. “I wanted to see how much you knew. You’ll forgive me. You’re pretty good, Walter.”

“It wasn’t much. You flatter me.”

“Just want to know that we both know what we’re doing here.”

“Look, Roy. I’m chasing a killer and I’ve been running toward a certain revelation in Frederick Lacey’s personal journal—something that has absolutely nothing to do with you or your family. Then, all of a sudden, Lacey’s wife comes up, then her father—your great-uncle—and I begin hearing about the gold and thinking maybe who I’m looking for has no connection to what I’ve seen revealed in Lacey’s confession, and instead has everything to do with the gold. If that’s true, I may be after the wrong person. I was hoping you could help me.”

“A killer?”

“Yes.”

“As in murder?”

“As in murder.”

“You’re not the police.”

“I’m not. You really should stop asking questions. Let me ask them. The more you know, the more you know what you shouldn’t. It serves no purpose. Do you understand me?”

“I do,” answered Roy Messadou. “It amazes me when you say you are after a killer, when you tell me you are really talking about murder. I assume this murder has already taken place.”

“Correct.”

“You know, of course you do, that I am just a stocks-and-bonds man. A good one. Well, what the fuck—a great one. But one nonetheless. I am a Messadou, proud to be one too. But my family’s history is a subject for great misunderstanding. I assure you whatever murder you are involved in, it has nothing whatever to do with Djemmal-Eddin Messadou. Do you know why?”

“Your sister doesn’t feel that way,” said Walter. “She came to see me and she was quite interested. The family fortune—your family fortune—was put someplace by Frederick Lacey. He never told any of you, according to your sister. After his father-in-law died, he kept the secret himself. Lacey surely didn’t spend it. The last thing he needed was more money. So, it must still be there—wherever he put it. Your sister says your family has a claim on that gold. I make no judgment about that. As I said earlier, I don’t care about the gold. But, if someone you know is killing people to get to Lacey’s document, to find the Czar’s coins, I will find them. I will.”

There was an earnestness in Walter’s voice, a serious nature to his bearing, a level of agitation Roy Messadou could not miss.

“Walter,” he said. “You’ve been misinformed.”

“Yeah, about what?”

“There is no gold. So far as I know, there never was. My great-uncle was a great man, a man who has been slighted by history. But he was a simple man and so was my grandfather a simple man. There was no gold then and there is no gold now.”

“That is not what your sister has to say.”

“Which one?”

“Aminette. Aminette Messadou, who your father named after Lacey’s wife.”

“I have a younger sister, Piper, who lives here, in the New York area, in Far Rockaway, Queens. She is slow, if you know what I mean. Retarded they used to call it. She lives in a special home, a wonderful place really, directly on the beach out there. I pay for it. I visit every week. Sometimes she remembers who I am. Sometimes she doesn’t. I have another sister, Jean. She lives in Houston. She’s married to some sort of financial executive. He does all right. Nothing like this, but okay. Jean is proud. Will not take a penny from me. She doesn’t want anybody’s gold. My sister Aminette came to see you? I have no sister named Aminette.”

“What does your sister Jean look like?” Walter asked, a sickening feeling creeping up from his stomach, looking to shut his lungs down tight as a drum.

“She’s forty years old and forty pounds overweight.” For a moment, Walter stopped breathing.

It’s never cold on St. John. Rarely is it too hot. When the rains come, people like it. True, a hurricane in September or October can make things unpleasant for a while, but the storms are never as bad as the television news says they will be. Most days in February are the same—seventy-something degrees, bright sunshine, sea breezes. Light, wispy clouds float across St. John’s blue skies, most often in small bunches on their way in from St. Thomas to the west. The hotels are full. The houses are rented. The beaches are packed and so too are the restaurants and bars in Cruz Bay. Dinner reservations, in February, are a must.

Walter’s visit with Roy Messadou presented a continuing puzzle. The solution evaded him. He thought about it late into the night. Walter was a late riser at home. Often he liked to drop in a DVD and watch a movie at one or two in the morning. These days getting to sleep at three-thirty, even four, was not unusual. He wondered if his heart attack and bypass surgery had affected his sleep patterns. By nine or nine-thirty, ten at the latest, he was up. Denise knew to have a fresh pot of coffee ready. She also knew he would have his breakfast at Billy’s, even in February.

On Sunday he walked into Billy’s a little after ten. Billy was still in back checking the meat and fish. Ike was eating a bowl of something, sitting alone at his table out front near the sidewalk. He smiled at Walter and Walter smiled back at the old man. He was not in his seat five minutes when Helen brought him some scrambled eggs and buttered toast—lightly buttered—and a cold bottle of Diet Coke. The New York Times, Sunday edition, was within reach, sitting unopened on the bar at the far end near the kitchen where Walter always sat. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons played on Billy’s superior sound system. “I love you, baby.” This Sunday began no differently than many others.

“Best oatmeal I had since . . .” Ike was searching for a time. A man as old as he was had a lot of time to sort through. He blew out an amazing amount of smoke from his mouth and nose, holding the cigarette, fast approaching butt size, up in front of him like it was some kind of pointer. “Since the Army,” he finally said.

“Thank you very much, Ike,” said Helen, truly pleased the old man had enjoyed her out-of-the-ordinary choice of a breakfast for him. Most mornings he ate a single hard-boiled egg and three or four pieces of bacon. Today, she brought him oatmeal saying, “You know, all that pork you eat doesn’t go well with that tobacco.”

“Huh?”

“What I mean Ike is, that stuff will kill you. Either one probably. The pork or the cigarettes.”

“Damn, Helen,” said Ike, a man whose dignity could absorb substantial assault without damage. Still, he said, “You married him, but it looks like you got a attitude transplant from him too. You and Billy, now one of a kind.”

“Why thank you Ike,” she said with a gracious smile and curtsy, certain there was more pride than truth, more humor than hurt feelings in his protest.

“When were you in the Army?” Walter asked from across the bar. He knew perfectly well Ike had never been in the Army.

“The Army? Did I say I was in the Army?”

“Yes you did,” Helen said.

Walter said, “The oatmeal, Ike. The best you had, you said, since the Army.”

“Oh, that. I didn’t mean I was in the Army. ’Cause I wasn’t. Nope. Tried to be, but I didn’t make it. Didn’t want any more Negroes, they said. Had enough. I believe I said since the Army. I was in the Navy, you see. Officers’ Cook, Second Class. And, let me tell you, that’s what we was back then—second class.”

“What about the Army and the oatmeal?” Helen asked.

“I was slaving on that ship, colored boy hidden away in the very bowels of that fine vessel. Until we made port in Ireland. I met up there with these Negro Army troops, 92nd Infantry. Brave young men. Wouldn’t let them fight, so they sat there, in Ireland, where there was no Nazis, drinking and messing with the local women. Serving their country, in their way. I hung around them as much as I could back then. Anything to stay off that ship. One morning I went over to where they had this mess hall. That’s where the oatmeal comes in. I ate that oatmeal, sitting there with maybe fifty Negroes. First good meal I had since I left St. John. This one,” he said pointing to his empty bowl, flashing one of his trademark grins, “second only to it.”

Billy came out of the back, into the bar. He carried a cup of coffee in one hand and a receipt in the other. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered. “He shorted me on the red snapper.” He handed the receipt to Helen. “You call him and tell him to get it over here—all of it—right now—or I’ll call him and he won’t like that one bit. This is not the first time, you know.”

Walter finished his breakfast in silence. Everybody’s mood seemed a little off this morning. By the time he was done, people were starting to filter in for lunch. It’s February, Walter reminded himself. Billy’s will be jammed all day and all night. No wonder he’s pissed about the red snapper. There’s nothing worse for him, once he runs out, than to have to tell customers the snapper is not available. Billy—and now Helen—took great pride in how well the place was managed. Running out of an item, a specialty of the house no less, would make him look bad. The embarrassment would gnaw at him.

“That fish man better come back with the fish,” said Ike. “Billy’s so upset he might just kill the man.”

