the front door and, closing the door slowly and silently behind him, quietly slipped out of the flat. Out on the street, he ran as fast as he could.
The whistle of the kettle on the stove got her attention. “Fuck!” said Tucker Poesy when she came out of the bathroom and saw Harry was gone. “Fuck!” She picked up her phone and made a call to Louis Devereaux in Washington. She told him exactly what happened, how she met Harry, where they went and what they talked about. She was not shy about telling Devereaux she fucked up by going to the bathroom, leaving him by himself. “I had no idea he was suspicious,” she said. “How am I going to find him now?”
“You won’t,” said Devereaux. “But you won’t have to. I know who will. What you’ll do is follow him. He’ll lead you to Harry Levine. His name is Walter Sherman.”
“Who’s he?”
“Someone I never thought you-or I-would ever get to meet. The Locator himself. Watch yourself, do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll send you everything you need on Sherman. Pick it up from the Indian in an hour. When Sherman leaves for Europe, which he’ll have to do, I’ll let you know. It might take a day or two. Don’t screw it up again.”
He met her in 1988. In January, in New Orleans. She was there for a concert at the Superdome when he called. He flew down from Washington hoping his hometown would be warmer. He arrived on the coldest day of the winter, the temperature near freezing and a stiff breeze blowing in from Texas making it feel just as cold as Washington, D.C., worse yet for the disappointment. Conchita Crystal was staying at The Maison de Ville in the French Quarter. In those days, international terrorism was hardly a matter for public discussion. Although its roots have always been ideological, in 1988 terrorism was mainly thought of as a for-profit business that crossed national boarders. Few even used the word terrorism. Hijackers, kidnappers, thieves, even bandits were some of the common descriptions. From time to time reports crossed Devereaux’s desk about thieves and killers whose activities appeared to have political connections. Some probably did. Some didn’t. It was not a high priority concern for him or anyone else at Langley. In the main, his task was to review the reports for political and historical import and accuracy. As far as he knew, none of the activities he examined had ever been the cause of a CIA reaction on the ground. Using the resources at their command, the CIA was able to enlist others to do their work for them when called for. Devereaux knew of one such action involving the local police in Frankfurt, Germany and Istanbul, Turkey. The culprits were rounded up, shipped off to jail and the problem solved. To the best of his knowledge, there had never been a valid event in the United States.
The information that came to his attention right after New Year’s 1988 changed that. For the tiny leadership group with access to this operation, the Conchita Crystal Affair would mark the beginning of Islamic terrorism aimed at the United States. No one at headquarters wanted to broaden the scope of it or bring into the picture new people. Keeping things close was a religion at the CIA and Louis Devereaux, while not yet a Cardinal, was every bit a senior Archbishop. It was left to him to deal with Ms. Crystal.
She was expecting him. He called her the day before. She was impressed that he could get right to her, past all the interference put in place to make that very thing impossible. He explained briefly who he was and that he needed to see her immediately. He did not give her any details. Then he went to the airport and flew to New Orleans. When she answered the knock on the door of her cottage, Devereaux introduced himself and said, “Let’s talk in the courtyard. You never know how much privacy you have in a room.”
“It’s beautiful there, Mr. Devereaux, but it’s-”
“Cold. I know. Put on a jacket or a coat. If you don’t have one we’ll get you one. But we’ll talk outside.”
Of course she had a coat. He knew she would. She got it and they walked to the courtyard and sat at a small table near the center. It was beautiful and it was cold. It was late in the morning, too late for breakfast, and they were the only ones there.
“On a nice day this place would be crowded,” he said.
“I’m sure.”
“I’m surprised you’re staying here,” said Devereaux. “I would have thought-”
“My people are at the Hilton,” she smiled. “We all have people, don’t we?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“But you probably don’t have to make hotel reservations for yours, do you? I like this hotel. I’ll show you around when we’re done.”
“Thanks. I’d like that. I’ve always been partial to the Vieux Carre. You know, Ms. Crystal, some say the Maison de Ville and its cottages are the oldest structures in New Orleans. This courtyard, for instance, was first built after the terrible fire of 1786. Tell me, if you don’t mind, why are you staying in a two-bedroom cottage instead of a suite?”
“I like the room,” she said. “You’re a fountain of information about this hotel, aren’t you? What else can you tell me? You’ve stayed here before, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t. But I can tell you that Tennessee Williams did. He used to stay here all the time. He wrote Streetcar over there in room number nine.”
She looked at him, waiting for the other shoe. “And?” she said.
“And, when I’m in New Orleans, which is not as often as I’d like, I stay at home.” He smiled at her. It was a way of showing he was a friend. “You haven’t answered my question-the cottage, not the suite?” This time it was Chita who smiled. “And?” prompted Devereaux.
“And, who knows,” she replied. “You never know when you’ll need the room. I might have a friend stay over.”
“In the other bedroom?”
“Sure,” said the mega-star Chita Crystal. “I’m a married woman, if you didn’t know.”
“Separated, I believe. Divorce papers ready to file any day.”
“You know a lot. That’s not public and hasn’t been leaked either.”
“Yes, I do Ms. Crystal. I know things other people don’t. That’s why I’m here.”
She took it well. No histrionics. No melodrama. Devereaux laid it out for her. A group of radical Muslims, headquartered out of Yemen, had plans to kidnap certain celebrities. Currently they had a short list, one name-hers. It was also a small group, a group with no record of activity in the past, but the information was first-rate and the concern heightened by the fact that they had been unable to take out these people in an operation staged three days earlier. Devereaux told her he was seriously concerned she might be a target right now. “I believe you are in immediate jeopardy,” he said.
“What do they want with me?”
“They want to behead you.” That got Devereaux a reaction, just the reaction he wanted if she was going to cooperate. She stopped breathing and the color in her face-her beautiful, brown-skinned face-went to white. It was really the first time Devereaux allowed himself to think about how lovely Chita Crystal was. “They want to attack the symbols of Western culture. No one fits that description better than you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“You’ll have to cancel your concert. Say you’re ill. We have the medical records to prove it if necessary. We would like to put you up someplace until we get this thing under control.”
“Where?”
“Delaware. The house belongs to us. It’s clear for fifty acres. Absolutely safe. We’ve used it before. And the facilities are magnificent. You will not be unhappy there.”
“Who will be there with me?”
“Staff.”
“What staff?”
“My staff.”
“How long will I be there?”
“I don’t know. Not long. A few days. A week, maybe two. Not long.”
That was how they met. Chita stayed in Delaware for eleven days. Devereaux came to see her every day. They talked, sometimes for hours. He didn’t have to be there and she soon realized that. He wanted to be near her, with her. Many men had the same desire. She was used to dealing with that. Since she was fifteen, men offered to take care of Chita Crystal. She’d made some mistakes along the way. Her second marriage was about to go bust and she was not yet thirty years old. An army of men waited for her. Louis Devereaux was different. His protection
