Conchita said nothing.
“Tell me,” said Walter. “Who killed John F. Kennedy? The CIA? The Mafia? Who?”
“A man named Frederick Lacey.”
“You’re kidding me, right? A man named-”
“Frederick Lacey. An Englishman. Lord Frederick Lacey.”
“What happened to the Russians, the Cubans, the right-wing wackos?” Walter shook his head in amazement. “Frederick Lacey?” he asked. “Who the fuck is Frederick Lacey?”
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“But he did it? You’re sure of that?”
“Oh, yes,” Chita said. “I’m sure of that.”
“Why? And what makes you sure of that?”
Conchita didn’t reply and Walter continued. “If he’s hiding now, why would you want me to find him just so he can hide again?” Walter took a deep breath-almost a sigh-and looked at Chita with unanswered questions all over his face. “Frederick Lacey, you say?”
“That’s what Harry said. I’m no stranger to trouble, Walter. Or danger. I’ve been dealing with difficult situations all my life. There are people who would kill to keep this from coming out-kill to keep Lacey’s confession a secret, to get their hands on it, to learn what it says. Harry has good reason to worry. He’s disappeared all right, for now, but they’ll never stop looking for him. Never. And eventually they’ll find him. He’s not the kind of man you are. Wherever he is now, I know he can’t be safe. You see that, don’t you?”
“You think I will find him before they do? Whoever they are.”
“I’m familiar with your reputation,” she said. “This is not flattery, Walter. I don’t think you’ll find Harry first. I know it. You’ve found other people before, haven’t you? You’ve found people no one else could. You were not the only one looking for them, but you found them, first. Right?”
“I have,” he said.
“And you have been successful because you know everything there is to know about hiding. Am I right?”
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that, but yes, I suppose you could say that, at least for the purposes of this conversation. But-”
“So, I’m asking you to reverse things. Walk on the other side of the street for a minute. Find Harry. Find him quickly, and take him somewhere no one else can find him, no matter how hard they look. You must know such a place.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know,” she said, sliding off her sunglasses so she could wipe her tears away.
My God! thought Walter. I’ve never seen eyes as beautiful as these, and where did these tears come from so suddenly? Can she do this on command?
“I’ll have to figure that out later,” she said, clearing her throat in an effort to regain her composure. “For now, I need you to find Harry and protect him until we can think of something, some way out of this for him. Do that, and when you’ve found someplace safe, and I know where he is and that he’s all right, I’ll think of something.”
Walter lowered his head, rested his hands on his knees, looked down at the wooden planks of the pier, watching the water reflect the light between the cracks in the boards. I must be crazy, he thought.
“Twenty-five thousand a week,” he said. “Two weeks minimum. Plus expenses. In advance. Cash.”
“You’re no Philip Marlowe,” she said.
“I’m no who?”
“You’re not an old movie buff either, are you?” Conchita was far more amused than Walter could make sense of. “Philip Marlowe was a private investigator, a PI. The Big Sleep? Humphrey Bogart?” She looked at him but he registered nothing. “Marlowe only charged twenty-five dollars a day,” she said. “You might as well be asking for the Czar’s gold.”
“Huh? What’s the Czar’s gold?”
“It’s just a saying,” she said. “You know, like all the tea in China.”
If she expected something from him, a reaction of some kind, she didn’t get it. Walter had nothing to say. Finally, Conchita Crystal flashed him one of her famous smiles and asked, “Cash?”
“Yes,” he said, acknowledging their agreement. A warm smile had already replaced his otherwise slightly bewildered gaze.
“I’ll have the money delivered to your home this afternoon. When will you begin?”
“I already have,” said Walter.
1920
Warm breezes, the scent of fresh flowers and the sounds of newborn birds ushered in the English spring of 1920, sweeping out the harsh winter that had gone before it. Frederick Lacey thought God himself had written a symphony, rising to a mighty crescendo, all the senses in celestial harmony, and dedicated it to Aminette. On the second Thursday of May, Aminette Lacey went into labor. By most accounts, her baby was not due for another two or three weeks. Her husband had prepared well for the birth of his child, as he did for everything. His wife would deliver their child in a rosewood bed, hand crafted, made in Indonesia and shipped to England to be christened by new life in the Lacey family. It traveled around the world on the flagship of Frederick Lacey’s commercial fleet, a vessel like God’s own spring, named Aminette.
Things did not go well. The doctor, the midwife and the attendants were helpless. Aminette hemorrhaged, uncontrollably. As the lifeblood drained from her slender body, she looked sorrowfully into her husband’s eyes. She knew the man who could do anything, could do nothing to save her. A smile as serene as any he ever saw lit up her face as Aminette died holding tightly to her daughter. Lacey pleaded with his young wife, as if by demand alone he could keep her in this world. The last thing she saw before closing her eyes a final time was Frederick’s face, racked with misery, contorted in tears. He named his daughter Audrey.
In less than a week Djemmal-Eddin Messadou made the arduous journey from Georgia to London. Lacey waited to bury his wife until her father arrived. Lacey was devastated. He moved on instinct alone. Djemmal-Eddin too was stricken with grief, but he had seen more death than his young son-in-law and was better able to recover his senses. And recovery was necessary. Djemmal-Eddin did not have the luxury of prolonged mourning. He held the fate of his people in his hands. The Bolsheviks had sworn death to him and to the Transcaucasian Federation of Dagestan, Azerbaijan and his beloved Georgia. The unexpected death of his daughter was a terrible blow softened only a little by the birth of his newest granddaughter. Yet, it was a blow from which he would recover. Aminette’s was but a single human life. And he, her father-although a direct descendant of the Great Shamyl, the Lion of Dagestan-his pain, cruelly suffered at her fate, was solitary. One woman, one man, they are not that important. The death of his country and his countrymen-those who put their trust, their very lives and the lives of their families in his keeping-would be far worse. He told Lacey he could not stay long. When the time came for him to leave, the two men stood together. With firm resolve they shook hands, then they each broke down and sobbed on the other’s shoulder. Those who waited on Djemmal-Eddin waited in respectful silence. No man would interfere at this moment. Two and a half years would pass before Frederick Lacey and Djemmal-Eddin Messadou would shake each other’s hand again.
Solly Joel was in London in May 1920. He had recently returned from a lengthy visit to South Africa, to celebrate his true loves-the fifty-bedroom mansion he called Maiden Erlegh House, on the outskirts of Reading, and the sport of kings, horse racing. Through his ownership of the City amp; South London Railway, Joel knew William Lacey from Liverpool. He had heard stories of the young Lacey and was familiar with his growing reputation and the prestige that came with his victories in The Great War. But it was in tribute to Djemmal-Eddin that he sought an opportunity to pay his respects. Or, that’s what he said. The evening before the Georgian’s return to his native land, Solly Joel was the only guest for dinner. The three men ate together in Lacey’s dining room, a setting that could accommodate three dozen comfortably, and had more than once. Condolences were in order, but there was another, more important purpose to Joel’s visit.