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.”
