covered with a blue tarp. Despite the rain, Conchita could see down the mountainside, out to the sea. She’d been privy to some incredible views, from equally incredible homes-owned a few herself-but this sight was as thrilling as any. She hoped she could stay long enough to see it when the storm passed and the sunshine reappeared.
Walter asked many questions about Harry. He wanted to learn about his character-his likes and dislikes, his habits, tendencies, inclinations, his vices. Conchita told him what she knew, and while it wasn’t much, Walter began developing a picture of Harry Levine as they talked. Not a photographic image-that she had already given him-but a psychological profile of sorts. What kind of man Harry was would determine where he went to hide. It had always been so. From decades of experience, Walter understood the more he knew about Harry Levine, the more he could decipher Harry’s motives, the easier it would be to calculate his movements and discover his whereabouts.
“Tell me about Tulane University,” he asked. She did, and when she finished, he asked about Philadelphia. But mostly Walter was interested in Roswell, Georgia.
“I don’t know that much about Roswell,” said Conchita.
“Harry grew up there.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know about my sister then. I didn’t know Harry when he was a child. You should really talk to his Aunt Sadie.”
“I will.”
“She’ll have much more to tell you than I do. Talk to her.”
“I will.”
“We don’t have much time,” said Conchita.
“Well, we’re not sure about that, are we?”
Chita reached out with her hand, much as she had done earlier in the day at Billy’s. Once again her long, slender fingers, bright red nails flickering in the reflected light, inched toward him, touched his forearm. It was the first time she had touched him since she came to his house. Her eyes caught his and held him straight and tight. Had he been a dog, she could have led him anywhere without so much as a jerk of his leash. Instead, like a fish, she reeled him in.
“It’s that I’m worried about him, Walter. You must find him before he gets hurt.”
“You know, of course,” he said, unwilling to breathe with gills, “I don’t really know what’s going on here-with Harry-what this is really all about. You tell me somebody gave him something, about somebody named Lord Frederick Lacey. Your nephew Harry has some sort of document that says Lacey killed John Kennedy. Harry’s got some kind of confession, is how you put it. Who gave it to him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“And you want me to find him before they do-but you don’t tell me who they are or even who they could be.”
“I don’t know,” Conchita said. They’d been through this before, she said. Now, she repeated it with a note of irritation in her voice. “If I knew more I would tell you. Don’t you believe me?” He’d tested her patience. She was getting pissed. Even in her anger, with her lips closed together, her mouth tighter than he’d seen it before, a frown creating tiny wrinkles in the lines of her cheeks and in the space just above her nose between her narrowed eyes, taking him in with steely resolve, even then Walter could not keep himself from thinking how beautiful she was-how much he wanted to wrap his arms around her, tell her he would do anything, whatever she wanted, anything, anything. To have her, he’d say anything.
But he said nothing.
During his first year in London, an American defense contractor requested Harry Levine’s assistance dealing with one of Lord Frederick Lacey’s shipping companies. Both U.S. and English laws contained strict penalties for the improper movement of certain sensitive military materials and Harry made sure the American company was in compliance with the requirements put in place by Great Britain. The project took the better part of a month. The vast extent of Lacey’s empire struck a chord with Harry. He read as much about the old man’s life and exploits as he could at the time. He knew something about the man, but there was so much he didn’t know.
The phone call came in on a dreary, wet and chilly Saturday morning in February, the sort of day common in an English winter. The English, to the consternation of most foreigners who hated it, seemed to have a perverse liking for this kind of weather. Most Americans preferred London in springtime. The call was received and logged in at the American Embassy shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. The weekend operator answered and, as requested, connected the caller to the Ambassador’s office. The American Ambassador, McHenry Brown, was not in. He was, in fact, two hours from London, finished with breakfast and playing tennis with a very special friend on an indoor court at a hotel known for its discretion. Nevertheless, he was listed as being on duty. The caller was Sir Anthony Wells, the most senior of all barristers at the firm of Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson. In a manner quite unusual for a man of his status and exalted position, Sir Anthony had placed the call himself.
