“Crazy? Why can’t they hang him out on murder, take Lacey’s revelations for themselves to know-keep them as their secret-and ship Harry Levine off to prison somewhere. You don’t think they can do that? And then what-the English have it all. Everything in the Lacey Confession is theirs to use as they see fit. Do you want that?”
“So, if we don’t get Levine-and Lacey’s document with him-someone else will?”
“Yes, they will. They surely will,” said Devereaux. “Levine’s fate is cast. Your first instinct was right,” he added, allowing the President to credit himself for what came next. “We need to do something.”
Devereaux said nothing to the President about his old friend Abby O’Malley-a name that would mean nothing to the President. A name, just a name-a woman he’d have no way of knowing. Louis Devereaux knew her, knew her well, and knew she had been waiting for the Lacey Confession for decades. He would not let her down now, with the moment at hand.
“Here’s my idea,” the President said. He swallowed the last of his doughnut, washed it down with coffee lightened by lots of milk and sweetened with two packets of Sweet’N Low. Within the grand scheme of his eating habits, no one could figure why he used Sweet’N Low instead of sugar. “If the document, even a copy of it, is still there, somewhere at Sir Anthony’s firm,” the President began, making direct eye contact with Devereaux, “then Sir Anthony’s firm will have to carry out the instructions in Lord Lacey’s will and the document will be read, or published, or whatever you call it-made public-on Monday. Is that your understanding, Louis? You’re a lawyer.”
“So are you, Mr. President.”
“Yes. So we are, aren’t we? Both of us.” The President walked back over to the small table holding the tray and poked around among what remained of the doughnuts and crumb cakes. “Well,” he said picking a loose piece of cake and popping it into his mouth. “We can’t let that happen. If Lord Frederick Lacey did kill John F. Kennedy, we can’t allow his document, his confession, to be made public. Why the hell would he do a thing like that?”
“Apparently that’s what his document reveals.”
“No, no. I mean why would he write a confession in the first place? And Christ-why would he insist it be made public when he’s dead! Who knows what else is in there. Not that it matters much. Killing Kennedy is plenty. What else do you think is in there?”
“That’s hard to say, Mr. President. There are so many stories about Lacey. Some true. Some false. Some embellished perhaps. Then there are the stories only hinted at. So much of his activities were, shall I say, informal, unrecorded. Who knows? But what difference does it make?” said Devereaux. “We have a problem. Let’s solve it.”
“Levine is afraid,” the President said. “He’s scared. I heard it in his voice. What are we going to do about him? I told him to wait. I’d call him back. What do you think?”
“He’s right to be afraid,” said Devereaux.
“He is? Of what? Of who?”
“Of whoever killed Sir Anthony Wells,” said Devereaux. “For starters. We can’t know everyone who might be offended by Lacey’s journal-his confession. What Levine said he already read provides motive for some, but how many? And who? Don’t forget, we haven’t read it. Who might be after him? I think there’s a good chance it’s a long list. A long list,” Devereaux repeated. “And a dangerous one.” The two that came immediately to mind were Abby O’Malley-with whom he had not yet spoken-and the vultures still searching for the Czar’s gold.
Before Louis Devereaux could say any more, they were interrupted by Ethel Livingston, from the National Security Agency. She was the Saturday Duty Officer. Her voice came across the intercom. “Mr. President,” she said, obviously standing at the President’s secretary’s desk just outside the door to the Oval Office. “The British Ambassador just called from his car. He’s on his way here. It’s an extremely urgent matter, he said. I think he’s already through the gate and on the grounds.”
“It’s okay, Ethel. Send him in when he gets here. You come too.” Louis Devereaux and the President looked at each other. Neither spoke. Moments later the President’s appointment secretary opened the door for his NSA duty officer who entered accompanied by British Ambassador Brian Curtis-Moore. At seventy-eight, Curtis-Moore was among the oldest diplomats stationed in Washington. He walked into the Oval Office with the ease of a man familiar with his surroundings.
“Mr. President,” he said offering his hand. “I’m truly sorry to break in on you like this. But, actually…” he stopped and looked in the direction of Louis Devereaux.
“It’s all right, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said shaking his hand and turning back toward his desk. “Do you know Louis Devereaux?”
“No, I don’t believe so. A pleasure, Dr. Devereaux.”
“I’m sure whatever we have to talk about can be discussed while we’re all here,” offered the President. “Including Ms. Livingston from our National Security Agency.”
“Actually, I don’t think so, Mr. President,” said the Ambassador. “I’m afraid that with a matter as particularly sensitive and peculiar as that which I’ve no option but to bring to your attention, the people who share our conversation ought to be, shall we say, limited.”
“Certainly,” replied the President. He motioned Ethel Livingston out of the room. The look he gave the British Ambassador conveyed the necessity of Louis Devereaux’s continued presence.
“Well then, sir. I have the sad duty to report to you the death of your Ambassador, the Honorable McHenry Brown.” Ambassador Curtis-Moore was sitting in one of the three visitors’ chairs directly facing the President. When he delivered this terrible information, he noticed movement in the throat and a visible change in the President’s respiration. Louis Devereaux sat on the couch to the Ambassador’s right and well behind him out of sight. Had he been able to see Devereaux, the British Ambassador would have detected nothing, no reaction at all. “It happened late this morning, London time.”
“What happened?” asked the President.
“He was the victim of a homicide, Mr. President.”
“What!”
“I’m afraid it was murder. His body was found at a resort establishment near London. He was beaten quite terribly, I’m sorry to report, and there were some rather personal and quite sensitive additional circumstances attendant to the scene. I’m not entirely comfortable in explanation… You see, there was another man…”
“Ambassador Curtis-Moore,” the President interrupted, “we are aware of Ambassador Brown’s sexual orientation. Please go on.”
“Yes, of course. This other man was also killed. Shot once in the middle of his forehead. He was not beaten at all. Both of them were naked.”
“Right.”
“I’m advised the hotel suite was pretty well torn up. Whoever did this seemed to be looking for something and we’ve no idea if they found it, whatever it was.”
“Have you notified anyone at our Embassy?”
“No, Mr. President, we have not. We wanted to bring you the news first.”
“Thank you for that consideration. I realize this is a serious crime, a homicide, and the proper authorities will be involved according to whatever local laws require. But I would appreciate our people being able to remove the Ambassador’s body without any unpleasant ramifications. No press about the sexual aspect. Can you manage that for us?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll do my level best…”
“I need your word on that. I’m sure you understand.”
“And so you have it, sir. I’m certain there’ll be no unnecessary details released to the press. There is, however, one area of concern, which presents a bit of a bother to those undertaking the investigation. We suffered another tragic, awful and strangely similar killing this morning. Sir Anthony Wells, a very prominent attorney indeed, and a gentleman already past his one-hundredth birthday, was also beaten to death. His office, the location of his vile murder, was gone through from top to bottom. There’s a disturbing link, a possible connection I’m told, between Ambassador Brown and Sir Anthony. An American, one of your embassy people. A man named Harry Levine. He met with Sir Anthony this morning. Mr. Levine, it appears, has a role in this. He may have something of Sir Anthony’s, something freely given I’m sure, something that could be important in these delicate circumstances. Our investigators would like to talk to Mr. Levine, but so far we’ve been unable to locate him. He’s not been found. If he’s safe-if you know he’s safe-do you think we could get some help with that effort?”
“What sort of connection?”
“I beg your pardon?”