“Nah,” said Billy. “I’m pissed all right, I might push the sonofabitch around, but nobody goes and kills somebody because they’re . . .”

“Embarrassed?” Helen gave him the word. She’d been doing that more and more lately and it seemed he liked it.

“Yeah, embarrassed—and that’s what I’d be. Money, that’s what people kill for, Ike. And love. Money and love.”

“You think so?” said Walter.

“You still here, Walter?” joked Ike. “Haven’t heard a peep out of you.”

“Still here, old man. Money and love. Is that it, Billy?”

“Believe it,” said Billy. “I know what Ike’s saying—got a point—but it’s the wrong one. Some people look like they’ll kill somebody because they’ve been shamed, you know. But that ain’t it. I knew a man once, his wife took up with a guy. Big mistake on her part. Her husband, this was no man to fuck around on . . . if you know what I mean.”

“Was that New Jersey, hon?” Helen asked.

Billy looked at her, stared at her steely-eyed, quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Yeah, New Jersey.”

Walter caught Ike’s eye as Billy spoke. New Jersey? He knew Ike was asking himself the same question. Was this more of Billy’s mysterious past, more than they had ever heard coming from his mouth? “Anyway, this guy—the one whose wife was playing him—his wife gets taken out.”

“Taken out?”

“Just listen, Helen,” said Billy, irritated. “She gets shot. Real messy. In the face, and down . . .” He looked down and motioned clumsily to his groin.

“She got shot there?”

“Helen!”

“Sorry.”

“Well,” continued Billy. “We all figured he did it, you know, the guy, the husband—and we figured he did it himself. The cops figured it the same way. Christ, every phone his wife talked on was wired. Should’ve known better. The cops knew everything.”

“He was plenty embarrassed, this guy?” Ike asked, then answered his own question. “Had to be.”

“Yeah, sure he was embarrassed. You would be too if you were . . . you know . . . a kind of boss and everything, and your wife was fucking some guy on the side and the cops had it all on tape. But he didn’t kill her. We had it all wrong. Cops too.”

“Who killed her?” Walter asked, by now on the edge of his seat.

“You kill her, Billy?”

“Fuck you, Ike! What are you, crazy? I didn’t kill her. I ain’t talking about me. You’re missing the point here.”

“Okay,” said Ike inhaling as much smoke as he possibly could in a single breath. “Okay. I got you now.”

Billy was leaning on the bar with both hands. Walter could see his jaw was tense, his teeth clenched. Whatever this was, it was hard for him. He wanted to reach out and help his friend, but he had no idea how. Helen too. Walter could see she felt the strain, wanted to do something, but what? She stood there, respectfully silent.

“The other guy did it,” said Billy. “The guy she was fucking.”

“No!” said Helen, eyes as wide as saucers.

“The reason he shot her up so badly was to make it look like the husband did it. You can see that.”

“Oh yeah, make it look like the angry husband,” Ike said. “I can see that.”

Billy took in a big breath of fresh air. He needed it. “See, people think you’ll do anything if you’re embarrassed enough. Even kill somebody. But that’s not what it’s about. It’s about the money. It’s always about the money.”

“Where’s the money here?” asked Helen.

“The husband kept a lot of cash in the house. The kind of business he was in made that a smart move. I’m telling you, a lot of money, probably a couple hundred thousand. So, the guy who’s fucking his wife finds out where the money is, where the husband stashed it in the house. He kills the wife—like I told you—and steals the money. And, to cover his tracks, he sets up the husband.”

“How did the husband get off the hook?” asked Walter.

“What makes you think the husband got away, Walter?” Helen asked.

“Oh, he did. No doubt about that, right, Billy?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Walter. The husband had some friends and when we . . . when these friends saw the cash this guy was laying out, not so broke anymore, going to Atlantic City and stuff, they sort of put two and two together. They sat him down and it didn’t take much. He confessed the whole thing. Once that little shit stepped up, told the cops everything, the husband, they let him go.”

“And the other guy, the one who did it, he went to jail?”

“No, Helen. He never went to jail. He didn’t make his trial. Something happened to him before his case got that far.”

“You mean, he . . .”

“That’s another story which we’re not interested in,” said Billy, the tone of his voice making it very clear he had reached the end of his tale.

Walter looked over at Ike. He motioned with his hands, a sort of unspoken question for the old man, like—what have you got?

“Not me,” said Ike. “Billy, you wear me out. I got nothing for that. You are most definitely in a class by yourself today. Unless Walter has something to say. Walter?”

“I’ll say only this, and then I’m getting the hell out of here, before the bushwhackers take over. I think we ought to vote on it.”

“Vote on it? Vote on what?”

“You said it, Billy. Love or money.”

Ike said, “That’s good. That’s very good, but I do believe we need to throw embarrassment in there with them. We do need three, do we agree?”

“Love, money and embarrassment,” said Billy scratching his recently clean-shaven chin. “Okay with me.”

“Write it up,” said Walter.

“Un huh,” echoed Ike.

“Can I do it?” Helen asked. Billy looked to his friends and seeing no resistance, he flipped the chalk to her. She grabbed it out of the air, with one hand and a big smile that said—I’m one of you! And she slid herself over to the rimless chalkboard next to the old cash register and wrote, in strong capital letters: LOVE/MONEY/EMBARRASSMENT.

Walter was already thinking about money.

When Tucker Poesy walked into Billy’s she looked very different from the last time. Of course, the last time she didn’t exactly walk in. She was carried in on a chair, a chair she was attached to in a most unfriendly manner. Billy’s wasn’t exactly open then—she was brought in at four in the morning. And Walter was not on the island. He was already gone, off to Washington, he thought, but really to New Mexico. Walter was here now and he heard her behind him. She was dressed for the climate. This was a woman who traveled well. She wore shorts, tight, white shorts showing off her dancer’s legs. A bare midriff was topped by a blue t-shirt with a picture of the Dixie Chicks on it. Underneath them was written, FUTK. Walter had no idea what that meant. She had no baggage—it must have been stowed somewhere already, he thought—and she was as cheerful as any first-time bushwhacker, fresh off the boat from St. Thomas. She could easily have been from Pittsburgh or Minneapolis, come to St. John looking to spend some money and drink a few of Billy’s more exotic beverages. This was a woman Billy had some experience with—under the worst of all possible conditions. He had personally hosed her down when she needed it most.

“Hello, Billy,” she beamed.

“Hello,” he replied, more than a little tentatively. Walter had clued him in, but it was still a little difficult for him. It didn’t make any sense to him. What would he do, he thought, if somebody from Jersey, someone from his past—when he was another person, with another name—what would he do if they just walked into his bar and said, “Hello, Billy.” Shit, Walter must know what he’s doing.

Walter turned in his seat, smiled broadly at her and said, “You look terrific, Tucker. I’m really glad to see you. Ike, Billy, Helen, I want you to meet my friend, Tucker Poesy.” She smiled to each, greeting Billy as if he was a perfect stranger. This girl’s got balls, he thought.

“Nice to meet you,” Helen said.

Ike’s warm, toothy smile, and a tip of his Cleveland Browns cap—Helen was sure he wore it to both honor Jim Brown and annoy her—did not obscure his immediate, first reaction. Boom! It just happened in his head. The old man couldn’t help it. He saw Isobel Gitlin, right there in front of him, clear as day on the water. Now, that girl had been nothing but trouble for his friend Walter. God only knew what damage this one had in store. Some people, Ike was sure, spent their whole lives waiting for something, for someone. Other people spent their lives running away from it—from somebody, most likely. He knew Walter was special—among the cursed, sad to say—and there was nothing he could do about it. He had one foot looking and the other running. Cursed, thought Ike, truly cursed. Still, his ancient, creaky bones and wrinkled face wished Gloria would hurry up and come.

“What’ll you have?” Billy asked Tucker. She leaned in on him, so only he could hear her. “I eat and drink for free,” she said. He nodded his acceptance. It was the least he could do.

