“Now, you do need to know why you’re here, don’t you? Lord Fredrick was quite plain. My instructions have been clearly conveyed. I was to open the sealed package that contained this document exactly four days after his death. That I did this morning, with the document as I said, still within its sealed envelope, its contents totally unknown to me until today, only a few hours ago. I knew he liked to write his thoughts down. Many more people of our generation did that than do today. He’d make notes, even in the midst of conversation. You got used to it. I suspected he kept a private journal of some sort.” Sir Anthony pushed the loosely gathered, handwritten document across the desk in Harry’s direction. It was, Harry could make out, written on personal stationery paper and looked more like the first draft of a manuscript than anything else.
“A document of substantial weight, as you can see. There’s no doubt it’s the work of Lord Frederick Lacey. The handwriting is his. I attest to that. From start to finish. There’s a cover page, also in his hand, and it instructs me to read this document, which as lawyers,” he said to Harry, meaning the compliment quite sincerely, “we understand is to make public.” Sir Anthony said that, lightly tapping the pile of handwritten pages. “I am to do so in a public forum, on the first business day following the fourth day of his passing. As today is Saturday, that would be Monday, the day after tomorrow.”
Harry looked at the top page of the document, only inches away from his fingertips. He read only the first few sentences. He read them again, then a third time and yet again once more.
“Quite shocking,” Sir Anthony went on. “Indeed, a great deal more than that, isn’t it? I haven’t read it all, by any means, but the page I have given you here is more than enough. I’m sure you’ll agree. God only knows what else is in here. There are so many things he did in his life, so many places, so many prominent people, famous and infamous. God only knows, Mr. Levine.”
“Why,” asked Harry, “would he do such a thing? What possible reason… could there be?”
“Frederick Lacey was a special man, Mr. Levine. A very special man. Not like you and me. He came as close to real power in this world as one can get and you will find his mark in many places. Yet still, his legend-rumor, innuendo-true or false, as you have it-challenges if not exceeds the reality of his remarkable life. Only he knows why. Only he knew. I can’t answer why any more than you can. Under our law, however, I’ve no alternative but to make this document public not later than about fifty-nine hours from now. You understand I have no choice other than to continue as faithful servant to my client, even in his death. Especially in his death. I do think, however, the Prime Minister has the ability to intercede and authorize postponement of such a reading for a period of time to be determined by Her Majesty’s Government. I, however, am rendered helpless in this matter, unable to ask the PM, or anyone else, even the Queen, whom you shall see may have ample reason herself to keep this journal in darkness. For me to do that would create an unethical conflict of interest. Nonetheless, the Prime Minister could be appropriately approached, and he might take the necessary action, at the special urging of the American President. The ramifications of Lord Frederick’s unfortunate disclosures-that which we see here and now, with our own eyes, and others I’m certain a careful reading will discover-appear quite unacceptable. And who knows?” he said, tapping the pile of pages he had yet to read as if they were some sort of bomb. “This is why I called your Ambassador, why I’ve no choice but to share this with you, allowing for your country’s appropriate obligation and response, and why I suggest you get this document to your President without delay. Otherwise…”
Harry’s mind raced. Sir Anthony’s words faded to background buzz. He stared, in disbelief, at the page Sir Anthony had put before him. It began…
I killed the Son Of A Bitch. Goddamn him to Hell forever, so far away from my sweet, dearest Audrey.
After Conchita Crystal had gone back to her hotel, Walter remembered sitting alone on the deck. The rain had stopped. The late afternoon sun was high and hot again, like it had been earlier that morning on the dock. Sailboats were afloat, drifting calmly off the shore of St. John, some of them headed out toward St. Thomas. Others gently rode the breezes in, out, and around the small, uninhabited, hilly islands that lay off in the distance to the north. The intense humidity, that always hugged the rear end of a rainstorm, was the best part. Walter knew some people didn’t like it that way, but he was not one of them. The moist, heavy air was like dessert to him, something sweet and delicious. It was a faithful reminder of how much he loved the Caribbean and it was something he missed when work took him much farther north. A good sweat was always satisfying, especially if it took no obligation, no commitment in the way of exercise to bring it on.
She told him quite an amazing story. Conchita Crystal, the Conchita Crystal herself. She said her nephew, Harry Levine, had called her from London. He was frantic. He had come into possession of something-“evidence,” he called it. She said that to Walter. She called it evidence. She said that powerful men would kill to get their hands on it, to prevent it from seeing the light of day. The nature of the “evidence” was explosive. Harry had the confession of the man who assassinated JFK. She named the killer-a Frederick Lacey-but it made no difference to Walter. He’d never heard of the guy before. He grilled her about why this man Lacey might have done it, but Chita had no idea. If Harry knew, he hadn’t told her. Where did Harry get this confession? brought the same reply. She said she didn’t know. Who gave it to him? How did Harry Levine come into possession of such a startling, original document? Again, Chita pled ignorance. What she did know was that Harry had left London, taking with him whatever it was that put him on the run. “He’s afraid,” she said. “He knows they’re after ‘it’ and that means they’re after him.” She told Walter where Harry lived, where the Embassy was located in relation to his flat, and she mentioned Harry’s well-known dislike for official transportation. “He’ll be on his own,” she said. “He walks. He has a bicycle and, if I remember, he had one of those little scooters in France. I’m pretty sure of that.”
Again, Walter questioned her. “What’s he going to do about this? He can’t simply hide forever.”
“I don’t know,” Conchita said. “But I do know they’ll find him. That’s why you must find him first.”
This was the story she told him on the dock, and she had nothing more to offer later that afternoon, no more details of the confession that had put Harry Levine in mortal jeopardy. When Walter realized she either didn’t know any more or-for some reason he had yet to decipher-wouldn’t tell him more, he encouraged her to talk about Harry’s life in general.
That was his way. Move quickly from generalities to specifics. Don’t linger on speculation. Concentrate on facts. Gather information. Walter worked on instinct more than method. It had always been so. His mother told him that as a youngster he was the one she turned to to find her car keys when she’d misplaced them. He never lost things the way other kids did-socks, shoes, homework. And when his friends, even into high school, forgot where they parked their car, plunked down their wallet or put the beer they’d hidden from their parents, it was always Walter Sherman who found these things. In Vietnam, he found people because… well, just because. Sure, there was a reason why he did it, but no real method or system to guide him. He seemed to sense the direction he had to move in. When he began doing the same thing for a living, he found many similarities among his targets-that was the word he came to use for the people he was hired to find. He used it unemotionally and without any hint of violence or aggression. No judgment was attached. Those who hired him were clients. Those for whom he searched were targets.