“No,” Aminette Messadou said. “I never met him. Yet he was one of us, family to us. And we to him.”
“Just why do you need this document? What’s in it?”
“That I cannot say. To be true, I do not know. But I was told that when you asked such a question, I was to tell you, you would be better off not knowing.”
“Humm,” said Walter taking a small bite of his sandwich, watching this lovely girl do battle with her huge burger. She took a bite so large she closed her eyes tight. Juice, cheese and a little tomato dripped from the side of her burger bun farthest from her and nearest to him. He could hardly restrain himself. It was all too funny. Had he just been threatened? He chose to be direct. “Your people have sent a child to do the work of a grown-up,” he said. “A delightful child, to be sure, beautiful as an afternoon on St. John-like this one-but still a child.” If he had been threatened, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge it.
“I assure you…” she said, trying hard not to talk with her mouth full.
“It appears there’s very little you can assure me of.” Walter sipped his drink, took another, bigger bite of his turkey sandwich and relaxed a little. The ball was in her court, if indeed she had a court. Either he was right-they had sent a kid to do an adult’s job-or this was her defining moment, the time for her to stop shitting him and say what it was that was on her mind. He had no place else to go, plenty of time. It was a lovely day. The food was on her tab. He’d wait, at least until he finished his sandwich.
“I will tell you,” she finally said. “Because you are known to be a man of discretion, a man of trust.”
“You will tell me the truth?”
“I know no other way. As you have seen, I have been reluctant to say anything, but I have not been false. And I will not be.”
Djemmal-Eddin Messadou was a leader, a Georgian with a strong following also in Dagestan, the land of his ancestors. He was not unknown either in Azerbaijan. Aminette Messadou told Walter that when Georgia, together with Dagestan and Azerbaijan, formed the anti-Bolshevik Transcaucasian Federation, in 1917, and later on, when the Federation collapsed and Georgia declared its independence on May 26, 1918, Djemmal-Eddin was a leader of both movements. It was during those years, Aminette related to Walter, that her namesake met and married the dashing young Englishman, Frederick Lacey. “He was a military man of great reputation. He was in the British Navy. All my life I have heard him spoken of and no one has ever been sure of his place, his rank as you say. So many stories. So many different ranks. There is more mystery than fact about him, of that I’m certain.” She continued on with her story. The freedom of Georgia was short-lived. The British and Americans, like the Turks before them, and many others before the Turks, abandoned their Asian outposts on the edges of mother Russia. One by one, the free republics that had declared their independence from the Czar and the Bolsheviks fell before the might of the Red Army. Lithuania, Moldavia, Don, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Dagestan, Armenia-all of them. And Georgia too, in February 1921.
Djemmal-Eddin marshaled his forces in retreat, having no choice but to run from the advancing army of Russians. Finally, she told Walter, the nephew of the Lion of Dagestan brought his men through the Klukhori Pass, to the edge of the sea, to the last remaining spot of free Georgia, the old Turkish fortress of Sukhum-Kale. All hope was gone. Bloody defeat was a certainty. Aminette told her story with a depth of feeling Walter found irresistible. He saw eighty years of telling it in her youthful face. This may be the story of a defeated people, but there was a majesty and wonder about it. It was with grace that Aminette presented to him the glory that was Georgia and the memory of her family’s proud role there.
Just as the inevitable end approached, Djemmal-Eddin was saved by his son-in-law, Frederick Lacey. Under Lacey’s command, a fleet of ships rescued him and many of his men, sailing from the Turkish port only hours in advance of the Russian onslaught. “There were many items, of a personal nature, important to my family, that were carried out of Georgia on those ships, Mr. Sherman. We have waited many years to reclaim them.”
“I don’t understand,” said Walter. “Why didn’t you-your family, I mean-get them off the ships when you reached safe harbor?”
“Those were difficult times. My people were in exile, stateless, in need of friends. Much of what we had went to secure those friends. Other things were best hidden for safekeeping. It is those things we seek now.”