“I’m starving,” she said, loud enough for all to hear. Then she ordered a steak—the biggest rib eye on Billy’s menu. “Is that prime beef?” she asked. Billy just looked at the floor. He made no effort to respond. “Fries and salad with that,” she said.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, practically unable to look her in the eye.

“How ’bout a big bottle of your best champagne. You know, the one that goes for a hundred and seventy-five bucks a pop.”

“I don’t carry that.”

“Well, order some. I may be here awhile. In the meantime, a Corona will do.” Billy walked away thinking he was getting off cheap.

Walter and Tucker Poesy sat in Billy’s all afternoon. She ate her steak and drank her beer. He nibbled at a fruit and veggie plate Helen prepared for him and sipped his usual. He had given up all pretense. He talked business, right there at the end of Billy’s bar. A couple of times he thought about it—uneasy thoughts—but what the hell. Ike really was right. He was retired. There were no rules anymore. He was no longer working for Conchita Crystal. This was all on him. He bore the load. They killed Harry and he had become the Cowboy.

He had it now. Almost the whole story, from beginning to end. Well, not quite. A few details still stumped him, especially the very beginning. Whatever he still didn’t know didn’t matter, at least for now. He wanted Tucker to get it the way he had. He didn’t want to tell her. He was afraid she might simply take his word for it. He wanted her to figure it out for herself. So, they talked about details, not the wider picture. He put his part in. He told her how someone had approached him with the job. He still did not mention Conchita Crystal. Walter had been protecting clients for forty years. Even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure he could reveal one now. But it didn’t matter. It was what happened, the order of events, the puzzle and its pieces. No puzzle had to be perfect. Chita was a piece that could be left out. He told Tucker about Harry’s Aunt Sadie, and went over his discovery of Bergen op Zoom and how fortunate he was to have a contact in Holland—his old friend Aat. Finding Harry turned out to be the easiest part. He told her about Devereaux—about Il Localino. It rankled him still. Just the mention of it flushed his face. She had to notice. Devereaux knew he was on the job—knew even who hired him.

“Who?” she asked.

“No. I can’t, Tucker. But it’s not important.”

Once the narrative reached Amsterdam, Tucker filled in her side. Devereaux called her, in London, told her to meet Harry Levine and get the document from him. She never said, but Walter wondered if she would have killed Harry too. He meant nothing to her. Walter liked her. He liked her more the more he was with her. But she was a killer and she was the most dangerous of killers. She was what he had always thought of as a swatter. Like swatting flies, she could shoot anyone without asking why, without caring why—walk away without a second thought. Shooting people was what she did. The only question for Walter was, could she kill someone she knew, someone she had nothing against? Could she have killed Harry Levine? He’d never know. It turned out Harry showed up to meet her without the document. She didn’t do this well, and admitted as much to Walter. She scared Harry off and he lit out for Holland. Tucker said she got a call, from Devereaux, with Walter’s flight plans. She was there, waiting for him, when he landed in Holland. The rest was all her. She followed him to Bergen op Zoom and then all the way back to Amsterdam, spotted their little hideaway, and decided to make her move the next day. By then it was too late. Finally, Devereaux sent her to St. John.

“He knew you were coming back.”

“I came back to meet Abby O’Malley. Let me tell you something about her.”

Abby O’Malley’s phone records showed a million calls to Louis Devereaux. Walter saw the regularity with which she called him and asked his contact in the phone company to check back as far as he could. Sure enough, she had been calling Devereaux’s home phone for as long as they had records of her calls. It was easy after that. It didn’t take much to find out they both went to the University of Chicago Law School. A few phone calls to people there turned up plenty of information about a couple of distinguished graduates. Abby O’Malley and Louis Devereaux, together as a pair, went back decades. That explained Sean Dooley.

“You called Devereaux, didn’t you?” he asked Tucker.

“Sure,” she said.

“And you told him I was comfortably settled, with Harry Levine, in Amsterdam.”

“Right.”

“And you told him exactly where.”

“Of course, and that I wasn’t going to do anything about it until the next day. Oh, fuck!” shouted Tucker Poesy, still pissed at her own stupidity. Billy looked down the bar, in her direction. She waved him off. “Sorry,” she mouthed, since there was no way he could hear her from there unless she screamed again. Then she apologized to Walter too.

“Devereaux called O’Malley,” she said, having put two and two together and gotten four. “The sonofabitch. O’Malley gets her boy into action immediately. But he’s a fuck-up artist. You beat it out of him and then beat it out of there. All the while I’m sleeping in a hotel overlooking the canal around the corner.”

“I like that,” said Walter. “The canal around the corner. Sounds like a Dutch country and western song.”

He filled her in again on his travels with Harry. They had gone over this part in Puerto Rico, but Walter could never repeat things too much. Like an athlete, deep into an intense training regime, for Walter, it was the repetitions that were the key to success. The more a fact was scrutinized, the more certain he could be it was a fact. That brought them to St. John, and their first meeting. It seemed an uncomfortable moment for Tucker, but Walter was apparently undisturbed. She noticed that and it actually made her feel better. If he was cool with this, why shouldn’t she be?

“This is where Devereaux fucked up,” he said. “Can you tell me how?”

“Sure,” said Tucker Poesy, by now able to dissect this with the same detachment Walter had. “You were supposed to kill me. That fucking Devereaux—sonofabitch!”

“Exactly right, my dear girl. I was supposed to kill you. I’m sure you do your job very well, but messing around trying to fool me isn’t part of your job description. You were set up. Devereaux knew you were impulsive. He knew you’d make some kind of move on me—even though it made no sense. And he figured I’d kill you.”

“You didn’t have the document,” said Tucker. “He knew you didn’t have it. You would have been nuts to bring it with you. He sent me to get something he knew wasn’t there. But why did he want to get rid of me? Why did he want you to kill me?”

“He didn’t need you anymore. He either already knew where Lacey’s journal was, or was about to know. You had too much information. You were the man—or in this case, the woman—who knew too much. You may not have known precisely what Lacey had written, but you certainly had to know it was worth killing for.”

“He didn’t need me anymore? You mean he needed to get rid of me?” She sounded like she was shocked.

“Yeah. Cover his tracks. Loyalty,” said Walter, holding his hands out like the scales of justice, pretending to be Devereaux. “To you—or to me? Snap decision. Easy. You were an asset that had become a liability. But, like I said, that’s where he made his mistake. He had you figured pretty good, but not me. He was sure I’d kill you, but I didn’t. I let you go once I realized you didn’t kill Harry.”

“You took your sweet time about it.”

“Water under the bridge,” said Walter. “We’re in a tough business, you and me.”

“What now?”

“Devereaux killed Harry Levine—or had him killed. He tried to kill you, through me. And, no doubt, his plans eventually called for getting rid of me too. Everything in due time. It’s time now. It’s his time.”

“Let’s go get the little prick,” Tucker Poesy said.

The house on Kalorama Road was a four-sided, red brick Colonial, with double-hung windows and black shutters, dormers at the top and a beautiful, arched doorway. The neighborhood was as secure as any in the Washington area. So many important people, top officials and those with as much power as top officials, had chosen to live in the upscale Kalorama district of Georgetown. The enormous price tag on the property was no concern for Devereaux. In fact, he bought the house at a substantial discount because, as his real estate agent told him, “A lot of people think the place is haunted.” She had correctly pegged Louis Devereaux as a man who could not possibly believe such nonsense. With someone else, she might have left that out. Crazy as it seemed, selling a haunted house was every bit as difficult as selling one in which someone had been murdered or committed suicide. “These things must be disclosed,” Devereaux’s agent told him. “And when they are, buyers get a little skittish.” To his advantage, these ridiculous concerns served to bring the price down. Even his realtor could not have guessed, but Devereaux would have gladly shared his home with a ghost or two. For sure, it would have been their ordeal.

