“Mountains is mountains,” Ike proclaimed, pointing to Billy, not letting Mt. Everest rest. “And you can forget about that stupid balloon. No, I’m telling you the dumbest thing ever was putting that Cindy Birdsong in the Supremes. Absolute dumbest.” Then the old man mumbled something about Patti LaBelle.
“I’ll stay with the climbing,” said Billy. “And, forget about Everest. It’s not just that one. I’m talking all climbing. Take a plane, why don’t you. Dumbest thing ever-mountain climbing.” They both looked at Walter. His plate was empty. No eggs, no toast. Maybe an inch remained of his Diet Coke. One swallow, that’s all. He played with the bottle, turning it around, spinning it slowly with the fingers of both hands. He saw them staring at him.
“New Coke,” he said. “Dumbest thing ever.”
Billy let out a belly laugh, so loud it brought Helen in out of the kitchen to see what was the matter. He practically ran over to the board, grabbed the piece of chalk and, in capital letters, wrote: CINDY BIRDSONG/MOUNTAIN CLIMBING/NEW COKE, laughing all the while.
Harry wanted nothing more than to go home. All the way home, to Roswell. He’d abandoned his Soho flat. It was a dangerous place to be. Once he heard the news about Sir Anthony, he knew he was in danger. Whoever killed the old man was looking for exactly what Harry had-the Lacey Confession. The President of the United States told him to sit tight and wait for his return call. But he had to leave his apartment. The President of the United States was going to call him! and he would not be there when he did. He was on edge. He’d read some of Lacey’s confession, the confession of a dead man. Why did he insist it be released to the public? It was designed, it seemed to Harry, for only one purpose-revenge. From the grave, Frederick Lacey meant to inflict more damage on the Kennedys. He killed them all, thought Harry. He killed them all! Who else was there to hurt? And, who would be afraid if the whole world knew? Who needed to stop it so badly they would murder for it? The Kennedys, or what’s left of them? Whoever it was, Harry knew he was now as much a target as the confession itself. Did Lacey have any idea his confession would prove this disastrous? Murder. Did he foresee the chaos? Could it be that’s what he wanted? Harry didn’t know, couldn’t know and Sir Anthony could shed no light on the question-not anymore. There was no time to waste. He had to get out, get away. He packed a small bag, took the Lacey document, and fled. He beat the police by less than five minutes.
The American Embassy was surrounded by the English authorities. The grounds themselves were American property, sovereign territory immune from English law, but he had to get inside to be safe. Only inside. All the entrances were guarded, even the few nobody was supposed to know about. Harry had no chance of getting back in. The rain that fell all day had drifted to a drizzle. The cold air did not warm with the afternoon. There was no late day sun. He was cold and damp. He needed to call the President back himself. The President would have an answer for all this. Certainly he would. Maybe the President tried to get him on the phone already and he wasn’t there. What would he have thought? “Christ!” muttered Harry. He so badly wished he was downstairs in his house in Roswell, Georgia. He longed to hear Aunt Sadie calling him to dinner. He missed his mother. She would know what to do. He was positive of that. She would never stand to see her son stranded on the street, in the cold, in the rain, a million miles from home. He turned and started walking toward St. James’s Square, where he stopped and found a public telephone.
“Please, Iden…”
“Albertson, is that you?”
“Mr. Levine?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll put you through.”
“Thank you,” said Harry.
“Levine,” said the President, almost immediately. “Where are you?”
“In a small cafe near St. James’s Square.”
“They want to talk to you.”
“I know. They’re all over the place.”
“We’re going to get you in, Harry, okay?”
“Yes. Sure, Mr. President.”
“I’m going to put someone on this line. His name is Louis Devereaux. I want you to do whatever he tells you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” With that, the next voice Harry heard was Louis Devereaux’s.
“Don’t worry, Harry. I’ve got it all under control. I need you to believe me.” It was as much a plea as anything else.
“Okay,” Harry mumbled.
“Do you have it?” When Harry gave no reply, Devereaux said it again. “Do you have it?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Have you read it?”
“Yes. Some of it.”
“About Kennedy?”
“Yes.”
“About others too?”
“Yes. I saw lots of names, going back many years. Lenin. Hitler. King Edward. Lots of them. I didn’t read it all. The Czar, too.”
“The Second?”
“What?”
“Czar Nicholas the Second?”
“Yes. Look, how can I…?”
“There’s an Indian restaurant,” Devereaux spoke over him. “It’s called The Standard. It’s on Westbourne Grove. Go there. You know where that is?”
“Yes. Go when?”
“Thirty minutes. When you get there, the owner will have a message for you. He’s an old man, heavy set, white hair. Indian, of course. He’ll be expecting you. Did you get that?”
“Yes. What kind of message will he have?”
“Just take whatever he gives you and follow the instructions.”
“And then?”
“Harry, trust me.”
“Yes, sir.” Harry said it, but he was far from sure. To Devereaux, how Harry felt didn’t matter. He knew the sound of obedience to the chain of command.
“Good. Now go,” he said. Harry was left holding a dead phone. The ISCOM connection was broken.
Louis Devereaux looked at the President and wondered what this guy would do without him. “I’ve got some things to take care of, Mr. President,” he said. “I’m sure you do too.” He started to walk out, but the President called after him.
“Louis. What are you going to do?” He pointed at the phone, the one Devereaux had just used to speak with Harry Levine.
“I’ll arrange for someone to meet him,” Devereaux said.
“And then what?”
And then what? Louis tried to contain his disbelief, his disgust. Asshole! Again he thought of T. S. Eliot. Will no one rid me of this troublesome President? Louis Devereaux just smiled and said, “I’ll take care of it.” A few minutes later he was talking to The Bambino.
Years ago, Devereaux emerged from the back offices at Langley mainly because of George Bush, the Father. When the Soviet empire collapsed under the weight of its own stupidity, Bush was caught off guard. At a meeting in the White House Situation Room, he gave his top intelligence people a piece of his mind. Few Presidents-even LBJ-have yelled louder and used as much profanity as Bush did that day. He was pissed and no excuse or explanation soothed his fury. The Russian bear was sick to dying and still they kept telling him it would be okay. Gorbachev would pull it together. But it wasn’t happening that way at all. The bear looked like Winnie the Pooh.
“Isn’t there anyone at your headquarters,” he screamed, pointing at the CIA delegation in the room, “who has a goddamn brain in their head? Do you all have shit for brains? Didn’t anybody have anything to say about what might happen to the Russians? They fell apart, goddamnit! They fell apart! And not a single sonofabitch at your place had a fucking clue? Nobody?”