Confident now that the family enterprise would remain firmly in true Devereaux control, Zane discovered the freedom to delegate responsibility to others, to outsiders, to employees. What had been a tightly held, close-knit corporation in which Zane himself approved nearly every decision, now opened up to dynamic growth under the direction of skilled hired help. Zane knew banking and had been lucky in real estate after the war with Germany and Japan. In the buyer’s market of the late forties it didn’t hurt to own a bank or two. He knew investing in the construction of the interstate highway system was a smart move, but he would need to hire people to set it up and run it. He was also smart enough to take the millions thrown off by Devereaux National Construction and buy radio and television stations. But again he needed to hire the right people to operate them. And now that he had a son, an heir, he did. He hired the best in the industry, paid the most money but always resisted releasing equity, taking in partners or going public. More often perhaps than Hattie thought was good for him, Zane looked at his son and said, “Louis, someday it’ll all be yours.”
By the time Louis entered Yale, at the incredible age of sixteen, his father was already preparing his future career. When Louis graduated from Yale, only three years later, Zane was pleased his son was going on to law school. There were already too many lawyers with too much influence making too much trouble for him every day. Zane was sure he would feel a lot more comfortable working side by side with his son-the attorney. But when Louis chose the University of Chicago Law School instead of LSU or Tulane, Zane Devereaux became concerned. At first, he kept it to himself. Louis was young-time was on his side.
Three years later, twenty-two-year-old Louis took his law degree and instead of going home, returned to Yale, this time to pursue a PhD in European History. His father was not happy. Still, he waited. When he was only twenty-four years old, Louis Devereaux-now both lawyer and doctorate-heir to the family fortune, broke his father’s heart. He joined the Central Intelligence Agency. The strain between the two never healed. Zane Devereaux died carrying both his pain and anger to the grave.
He left everything to Louis. He was, in spite of everything, his son. His only son. Louis sold all the Devereaux holdings and split the proceeds evenly with his sisters and mother. By age thirty, Louis Devereaux was a man completely free of personal commitments as well as conflicting economic interests. While very much the ladies’ man, he had not married, and never would. Every penny he had was in cash. He often thought of John Lennon’s comment when the former Beatle was asked if he was afraid of Richard Nixon and the Immigration and Naturalization Service, which harassed him and tried hard to have him deported. Lennon said he was not afraid at all. “I’ve got more money than they do.”
Fifteen minutes after their brief phone call, Devereaux entered the Oval Office to find the President alone. “Good morning,” he said.
“You need some coffee?” asked the President. “Something to eat? Help yourself, Louis.” He pointed to a tray loaded with breakfast cakes and doughnuts. Both coffee and tea were available in matching silver servers. The President’s favorite mugs, featuring the particularly ugly mascot from his alma mater, were neatly stacked next to the milk and sugar and artificial sweetener. Devereaux could have anything he wanted. He knew that. Eggs, sausage, pancakes, steak, anything-all he had to do was pick up the phone and order it. He poured some coffee and sat down on a couch to the President’s left. Presidents change, he thought, but the Oval Office remains pretty much the same. Same blue carpet, similar desks, a couple of small tables and side chairs and usually two couches. The unique shape of the room pretty much dictates the furnishings. He first came to the Oval Office in 1990 and by now he felt very much at home there.
“I got this call, from London, from a guy named Harry Levine. He’s Foreign Service, a lawyer in the Trade Section. Well, he calls me on the ISCOM…” The President paused, lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. “Christ, Louis, this is goddamn unbelievable…”
“Just tell me what he said,” Devereaux suggested, hoping to get the President started in the right direction, calm him down a bit. The first George Bush was the only one, he thought, who didn’t go nuts every time there was some kind of crisis. He’d much rather deal with a professional like that, but of course, he had no choice. You could pick your friends, but not your Presidents. “How did Harry Levine get access to ISCOM?”
“None of your goddamn business,” laughed the President.
“What?”