He arrived home about eight—his usual time. He went straight to his bedroom where he changed into a pair of more casual pants and a pullover top. He washed his face, brushed his teeth—for reasons he never came to understand, he had always brushed his teeth before eating as well as afterward—walked back into his kitchen to mix a drink. Drink in hand, he sat down in his favorite chair in the living room, grabbed the remote from the small table next to him and turned on the television.

“Turn the TV off,” said Walter emerging from the hall that led to the downstairs guest room and private office. He carried a gun, pointed at Devereaux. The television went dark.

“How did you get in here?” Devereaux was quite clearly baffled. It made Walter feel very good to see him as confused as he had been that night outside Il Localino.

“You mean, how did I get past your alarm system? Your wiring—probably installed by the folks you work for, or better said, the folks who work for you—and your backup alarm too? I could tell you, but it would only be new information you’d be unable to use. So, forget about it, Louie. I’m here.”

“What do you . . .” Devereaux caught himself before saying want. That would have been too melodramatic. It nearly caused a smile to crease his lips. Instead, he decided to wait on Walter. If Walter wanted him dead, he’d be dead already. So, he must want something more. Devereaux felt confident he had plenty of time. Keep his mouth shut, that’s what he decided. Let Walter show his hand.

“Did you think you could stay a step ahead of me forever?” asked Walter. “Did you think I was too old or something?”

“I thought I knew everything about you,” Devereaux answered. “Vietnam. All those special cases afterward. A lot of them weren’t quite as confidential as you thought they were. Hell, you were the perfect combination of skill, great skill, a skill never seen before and perhaps never to be seen again, and vulnerability. There was always something about you, bubbling just beneath the surface, something by which you could be had. You were a figure of literary magnitude. Walter Sherman. Phantom. The Locator. Almost too good to be true. I admired you. You’ve no idea.”

“At first,” said Walter, sounding as if he hadn’t heard a single word Devereaux said, “you figured it would be simple. Maneuver Harry into Tucker Poesy’s web, and she’d get the document for you. You thought that would work. I can understand that. I probably would have done the same. So, we’re on the right track, together, at the start. Right?”

“No argument here,” said Devereaux.

“But Harry doesn’t come, document in hand. And, on top of that, Tucker Poesy scares him off. Now, here’s where I come in. Harry’s gone. Someone close to him hires me to find him, and you—since you’ve obviously got me under your microscope—figure to piggyback on the deal. I’ll find Harry and you’ll have Tucker Poesy follow me. Simple?”

“Your point being?”

“My point? My point is this whole thing was a charade, a puppet show, and you were pulling all the strings.”

“You think too highly of me.”

“Too highly?” scoffed Walter. “Far from it. I think you’re a worthless excuse for a man.” There was contempt in his voice, and anger, a controlled anger. Walter was not about to lose it now—at the end.

“Worthless excuse,” Devereaux repeated slowly, emphasizing each word equally. “Worthless excuse. Let me tell you something. This worthless excuse makes the world safe for hypocritical assholes like you. You sit in your island paradise, hide out in a world you keep to yourself, a world you think you can keep to yourself. And just how does that happen? Tell me. Who makes that possible? Who? A worthless excuse like me. That’s who.”

“You’re the guy in charge?” Walter mocked him and Devereaux, failing totally to catch the sarcasm in Walter’s query, shouted, “You’re goddamn right I am!”

“Amazing. You think you know everything, don’t you Louie?”

“What I know, what I know—yes, Mr. Locator—it’s what I know that keeps you free. Keeps you from going to jail. Keeps the IRS in the dark. Keeps your clients confidential. Keeps your—your Gloria safe. There’s no doubt about it. No doubt at all.”

“Ubi dubium ibi libertas,” said Walter.

“Latin? From you? Quite a surprise. I’m a little rusty on mine.”

“Translation—Where there is doubt, there is freedom. Harry Levine gave it to me, right out of Lacey’s journal. Poor Harry said it reminded him of Roy Orbison. You know, do the ubi dubi. What kind of man are you, Devereaux? You think you can order the killing of Harry Levine? You think you’re so great? You think you’re running the world, don’t you? You have—a wasted fucking existence. No idea. No clue.”

“Me? A worthless excuse? I have a wasted fucking existence—very funny, coming from you. A little crack in your elaborate façade. I’ll have to remember that.”

“Years ago,” Walter continued, in a much calmer tone, his resolve and purpose once more front and center. “When I was sixteen, seventeen—when we all got our driver’s licenses—we used to drive into New York City, on a whim. That’s a couple of hours, each way from Rhinebeck. One night, we’re tooling around town—I’m driving and Bobby Hatton, a friend of mine sitting next to me, says ‘Are we ready?’ He could only mean one thing. Drive to New York City. So, I take off for the Taconic Parkway, pathway to the Big Apple. I’ve got the car. I’m the king of the road. Just like you—I’m in charge. But, my other friend, Joel Adler, in the back seat, he doesn’t want to go. He’s pissed. He’s shouting. He’s doing everything short of grabbing me, which would be stupid because I’m driving. Finally, he gives up, gives in, sits back. There’s nothing he can do. But Joel doesn’t say a word for about an hour. Then, out of nowhere, he said something—you know what he said?” Devereaux looked at Walter with the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. He held back not wanting to antagonize a man holding a gun on him. “No, of course you don’t, Louie. How could you? Joel Adler said to me, ‘You’re a shmuk with an empty life.’ Think about it. Didn’t fit me, that’s what I thought. I thought it was very funny. Shmuck with an empty life. Someone like me—with the power? Someone like you—with the power? But my friend Joel—he meant someone with no power, no purpose. In the end, someone with nothing. And that’s exactly what you are and where you are. You’re a shmuk with an empty life and this is the end.” Devereaux had no reply.

Walter sat down in a chair directly across the room from where Devereaux sat. He kept his gun pointed at him. “When Tucker calls you from Amsterdam, you call Abby O’Malley. She sends that incompetent poor bastard, Sean Dooley, after me. Big mistake, or is it?”

“What are you saying?” Devereaux asked. “You think I had other motives?”

“We’ll get to that. You knew Abby O’Malley had been desperate to get Lacey’s journal. Her whole life revolved around it. But you also knew she couldn’t hurt a fly.” The reference made Walter chuckle. His laughter unsettled Devereaux because he had no idea what it was based in. “Abby would send in a fool. You were sure of that. And that’s exactly what she did. The last thing you wanted was for her to get the document. She’d burn it in a New York minute. You were sure I could handle anything she did. You could play with both of us and still come out on top.”

“Can I get a refill on this?” Devereaux asked.

“What are you, fucking crazy? Get a refill! Put the fucking glass down and see if you can’t concentrate all your attention over here!”

“I only . . .”

“Louie? Louie—listen to me. This is not a lesson in interrogation. This is it—the major moment. Don’t you get it? Let’s get back to Holland. When Harry and I take off, you’re lost. I’ll tell you where we went. I know you’re interested.” Walter detailed his trip from Holland to Belgium to Spain and Mexico. Finally, the bus ride to Juarez and across the boarder to El Paso. “I bought a car there and we drove to New Mexico, to the cabin.”

“Nice touch,” said Devereaux.

“Huh?”

“The car. The car. Buying the car. Beautiful.”

“Because you knew everything Abby O’Malley knew, that means you knew I was going back to St. John. She told you that. You knew I was going to meet her there. So, you dispatched Tucker Poesy once more. You told her to find me, get the document and get out. But there was something—something important—you didn’t tell Tucker.”

“What was that?”

“I didn’t have Lacey’s document. Of course I didn’t have it. I wouldn’t have brought it with me from New Mexico. You knew that too and you saw your chance. You had separated me from Harry—separated me from Lacey’s confession—that was the time for your best shot. In the meantime, you thought I’d get rid of an unnecessary part of your changing plan.”

“Really?” said Devereaux trying very hard to sound calm and doing a poor job of it. “And just what was that supposed to be?”

“Tucker Poesy.”

“Ah, The Bambino.”

