The Lacey Confession (15 page)

“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.