The Lacey Confession (19 page)

“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.