“The what?” asked Walter, totally perplexed. Devereaux only smiled. “You were right about her,” Walter said. “It’s her nature to move on a target. Subtlety is not a weapon in her arsenal. When she struck, you were sure I would kill her. And that’s really what you wanted, at that stage of the game. You needed to be rid of her. She no longer served any purpose, and she knew too much.”

“Well,” Devereaux spoke up. “She did, didn’t she? Wouldn’t you have done likewise? Killed her too? Cleaned up after yourself? No, actually you wouldn’t, would you. You’re a loner, a cosmic loner. You never clean up, because you never get dirty. See, I told you, Walter. I’m not in your league.”

“So, you sent someone to see me, someone very beautiful, very mysterious, someone pretending to be Aminette Messadou. She was good. I don’t know where you found her. One of your actors, I suppose. I hope you didn’t tell her too much, because if you did, I’m sure she’s dead by now. She gave me quite a colorful story, a really good one. And, through her, you establish a straw man and send me chasing him down an empty road. You divert my attention from Harry. Then you send in another actor of yours, a guy who throws around the name Christopher Hopman. Wow, that’s a powerhouse for Isobel Gitlin. Right between the eyes. She has no idea what’s hit her. Okay, I can live with that. I can see where you had plenty of information about Leonard Martin, and about me. But you used Isobel in a real bad way. She gave Harry up. She didn’t even know him. She didn’t know anything.” Walter stopped, took in a deep breath and gazed straight into the eyes of the devil. “You sent someone to kill Harry Levine and take the document. You have the Lacey Confession.”

“Is that a question?”

“No. Not a question. You have it, and it’s right here, inside this house.”

“And you’re going to do what? Torture me until I tell you where it is? Are you going to slit my throat? No, I forgot, you only do that to teenagers with one leg. Go ahead, Walter. Have your way with me. Cut me, beat me, do anything.” He laughed. Whatever Devereaux was thinking, Walter knew a desperate, frightened laugh when he heard one.

“I’m not going to touch you, Louie. I may kill you, but I won’t touch you. I don’t torture people. I don’t need you to tell me where the document is. I’ll find it. Have you forgotten? I’m The Locator.”

“What do you want then?” Devereaux said it, asked it, but hated himself for it. Cheesy, melodramatic asshole! he thought. “You don’t have the whole story. No, you sure don’t. You’re missing the most important piece of the game, Mr. Sherman.”

“No, I’m not,” said Walter. “I’m not.” He took in another deep breath, the sort of inhale a man takes at a moment of terrible sadness. “I know about her. It must have been for her. Why else would you do this? The Czar’s gold? What do you need with the Czar’s gold?”

“You’re smarter than I thought,” Louis Devereaux said, then immediately caught himself in an error. “No, no. No, that’s not what I thought. I always knew no one was ever smarter than you. The Locator. But I thought you’d lost something by now. Not much. Just a little. Middle age. Retirement. But you haven’t, have you? Sonofabitch.” Devereaux was smiling again, this time with real delight. “I underestimated you and I didn’t even know I was doing it. My mistake. I apologize.”

“You haven’t told me why—why her? Why do all this?”

“You already know why, Walter. You simply haven’t put it together yet. You don’t need me to tell you. It’s the gold. It’s always been the gold. From the time I first told her abo ut Lacey and his father-in-law and the Czar’s gold, that’s all she talked about. She became obsessed with those people—the Georgians. I got some Russian cigarettes for her, just as a hoot, you know. She asked for more. She started smoking them. She wanted the gold. It’s all been about the gold.”

“There is no gold,” said Walter.

“Oh?”

“None.”

“None?”

“You won’t find the answer in Lacey’s confession. Because there is no answer, no hiding place. No tons of gold coins.”

“You . . .” Devereaux’s laughter brought him to a coughing fit. “I’m sorry,” he said, recovering. He wiped his nose and rubbed his eyes, a genuine smile still sitting wide across his face. “You bought Roy Rogers’ act. Imagine that. I’m just a stocks-and-bonds boy! And you bought that. You? Holy shit!” Then he laughed again. “There’s more gold than you ever dreamed of. It was for her. It was all for her, you . . . idiot.”

Walter rose from his seat, crossed the room to where Louis Devereaux sat and placed his .9mm pistol on the small table next to Devereaux. “You killed Harry. You’re responsible. You’ve got a choice to make, Louie. You can pick this gun up—there is a single round in the chamber—otherwise unloaded. Just one shot. You can take that one bullet and go out of here with at least a touch of dignity. Or I can shoot you. Your decision.” Devereaux looked at the pistol, then up at Walter, and again at the gun. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Walter. “I’d think it myself. But I need to tell you that if you pick up that gun and so much as point it in my direction, Tucker Poesy will put two in the back of your head, probably in the little soft spot just below the skull, and probably get both in the same hole. She’s that good.”

“You use this one all the time?” mocked Devereaux. “Tucker Poesy’s behind me? That’s a good one.” He didn’t exactly laugh out loud, but he smiled and the devil’s grin filled the room with a smell like acid on metal.

“Hi, Louie,” she said.

Louis Devereaux picked up the gun. He knew it was an untraceable weapon that would stay behind. For the first time he noticed that Walter Sherman was wearing gloves, thin white cotton gloves. Only Devereaux’s fingerprints would be on the handle. He didn’t look at Walter again. In fact, Walter saw him close his eyes. He put the gun up to his head, against his temple, by his right ear, and pulled the trigger.

The house belonged to Linda Morales. It was far enough outside Ponce to be called a retreat. That’s how she referred to it—my retreat, she would say. Few knew about it and fewer still knew where it was. There was nothing spectacular about the house itself. It was nice, but not unusual. Pushed into the side of a hill, nearly at the top—very much like Walter’s place on St. John—her view was a thing to behold. The whole of the Caribbean Sea lay at her footsteps. Walter Sherman had made his life’s work finding things others could not. Finding Conchita Crystal’s Puerto Rican retreat was no challenge for The Locator. He had resources everywhere. He used one to keep an eye on the place, to let him know when she arrived. Hours later, he was there. Unlike his own house, where the driveway snaked around and down the hill, this one had a drive straight up to the house. He parked his car at the bottom, off the road, behind some bushes, and walked. He rang the bell and waited.

“Walter,” she said, as if she was expecting him for cocktails and dinner. “Come in. You look wonderful. Have you done something . . . to yourself? You look great.”

“A little surgery,” he said.

“No. You’re not the kind.”

“Coronary bypass.”

“Oh,” her hand covered her open mouth, but he could see she was careful not to touch those delicious lips of hers. No smudges.

“It’ll do wonders for you. You should try one.”

“When? What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I came to pay my respects, offer my condolences.”

“Oh, really,” now he saw the chest heave and the muscles around that marvelous mouth tighten. “What for? Who’s died?”

“Louis Devereaux. I’m sure you’ve heard by now. They say he killed himself. Shot himself with the only bullet in a Glock nine millimeter. They found the gun in his hand. Did you know, if you shoot yourself in the head, you die so quickly your fingers cannot release the weapon. That’s true.” Chita said nothing. She stood there, like she was waiting for her director’s instructions. Stage right—stage left—kick and move—smile, smile! “That was a nice Glock. I bought it, on the street in Washington, a few hours before he killed himself with it. You still can’t say anything, can you?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“I know all about it, Chita. I know about you and Devereaux. His phone records. Your cell phone. The two of you go back a long ways. How? How did that happen? You and Devereaux?”

Conchita smiled. It was that warm, wonderful smile she was so famous for, the one Walter had seen and taken some measure of pleasure in before. “He called me. Just like he called you. You couldn’t just call me, not Chita Crystal. Not in those days. I had people who had people. But that’s exactly what Louis did. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Louis Devereaux. I’m a big fan. Let’s have dinner.’ That’s how. I needed help. He was there.”

“It never occurred to me,” said Walter. “The two of you. I see it now, but I don’t know why Harry. Harry was—what to you? Why him?”

“I don’t work as much as I used to,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that? You should have listened.”