The Ambassador’s secretary, Elizabeth Harrison, was there to take it. Whenever McHenry Brown took personal time on a Saturday, she covered for him. She said simply that Ambassador Brown was “unavailable at the moment.” Sir Anthony apologized for disturbing the tranquility of “such a fine day as this one most assuredly is.” Mrs. Harrison was keenly aware Sir Anthony had seen many winter mornings like this one in his one hundred years. For a moment she let her mind wander, conjuring up images of those long-ago days, of gas lamps, pot-bellied stoves, quill pens, tall ships and… she recovered. These days, she also knew, most Americans who’ve spent any length of time in England felt wintry Saturdays were the sort of days when absolutely nothing important could or should happen. These days were good for hot tea, newspapers, a warm fire and Mozart. She had already told Sir Anthony the Ambassador was “unavailable.” Nevertheless, he still asked. “Could the Ambassador be at my office by ten, this morning?” Elizabeth Harrison said nothing in reply and Sir Anthony continued. “It concerns a private matter,” he said. “He needs to meet me here.”
Mrs. Harrison wondered if Ambassador Brown really knew Sir Anthony. Of course, he knew who Sir Anthony was, but did he actually know the man? Had they ever really met? McHenry Brown was a very social person. Indeed, he was the American Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s, a posting nearly 475 years old. Henry VIII had built St. James’s Palace. He started it in 1531 and by 1536 it was suitable for the royal family. For 300 years it was the actual home of the reigning English monarchs, kings and queens alike. It had been Victoria, in 1837, who changed that. Independent woman that she was, she picked up and moved to Buckingham Palace where she and all her successors to date have lived their lives in royal splendor. However, St. James’s Palace has never given up its designation as the official royal residence. Thus, all those who serve as Ambassadors to England are said to serve at the Court of St. James’s. It was McHenry Brown’s honor to do so as it was his job to be social, to know everyone and anyone of influence. It was also his pleasure. Sir Anthony was certainly such a person, yet she tried to recall the last time he had been seen at a public event. At his age such absence was more than understandable. It was expected.
Of Sir Anthony’s fellow named partners, Mr. Herndon had been dead for seventy-five years and Sturgis nearly half that time. Although he was twenty-five years Sir Anthony’s junior, Mr. Nelson too was sadly long departed. Only Sir Anthony survived. He became a partner in London’s most important law firm more than seventy years ago. In his day he’d been a powerful figure at the bar. To Mrs. Harrison, that was a long time ago. Everyone knew it had been decades since he was actively involved in any of the day-to-day goings-on of England’s power elite. The question of his familiarity with Ambassador Brown remained an unsettled matter in her mind. They might as easily be close friends as strangers, she thought. The tone of Sir Anthony’s voice gave no hint. In any case, Mrs. Harrison, while she preferred not to think of it, knew perfectly well what the Ambassador was doing now and what sort of activities he and his friend would surely be involved in when their tennis game ended. Meeting Sir Anthony Wells, at any time today, much less in an hour, was entirely out of the question.
Elizabeth Harrison had worked for McHenry Brown since his Wall Street days twenty years ago. He trusted her completely and with total justification. When he was named Ambassador to England, a post once held by Joseph P. Kennedy, Mrs. Harrison convinced her husband, Norman, to have his advertising agency transfer him to their London office. He did and they moved to England. Some said she would have gone without him. She was devoted to McHenry Brown’s interest and protected his privacy with a zeal and competence other men in public life admired, envied and tried so hard to duplicate. Quite naturally she replied to Sir Anthony, “Of course, Sir Anthony, ten o’clock will be fine.” He gave her special directions to an open door at the side of the building in which Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson was the sole occupant, as well as the location of his office suite. It was, after all, he said, “a February Saturday and no staff would be present to show him in. I shall be the only one here.”
“I’m sure the Ambassador will find you without difficulty,” she said.