“Why didn’t Lacey give them back years ago? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I told you I never met Lord Lacey, and that is true. But I have heard him discussed many times. And always he is described as a special man, a strange man in certain ways, a man devoted to my father’s great-grandfather’s brother, Djemmal-Eddin. When Lord Lacey lost his wife, in the birth of their daughter, he turned to Djemmal-Eddin for comfort and found it there. When he too died, not long after free Georgia died, Lacey decided not to reveal the hiding place to anyone. I said earlier, he is of our family and we are of his, but Lord Lacey was not a trusting man, never close, in a personal way, to my family after his beloved wife and her father were gone.”
“You believe the hiding place for your family’s jewels is written down in Lacey’s journal?”
“Yes, we do. And, I said nothing about jewels.”
“Just a saying,” said Walter. “Not meant literally.”
“Will you help us?”
Walter gazed into her tender eyes. God, he thought, if you could bottle that and sell it, there’s no telling how rich you would be. There was nothing he could do now, no way he could help with a document he did not have, no way he could encourage cooperation from Harry Levine unless and until he found him. “Who knows what the future will bring,” he said and told her she should stay in touch. Then he invited Aminette Messadou to dinner at Billy’s. She declined, saying she had to leave the island immediately. She was expected elsewhere.
The old man saw him come through the door and quickly made his way to the front of the restaurant. Harry recognized him too, from Louis Devereaux’s description, but didn’t immediately understand how the Indian had recognized him. He expected to announce himself at the hostess’ desk and decided to ask if anyone left a message for him. Harry had no idea Devereaux had faxed his picture to the little office behind the kitchen in The Standard. The Indian was ready for Harry Levine.
“Ah, Mr. Levine,” he said, in that peculiar singsong accent Harry had grown so fond of. He seemed very happy to see Harry and spoke to him as if he were a frequent and loyal customer. “Here’s your order.” He handed Harry a paper bag. The smell of curry was in the air. “Be careful, Mr. Levine,” he said. “It’s hot on the bottom. Don’t forget now, okay?”
“Thank you,” Harry said. He handed the Indian some money-he thought it was the right thing to do under the circumstances.
“No, no,” protested the old man with a big smile. “It’s all taken care of. Enjoy.” Harry took the bag, turned around and walked out, back into the fast darkening afternoon, still cold, still wet. Once again, he had nowhere to go. As if by instinct, he hailed the first cab he could find.
Without thinking he gave the driver the address of his own flat and instantly realized that had been a mistake. If they were looking for him, they would eventually find a cabbie who had a fare who instructed him to go to… What a stupid thing to do! Harry silently berated himself. Too late now. Comfortably secure, warm and dry in the back seat, Harry opened the bag. Inside was a container, the kind used for take-out meals. It was warm but not hot. He opened the lid to find some sort of chicken dish with a rich, full aroma, not curry, in a sauce he was unfamiliar with. Indian food had never been among Harry’s favorites. There didn’t appear to be anything else in the bag. The Indian told him it was hot on the bottom. It wasn’t, not when he gave him the bag back in the restaurant and not as Harry opened it. He lifted the food container. Underneath, on the bottom, was a piece of paper folded in half. Harry pulled it out, unfolded it and looked at it. A number, that’s what it was, a telephone number.
“You can let me out here,” he said to the cab driver.
“Are you sure, sir? Bit nasty out there.”
“I am. This will be fine, thank you.” As the taxi drove away, Harry recalled how earlier, he had been forced to look for a public telephone to call the President- My God! he thought, he’d called the President of the United States, twice today!- but the number on the piece of paper the Indian gave him was a local one. Harry flipped open his cell phone and punched the numbers. It rang only once.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice answered.
“This is Harry…”
“Harry!” she shouted. There was sheer joy in her voice, a glee that could only indicate great intimacy. “I thought we were going to be late. I’m so happy you called. They’re expecting us at the Waterstone’s in twenty minutes. See you there, darling!” Harry had no opportunity to say anything. She hung up. The Waterstone’s in twenty minutes? What the hell was that all about? Then he realized-she was afraid her telephone was tapped,