“The money? The Czar’s gold coins? The money was for you?”

“Of course. Look at me. This is my little bungalow, my most modest accommodations. Conchita Crystal is a business—no, she’s an industry. And, unfortunately, she ain’t what she used to be.” She saw Walter looking at her. She never doubted her appearance. She lived on it. Still did. That’s not what she was losing. It was the income. Simple and to the point. Conchita Crystal did not make as much money as she used to. Her lifestyle had not adjusted to her new economic conditions. Her motives were so simple. She needed the money.

“Devereaux had money,” he said, astonished that she should worry about her future in such a way—that she would kill for it—that she would kill family. “You had nothing to worry about.”

She laughed. “You don’t know a thing about real money, do you Walter? Louis told me about Lacey, years ago. He told me about Kennedy and he told me about the gold.”

“Still . . . I . . . ,” he stammered.

“You cannot imagine what it costs to be me,” she said.

“So, it really was pure, dumb luck,” Walter said.

“You know about me and Louis. We were made for each other, truly we were. I love him. He loves me in a way he can’t love anything or anyone else. You’ll never know how good that feels.” Conchita Crystal was crying again. This time Walter didn’t give a flying fuck.

“He knew Lacey’s instructions were to open his will four days after he died,” Chita said. “It never mattered what day it was—when the old man died. The fourth day was a Saturday, but it could have been any day. Louis could have made it happen anytime. But we got lucky, with Harry.”

“But that was the American Embassy. What did that have to do with Lacey’s will?”

“Don’t you see? Come on, you’re the fucking Locator! And you still don’t see it.”

“See what?”

“Louis knew—all along. He not only knew Frederick Lacey was behind the assassination of President Kennedy. He knew about Lacey’s confession. His dear friend, Abby O’Malley, kept him up to speed on everything she did. You know, Walter, Louis had a way of finding things even you couldn’t match. What do you find? You find people. He found knowledge. He found out things no one else could. And he was always right. Always.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you? That’s such crap.”

“No, no, my dear man. Louis knew things nobody else knew, and now never will. The assassination was just one, one among many. He knew about Lacey’s private journal and he guessed Lacey’s confession was in it. He was right, wasn’t he? See what I mean? You won’t see another like him. He figured that when the will was opened the confession would be there. And in it, the location of the gold. Everybody looking for it assumed the lawyer had it, probably in a safe somewhere. Louis went with his gut. The lawyer would see the document, he told me, discover that his old friend had murdered John Kennedy, and offer the whole thing, on a silver platter, to the Americans to do with as they wished.”

“How long have you . . . ?”

“How long? Years. Years,” she laughed at him. “Fifteen years ago,” she said. “He told me about Lacey at least fifteen years ago.”

“And you?”

“Me? You were right. The pureist, dumbest of luck. I had this nephew, a kid I’d only met a few times, whose mother was my sister, but I never met her at all. Harry Levine. He worked at the London Embassy. He wanted to stay there. Louis made sure he did. Louis said it was a piece of cake. He could have arranged for anyone he wanted to be the senior official on duty, on any day. Louis could do things others couldn’t dream of. When the old man died on a Tuesday, Harry was a natural. Open the will Saturday—have Harry be the senior official on premises. Bingo! The lawyer gives him Lacey’s confession. An act of incredible coincidence.”

“And you’re only interested in the gold. You don’t give a shit about Kennedy.”

“Oh, no, Walter. You underestimate Louis Devereaux. He was a very loyal man. He would do anything for me. Abby O’Malley too. She was a great friend to him. Of course, he was going to destroy the confession. Once he got the location of the gold, that is. Once I had—once we had the gold, he would give Abby what she wanted—the entire document, up in smoke. I’m sure you didn’t find it, did you?” Again, she laughed. “No se puede.”

“Lo halle,” said Walter. “No problema. Fácil.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“There’s a bar in his living room—a small wet bar—do you know it?” Walter asked. “I’m sure you do. Underneath, where the plumbing for the sink is, on the right-hand side, high up, anchored against the sink itself, is a button. Press it and you open the false front, the cabinet facing on the bar that appears to be solid. It isn’t. When it opens, it reveals a small safe, a sort of mini-vault. You don’t even need a key or a combination to get in. He never thought anyone could or would find it. Just open the front. Press the button. Took me less than thirty minutes to find it. That’s where it was.”

“You’re lying.”

“Roosevelt shit in his pants at Yalta. Did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. How could you. How could anyone. The smell made Churchill sick, but apparently, Stalin didn’t even notice it.”

“What?”

“It’s in the Lacey journal, his confession. There’s a lot more in it besides the Kennedy killings. But there’s no gold, Chita.”

“You have it!” she said. “Where is the gold?”

“Sir Anthony Wells?” said Walter ignoring her question. “The American Ambassador? What about them?”

“Overzealous associates.”

“Overzealous associates!” cried Walter. “That’s it? Just like that.” Conchita Crystal shrugged her shoulders.

“So, then you decided to hire me. Harry was hiding and wouldn’t even tell you where he was.”

“Not me, Walter. I never heard of you. Louis. Louis told me not to worry. He knew someone who could find Harry no matter where he had gone. Louis sent me to you. He said you weren’t working anymore, you had retired. But he was sure you would work for me.” The gleam in her eye, the smile on her lips, said it all—“Fácil? You don’t know what easy is.”

Walter rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head and breathed slowly, deeply through his nose. He felt himself getting lightheaded. “I know,” he said. “You set me up real good. I found Harry for you and as soon as I did, you had someone on me. That we got away—me and Harry—was just a mistake. It didn’t matter, though. You figured out where I would hide him. ‘Someplace no one else could find him,’ isn’t that what you said? But you knew how to find that too. Devereaux found Harry through Isobel Gitlin. But it was you who went to New Mexico. It was you who killed him. It was you who took the document.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “And Louis never told me there would be any killing, not in London, not in New Mexico. Whoever he sent overdid it. There was no reason to kill Harry. It hurt me. I’m sorry. I’m deeply sorry—for Sadie Fagan too—but I can’t turn back the clock. I can’t make it unhappen.”

“You have anything to drink?” said Walter. “Something cold.”

“Sure. I’m sure I have some Coke.”

“Diet?”

“Walter, what other kind?” She patted her flat belly, inviting and secure within those skin-hugging jeans and a green silk blouse that also fit like it had been made just for her. She saw the look in his eyes. She smiled at him. One of those smiles again. A smile that never quit, equal parts magic and desire. Probably enough right there to melt the Czar’s gold, Walter thought. They walked into the kitchen. Walter was surprised to find it much smaller than he would have guessed.

“Why did you kill Harry?” he asked, as she poured the drink into a glass filled with crushed ice.

“I didn’t kill Harry. I told you. Things got out of hand. I don’t know how. I wasn’t there.”

“Sure you were, Chita. You were there. You were the only one there. You’re the one who shot him. You killed Harry.”

“Come on, Walter,” she said, throwing off his accusation as lightly as she might discard a sweater on a warm day. “What do you think I did? Go busting into his cabin, guns blazing, firing away? Shoot him down—grab Lacey’s papers and drive off? Is that how it happened?”

“No, that’s not how it happened.”

“Then what makes you think I had anything to do with it? How could I have been there?” Walter took the glass she offered, took a long sip and put it down on the kitchen counter.

“I knew it anyway,” Walter said. “But if there was any question, any doubt at all, you just told me you were there.” Chita looked at him, half a grin, half a rebuke written on her beautiful face. “Cabin?” Walter continued. “You said cabin. How would you know it was a cabin? And, Lacey’s papers. You called them papers. Not a journal, not a notebook, not a diary, not even a document—papers. How would you know that, if you hadn’t pushed them all together in a stack, packaged them and took them, leaving Harry dead on the floor.” Conchita Crystal had nothing to say. She’d run out of script. “And you weren’t even careful. The Russian cigarettes—‘papiroses,’ they call them. Just like the one you smoked the day you came to St. John, the one you lit up so dramatically at the bar. You probably have a pack in your purse right now—a couple of cartons in the pantry. Hard to find. Can’t get them at your neighborhood supermarket. Devereaux got them for you. You threw the butt on the floor and stepped on it, but the holder, the cardboard part, didn’t get squashed. If a man steps on one of those things, the whole thing gets flattened. A woman, however, a woman with high heels—she uses only the front of her shoe. You didn’t get the whole thing. You only stepped on the front of the butt.”