“That’s what he said. ‘None of your goddamn business!’ Can you believe that?” the President chuckled. “Geez, I shouldn’t laugh. This is serious-if it’s even true. The whole thing is so damned unreal.”
“Just tell me what he said,” Devereaux said again. The President, who had been standing all the while, moved toward his desk and sat down.
“Levine took a call this morning for Ambassador Brown, who’s not there today. Goes to see a lawyer at Herndon, Sturgis, Wells amp; Nelson-top London firm, very prestigious-a Sir Anthony Wells. Wells is a real legend, must be well up in his nineties. He gives Levine a document, part of the estate papers of Frederick Lacey. You familiar with Frederick Lacey, Lord Lacey?”
“Yes,” replied Devereaux, a chill running down his back. Quickly, he adjusted his suit jacket, hoping the President would not notice the flush he felt in his cheeks. “He died earlier this week.”
“Yeah, Tuesday to be exact. Good memory, Louis. Well, he left this document with instructions to release it after he was dead. It says he killed President Kennedy.” Devereaux said nothing. He prayed his inner turmoil was not evident. The President continued. “You know anything about Lacey and Kennedy?”
He sat there, looked directly at the President, sipped his coffee and reported without benefit of either preparation or notes. “Frederick Lacey,” said Devereaux, “and Joseph P. Kennedy were running buddies in the twenties and thirties.”
Devereaux plainly saw the President was already impressed. Anybody would be, he thought. “Irish whiskey, French and Italian wine, English gin and Russian vodka-together they brought it all here. Lacey had the ships and handled the European side. He delivered mostly to Cuba, sometimes to Haiti. Never touched American or Canadian soil. Kennedy distributed the goods here using various organized crime families as transportation and security, and of course they were also his primary customers. Lacey’s end probably shows up as legitimate. I’m sure he’s got the papers to prove it, if you can believe the Cubans drank all that themselves.” Devereaux ran down Lacey’s early history, including his exploits during World War One and the famous meeting in Lisbon where he met his wife.
“Not a man with many friends,” said Devereaux. “Not the type, but he was close to his father-in-law, very close. Helped him get out when the Red Army overran Georgia. There have been many rumors, stories about Lacey’s adventures-special cargo, gold, diamonds, antiquities, art treasures. His name comes up, if you know what I mean.”
“How much of it’s true?”
Devereaux laughed in a way that made the President think he’d been asked the same question before. “Who knows,” he said.
There was a serious note of respect and admiration in Devereaux’s voice not lost on the President.
“Lacey’s wife died,” Devereaux continued, “in childbirth, 1920. He and Kennedy chased women all across Europe for the next twenty years. Lacey’s daughter-Audrey was her name-committed suicide. Summer of ’40. Kennedy was living in England then. He was our Ambassador from 1937 to 1940. Roosevelt brought him back after some embarrassment with the Germans. Kennedy thought Germany was going to win the war. Lacey meanwhile was quite instrumental in the Allied success in Italy and Eastern Europe. He was Churchill’s connection to both the Mafia and the communist underground. Anyway, Lacey and Kennedy seemed to go their separate ways after the war broke out.”
“You know, Louis, you never fail to impress me. How do you remember all that? Where’s it all come from?”
“It’s just there,” answered Devereaux. “It’s just there.”
“I guess the hell it is,” smiled the President.
Quietly, almost absent-mindedly, Devereaux asked, “Do you remember your seventh-grade geography, Mr. President? The flip side of ‘Earth Angel’? The names of everyone who lived in your freshman dorm? Ted Williams’ lifetime batting average? Your old girlfriend’s telephone number?” The President shook his head and grinned.
“What are you, kidding?” he laughed.
“I do,” said Louis Devereaux without a sign of a smile.
The President related Harry Levine’s discoveries in full detail, leaving out nothing he had been told. He finished with the news of the death of Sir Anthony Wells. This recitation took most of twenty minutes during which time Devereaux watched as closely as he listened. He had seen the files on all the Presidents since Harry Truman.
