The Lacey Confession (7 page)

“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.