“My, what an imagination you have, Walter. You even know how I step on a cigarette.”

“The same way you did in Billy’s. The same exotic cigarette. The same crushed butt. What made you think you could mislead me?”

Chita Crystal said nothing.

“You know what made me sure it was you? You know how I knew it was you, how I knew from the minute I found Harry’s body? Do you?” Still she was silent. “Answer me, goddamnit!”

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Harry was shot so close there were powder burns on his shirt and an indentation larger than the bullet itself. An indentation the size of the barrel. You hugged him. You brought him close to you, up tight. And you reached up, pushed a little single-shot pistol, no bigger than a cigarette lighter, against his heart and pulled the trigger.” Walter had to catch his breath now. He took another, longer, bigger swallow of his drink. Conchita Crystal, she did that which was most natural to her, that which she had been doing since she was fifteen.

“I know you want this,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse, leaving it tucked into her jeans, riding on her hips, low beneath her waist. With the slick ease of a poisonous snake, her hands slid the open blouse around behind her, showing him her breasts, the silky smooth curve of her belly, and as the open blouse fell from her shoulders, as she pulled each arm through the sleeves, she was bare from the waist up. “It’s all yours, Walter. Touch it. Go on, touch it. It’s all yours—today, tomorrow, forever. You and me.” She could see what she was doing to him. How many men have reacted the same way? How many over thirty years? Who could resist? Fácil. She kept her eyes on his, smiled the smile that always got her what she wanted, and with a twist of her fingers, unsnapped the top of her jeans and began slowly pulling its zipper open. She no longer had to say it—not in English—not in Spanish. Walter Sherman had what she wanted and she had what he wanted. “Walter,” she said, walking up to him, right up to him, taking one hand and putting it on his neck, running it across his shoulders, up into his long hair, pulling him closer with the other arm, that hand touching his hips and moving over them, around behind, into the small of his back. “Walter.” She squeezed against him and he held her tight, his own hand moving down her back as she pushed hard against him. She knew when things were going her way. She felt it. To Walter, she felt so warm, smelled so wonderful. She never stopped looking him in the eye, and then she drew his lips to hers and kissed him. Her tongue fired into his mouth. Her eyes shut. His didn’t. But he held her close, as close as he could.

“Did Devereaux ever tell you,” he whispered, “about Leonard Martin? Did he ever mention the name?”

“No,” she answered.

“He should have.”

Walter shot Conchita Crystal in the heart. The tiny pistol he pushed against her smooth warm brown breast had only a single shot. The force of the small caliber shell was not enough to even produce an exit wound. If she knew what happened at all, it could only have been for a fraction of a second. He let go and she slumped to the floor, dead.

THE ENDING

In the end there is one dance you’ll do alone.

–Jackson Browne–

Thursday is a good day to die.

For Jews, and others with similar beliefs about the nature of death and the behavior required of survivors, you can have a funeral before the weekend. If your faith dictates otherwise, requiring one or more time-consuming ceremonial activities, or if you have no religion at all to guide you, and in its place find it desirable to have the deceased shown off, available for public viewing, Thursday can still be good. The departed, resplendent in mortuary makeup and laid out in the comfort of a silky, satin-finished, cushioned box, can be viewed Friday and Saturday, then buried on Sunday. Some people want nothing more than the simple, respectful display of a closed coffin. For them, Thursday is also a good day to die. A Saturday funeral can disrupt a weekend, and most feel a Sunday funeral is better. Neither, however, causes a single day of missed work. But best of all is dead on Thursday, buried on Friday. One day off and nobody’s weekend plans get ruined.

There are the few times when, even if dead on Thursday, a Monday funeral is scheduled. When there are so many mourners and friends, when some come from far away, they will have all day Saturday and Sunday to pay their respects. They can show up for the funeral on Monday and maybe, if it’s early enough, not miss a full day of work. Dying on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday is the worst. That can, and often does, inconvenience many.

“It’s a thoughtful man who dies on a Thursday.” This was the wisdom Ike imparted to Walter and Billy, a few years ago, after attending just such an inconvenient, midweek funeral for an older cousin on his wife’s side. He had arrived at Billy’s promptly at lunchtime that day, straight from the cemetery, still dressed in a dark blue suit and tie, and immediately ordered his usual. “Thursday is a good day to die,” he said.

And now, on this day, as Walter straightened his own tie and readied himself for a moment he wished had never come, he recalled Ike’s pithy pronouncement that day. True to his own advice, Ike died on a Thursday.

He was home alone when his aged heart stopped beating. It was late in the afternoon, an August day so hot Ike had to leave his table in Billy’s, next to the sidewalk, across from the square. “I’ll be back later,” he said. “Maybe. Got to cool down some.” Grandson Roosevelt had come to get the old man. He knew it was too hot for anyone to be sitting all day in the sun. Billy told Ike, so often in recent years it was like complaining about the man’s smoking, to move inside. He practically begged him. “Sit over here,” Billy said, pointing to a table in the shade near a fan. “Or sit next to Walter, if you still have the strength to climb up on a barstool without breaking your balls. Just get out of the sun, Ike.”

“No,” the old man said. “This, right here, is my table. Been so a long time. I ain’t moving. Besides, you just gonna yell at me when the smoke gets all over you. You know that.” To punctuate his decision, Ike reached into his shirt pocket and took out a crooked ugly butt, stuck it in his mouth and struck a big, wooden match. It looked like his whole head was about to catch fire.

“When are you going to quit that shit?” Billy asked.

“Never,” replied Ike, coughing. After a second, full-throated, hacking cough, he said, “Walter—you hear me?”

“I do,” answered Walter, folding his copy of the day’s New York Times and putting it down on the bar in front of his drink. “I hear you.”

“Well, I want you boys to remember something.” Ike leaned in, toward them, both of his wrinkled, black hands resting on the tabletop. When he felt he had gathered their undivided attention, he said, “When I die . . .”

“Ah, come on, Ike!” growled Billy, dismissing him with a wave of his bar towel.

“No, no,” the old man went on. “You listen to me. This here’s important. I want one of you to remember this. Don’t let them bury me without a smoke or two and a couple of matches. I’m expecting to make it to Heaven—sure as sweet Jesus will have me—and I ain’t positive they got any there.” Then he showed his friends that great, yellow-toothed smile that dominated his countenance for nearly ninety years.

“Consider it done,” said Walter.

“Bullshit,” Billy said, turning his attention quickly to wiping down an already spotless bar. Helen had been watching and listening, working down at the end of the bar closest to Ike. She gave the old man a look that said, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure they do it.” Ike tipped his cap to her. That was on Wednesday. The next day he died.

Hayes Home of Funerals buried nearly all the black people who died on St. John. It had been that way for five generations. For reasons deeply embedded in the American psyche, they rarely provided final services for white folk. This time, they went all out for Ike. Ninety years is a long time to live among such a small group of people, thought Walter. It’s often said at funerals, that many are loved and he was sure that was true, but Walter was certain few were loved as much as this old man. It seemed everyone on the island was there and not a few from St. Thomas, and some from places farther away. Walter paid his respects, offered his condolences to Ike’s family—dozens and dozens of them—by showing up at the funeral home on Saturday and again Sunday morning at a time he knew the clan would be done with church. Billy and Helen were also there both days.

Henry and Willie Hayes did a wonderful job on Ike. They didn’t make him appear different than he was in life. Walter had attended his share of funerals, and so often it was the case, the dead looked like a stranger. No one was ever pleased with that. Yet people had a way of remarking at the sight of the deceased how lifelike their dead bodies looked. Most of the time the opposite was true, everyone knew it, and no words to the contrary could change that. Ike, however, looked just like Ike. Walter went out of his way to thank the Hayes brothers.

