was real, as real as the threat. And on the eleventh day, he came to tell her the people who wanted to cut her head off were all dead themselves. She was safe to go. Louis Devereaux had killed for her. That was a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac. It was Chita who first reached out to hold him, to bring him close to her. Louis Devereaux was as ready as any man would be. Their affair began that afternoon.
Few people knew it, but kick-ass rock ’n’ roll was Devereaux’s favorite. Allman Brothers, Bob Seger-he was especially fond of The Band, a little softer sound, but nothing he ever heard compared to “The Weight,” done live. Because The Band was so closely connected to Bob Dylan, a lot of people thought “The Weight” had religious overtones. Devereaux, however, knew it was only about a trip to Nazareth, Pennsylvania, home of the world-famous Martin guitar company. Many times, over many years, he sang along with that recording. The opening chords repeating and repeating in his head were often impossible to silence, sometimes even while he was in the midst of the most important meetings. After awhile, he no longer fought it.
Pulled into Nazareth/was feeling ’bout half-past dead
Now, all these years later, he was singing a familiar duet with Robbie Robertson, as he fixed a small plate of cheese and crackers.
AND, AND, AND-put the load right on me
The two glasses of ice-cold Chardonnay sat next to him on the counter, ready to go. A minute later he put his tray down next to the bed.
“You think of everything, Louis.”
“For you, my dear, everything is hardly enough. I’d give you the Earth and the stars, if I could. You’d take it too.”
“You can’t?”
They both laughed, neither sure of the answer.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, watching her reach over to pick up a glass of wine. The bed sheet, which was the only thing left on the bed, caught a gust of air as Chita sat up, and floated away, dropping to the floor. She looked at Devereaux and saw in his eyes what she had never seen in the eyes of any other man. No matter what happened to her, nothing muted Louis’ self-confidence. It wasn’t that her own accomplishments were less. How could anyone question her success? It was just that his were more. She was a figment of popular culture, marketing, advertising, promotion. He was a man of substance, a man who knew not only how the world turned, but a man who guided its spin. He was a man who killed for her. Who else had done that? Who else could have?
She recalled the story of Marilyn Monroe, when she was Mrs. Joe DiMaggio. Marilyn had returned from a USO tour, visiting the troops in far-off Korea. Her head was still buzzing from the fantastic reception she received. “Joe!” she cried, all excited. “There were twenty-five thousand men, all screaming and cheering for me. Can you imagine what that’s like?” No wonder DiMaggio beat her. Chita would never make that mistake with Louis Devereaux. It could never happen. Whatever the facade of her celebrity, he wore power-real power-and it fit him like a comfortable bathrobe after a clean shave and a hot shower.
“Come over here,” she said, without speaking a word. As he leaned toward her, she reached up holding his face in both hands. “Think you can-do it again?” she asked with a little laugh. “Or does a man like you need a few minutes more?” Louis Devereaux gently placed his wine glass on the end table next to the bed, lay down and rolled over grabbing and twisting her until she sat on top of him. Nothing pleased him as much as looking up at her, this way, her breasts only inches away from his mouth, her smile his only blanket.
“I love you. You know that, don’t you?” he said.
“Will we find the gold? Is it really there?” she asked.
“It’s there. Worry not, my sweet.”
The Mercure de Draak, in Bergen op Zoom, overlooks the Grote Market square. It is the oldest hotel in the Netherlands. The first guest slept there-in which of the three fourteenth-century buildings was long forgotten-in 1397. By the time Harry Levine arrived, more than 600 years later, the place had been renovated. They kept the original facades, but the ancient houses, once only attached to each other, had been combined, their interiors long ago joined together. The entire hotel, in its newest transformation, was furnished in a seventeenth-century motif. Antiques, stylized wallpapers, luxuriously displayed flower arrangements, all highlighted by meticulously selected period furniture, decorated the rooms as well as the common areas. It was still a small hotel, with only 50 rooms, a cozy bar and a small restaurant. The traditional Dutch breakfast of coffee, cheese, ham and breads was served downstairs each morning. Somewhere along the way-no one could say in exactly which century-hard-boiled eggs and orange juice joined the menu.
Bergen op Zoom had not only a wonderful name, one that rolled off the tongue like Dutch chocolate melting in your mouth, it had something else for Harry Levine. It was Roswell, Georgia’s sister city. The alliance between the two small towns, a continent and an ocean apart, had been but a curiosity to him before. Sister city associations were purely symbolic. The suburb of Atlanta had nothing meaningful in common with its Dutch sister. But after escaping Tucker Poesy, Harry needed to go somewhere. He wanted nothing as much as he wanted to go home, to Roswell. That was, of course, out of the question. The flight was too long. He was certain to be discovered before he landed. He needed to go straight to the airport and fly somewhere, quickly. So he did the first thing he could think of. He flew to Amsterdam, took a train about an hour and a half south, beyond Rotterdam, to Bergen op Zoom. He checked into a hotel, and following a good seven-hour sleep and a hot shower, he called his aunt.
“Tia Chita, estoy tan alegre hablar con usted.”
“?Donde esta usted?” she said. “Soy asi que preocupado.?Esta usted bien?” Conchita Crystal looked around the suite. Harry had called her cell phone and she was not alone. After a night with Devereaux, she traveled on to New York. One of her agents, the one she used to negotiate advertising endorsements, was in the living room of her Plaza Hotel accommodations. He brought three of his assistants with him. She had a week of meetings scheduled with a series of different people and since she hated going out, dodging crowds and press, especially in New York, she had taken a large suite and told everyone to come to her. She had the living room, where she could handle her business affairs quite comfortably, a formal dining room that could easily host dinner for twelve, a full kitchen and two bedrooms, across from each other, down a hall. One was for her and the other was left empty. She was told, when she made the reservation herself, using the name Linda Morales, if she wanted the big suite overlooking Central Park, she had to take one with two bedrooms. The one-bedroom suites were simply too small. When Harry called, she excused herself, walked down the hallway and into her bedroom closing two sets of doors behind her.
“Are you there, Harry?” she said, this time in English.
“I’m still here,” he said.
“Where?” she asked.
“I shouldn’t tell you. It may be dangerous for you to know.”
“Let me worry about that. Where are you?”
“It’s better you don’t know,” said Harry.
“Are you still in London, Harry?”
“No, I’m not. I just wanted you to know I’m all right. Tell aunt Sadie. She worries, you know.”
“I’ll let her know,” said his Aunt Chita. “Wherever you are, are you safe there?”
“I think so. I hope so. This whole thing is crazy. Even people who are supposed to help me seem like they’re not. I can’t figure out why this is happening.”
“You have something,” she said, “something important. Something a lot of people don’t want revealed.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’ve been reading it. I can’t tell you. .. it’s not safe for you to know anything. People have been murdered, Tia Chita. Is it worth killing for?”
“Apparently so, Harry. Don’t worry about me. My concern is your safety. I want you to listen to me carefully. Do you understand? ?Comprende?”
“Si.”
“Bueno.” His aunt told Harry she had contacted somebody who would help him, someone who would take him to a place where he would be absolutely safe. “Su nombre es Walter Sherman. Confielo en.?Confielo en solamente!”
“Chita, don’t try to help me. Not now. I’ll be just fine. I know what I’m doing.” Harry’s aunt didn’t know he was under orders from the President of the United States. He thought better about telling her that. “Don’t send