Except for his visit to the funeral home, Walter stayed at home that weekend. He didn’t go down to Billy’s at all. On Monday, the day Ike was laid to rest, Billy shut the place down. A simple, black tarp hung over the locked front door. It was the only time the building had ever been closed that anyone could remember.

The funeral was almost a joyous occasion. A ninety-year life celebrated, as it ought to be. A group of five—three of Ike’s sons and two of his grandsons—backed by a single piano, sang a favorite of his, The Closer You Are, written and recorded more than a half century earlier by Earl Lewis and The Channels. Walter smiled, knowing the old man had requested it. He might have sung along, as he did many times with Ike—back in the day—but, instead, today he just listened.

The-a closer you are

The brighter the stars in the sky-a-i

Billy looked over at Walter, both men smiling with lumps in their throats. He was tempted to bring out the old chalkboard and write it up. The choir sang Going Up Yonder like it was the last time you’d ever hear it and the packed church, most unable to sit still, rose up in spirited appreciation. Shouts of “Yes, Jesus!” “Oh, my Lord!” and “Sing that song, children!” reverberated through the old, clapboard building, turning it into something closer to a Baptist church in Alabama or Mississippi than an island Episcopal sanctuary. Walter felt the place shake on its foundation. Many joined in the singing.

I’m going up yonder,

to be with my Lord.

A small group, no more than a dozen or so, had been selected to pass by the casket before it was closed forever at the conclusion of the service. Walter was among them. He stopped for a moment to look at Ike a last time. He almost expected the old man to wink at him. A lonely tear rolled down Walter’s cheek. He fought to get the tennis ball out of his throat. Like the others in the procession, Walter placed a single flower next to Ike’s folded hands. Then he reached down and placed two home-rolled cigarettes and two long, wooden matches in his friend’s shirt pocket.

A few weeks later, Walter was sitting in his usual spot. A handful of bushwhackers sat at one of the rear tables. It looked like they were celebrating someone’s birthday or anniversary. Across the small square a whole boatload of them descended upon St. John for a day’s adventure. The open truck taxis were filling up with beachgoers. Couples, and small groups, headed on foot for Cruz Bay’s fancy shops.

Walter was eating a Caesar salad topped with Billy’s indescribably delicious, spicy, blackened shrimp and sipping his usual when the sound of familiar footsteps broke the midday silence. They were headed his way.

“What’s up, Tucker?” he said without turning to look.

“It’s a pleasure to see you too, Walter,” she responded as she carefully adjusted herself to the high wooden seat next to him. She wriggled, ever so slightly, from side to side, as one often does to get comfortable after sitting down. Walter smiled in her direction.

“With this over, I thought you’d go back to hating me,” he said.

“You and Billy both, for damn good reason.”

“Well. That’s sort of what I meant.”

“Got a light?” she asked, hardly able to stifle a laugh. It was actually quite a lame attempt.

“You don’t smoke,” said Walter.

“I know, but it seemed like a good line. I guess I flubbed it.” Tucker Poesy was wearing the same tiny yellow bikini she wore on the beach in Puerto Rico. The low-cut, tattered and torn jean shorts barely hid the bottoms. He caught himself thinking, if her ass looked good—and it did—her legs looked great.

“Costs a pretty penny, I bet, to get a pair of jeans as ripped up as those.”

“You like them, huh?” She smiled at him, more seductively than he’d ever seen from her. He couldn’t help himself now. She excited him, and he couldn’t hide it, and it pleased her.

She glanced down, down at his pants. Did her eyes say things to him he wanted to hear? “I thought I’d take a Caribbean holiday. This is a nice little island here,” she said. “I think I might stick around awhile.”

“What do you want?” asked Walter.

“Woody Allen and Mariel Hemingway,” Helen spoke up from near the middle of the bar, as she moved bottles of vodka and tequila from one place to another behind her. “Unlikely and unsavory too.”

“I know that one,” Tucker Poesy volunteered. “Manhattan.”

“That’s right. Creepy, wasn’t it?” Helen asked.

“Didn’t see it,” Billy piped up. He had been down at the other end of the bar. But when he saw Tucker Poesy walk in, he edged his way toward Walter. Billy’s eyes met Tucker’s. It was still a source of embarrassment for him.

“Are you paying now?” he asked in a voice so low she could hardly hear him.

“Never,” she said with a warm grin. “Never.”

Billy turned and put his arm around Helen, kissed her very gently, smack on the lips, and offered his opinion. “Sonny and Cher.”

“You like Cher?” Helen asked, with a note of amazement. “I always knew you preferred your women meek and mild, slightly abused even,” she smiled coyly, “but I never figured you for gay.”

“No one knows better than you, huh?” laughed Billy.

“Well, actually,” said Tucker, “my favorite is really Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett—there was a pair.”

“Unlikely, but not unsavory,” said Walter. “And Lyle Lovett’s kind of cute too, in his own way.” He looked quickly at Tucker Poesy. “I didn’t know girls like you had time for movies and music,” he said.

“All work and no play makes Tucker a dull girl, don’t you think?” she laughed.

“What about,” Walter began, “Michael Jackson and whatshername? Elvis’ daughter?”

“Priscilla?” said Billy.

“That’s his wife,” Helen interjected. “Walter means Lisa Marie.”

“Yeah, right,” Walter said. “What about them? Weird and weirder, no?”

“People who don’t fit,” said Helen.

“People who look like they don’t fit,” corrected Tucker. Helen actually winked at her after that.

“Well, that’s too many,” said Billy. You have to pick one, just one.” Billy looked at his friend with noticeable trepidation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ike’s empty table. This was the first time they’d done this since the old man died. “Just one,” he repeated.

“Okay,” said Walter. “I’ll take . . .”

“Hey, you guys, what about Marilyn Monroe? Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller?”

“Who’s he, Helen?” said Billy. “Arthur who?”

“Playwright, Billy,” Tucker said, reaching over and taking a sip of Walter’s drink. “The Misfits. We’ve all got a bit of misfit in us, don’t we?”

Billy mumbled something none of them could understand and then Walter spoke up again. “Okay, I’m taking Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart. What the hell was she doing with him? You ever look closely at Bogart? Acne.”

“Great,” said Billy. Quickly, he moved toward the blank chalkboard. He seemed in a hurry to get this done. “You got Bergman & Bogart, and I got Sonny & Cher.” And that’s just how he wrote it.

“Ike and Tina?” offered a giggling Tucker.

“That’s not so funny,” Helen said. “That woman had a devil of a time, and came out on top too, God bless her.”

“We need one more. We do, don’t we?” Billy spoke tentatively, again looking around for help. Arched eyebrows and arms outstretched, he looked to Tucker Poesy.

“No, no,” she said. Then she locked one arm around Walter’s, patted him on the shoulder and gently snuggled against him. “I’m with him,” she laughed.

“You are?” he asked, quite understandably amazed.

“Just kidding,” Tucker whispered. “I haven’t made up my mind. I might fuck you. I might kill you. I might do both. By the way, Walter, where’s the Lacey Confession?”

“Is that what you want? I could tell you that,” he whispered back, smiling all the while. He kissed her on her cheek. “But I’d have to kill you then, wouldn’t I?”

“Helen?” said Billy. “You got one? Or should we just go with two from now on?”

“Hold your horses, Billy boy,” Helen said. “We’re not finished yet.”

THE END

About the Author

Born and raised in New York City, Richard Greener studied American history, international relations, and law. He is a retired broadcast industry executive, and currently resides in Georgia with his wife of thirty-eight years.

Table of Contents

Cover

Dedication

Title_Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Preface

The_Beginning

One

Before_the_Beginning

Two

Three

Part_One

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Part_Two

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Part_Three

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

The_Ending

Fifty-Eight

About_the_Author