Louis Devereaux was angry. Tucker Poesy was pissed. He was talking mostly to himself, but she held the phone to her ear anyway.
“Twice? Jesus fucking Christ! Twice?”
“I…”
“You lost him, again? First you lost him when he was in your apartment?-in your apartment! And now you lose him-again!”
“Look,” she said.
“No! You look…”
“I am not a fucking babysitter!” She was shouting at him. “Do you hear me? I don’t find people. I kill people. You tell me where to go, I go. You tell me who to shoot, I shoot. All the rest of this is bullshit! Now if you have nothing more to say, I’ve got better things to do than chase around Europe after Harry Levine and some psycho named Walter Sherman.”
“They’re not in Europe anymore,” said Devereaux, his boil having quickly receded to little more than a simmer. The total transformation from furious to… calm took Tucker Poesy by surprise.
“What?”
“When I know exactly where he is, I’ll call you.” With that Devereaux hung up.
Years ago, while getting his doctorate in European History at Yale, Devereaux took a Greek History course with an offbeat professor named Yataka Andrews. He remembered him now, after hanging up on Tucker Poesy. Yataka Andrews was a flamboyant character on the New Haven campus. He seemed so old at the time, so grown-up, but he was probably no more than forty, if that. Tall and thin, smooth skinned and handsome, his straight black hair flew about as he shook his head this way and that, all hands and arms, gesturing wildly while he paced about the classroom in jeans and a turtleneck sweater. His mother was Japanese; his father English, rumored to be a Duke or Earl or something like that. Dr. Andrews spoke with a distinct, clipped upper-class British accent. Close your eyes and you heard a Shakespearean actor, English, Irish or Welsh. Open them and you saw a towering Asian. Devereaux recalled a spirited discussion, one afternoon. It centered on Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War .
The thirty-year truce, agreed upon at the conclusion of the conquest of Euboea, was broken in less than half that time when the Thebans invaded Plataea. They massed their forces at the gates to the city, approaching in secret, in the dark of night. The assault was an inside job, facilitated by a Plataean traitor named Naucleides who, thinking he would gain a political advantage after a Theban victory, quite stupidly opened the gate and practically invited them in. Professor Andrews posed the question: “What do you do when the wolf is at your door?” Obviously, this had implications well beyond the Greeks. The discussion was wide-ranging, covering wars, and threats of wars, from ancient Greece to Vietnam. Agreement within the class was hard to come by. Plataea was pushed to the background, forgotten in the heat of the moment by some. Finally, one student said, “When the wolf is at your door, it’s best to have a big gun.” A funny comment, of course, since, as Dr. Andrews was quick to point out, neither the Thebans nor the Plataeans had explosives of any kind. But the point was made. In the face of a threat, mighty force was the best defense. “No,” said Yataka Andrews, dashing up the aisle of sitting students, jumping, standing like a colossus on an empty desk in the back row. They all turned to see him. “That is not the answer,” he said. “Nor is it the meaning of the lesson. It was not for the Greeks to answer this question. Hardly. It was-” He paused momentarily for effect, then nearly leaped to the front of the class, turned to look at his students and announced, “It was Joseph Stalin who said, ‘When the wolf is at your door, you need a better place to hide.’ ”
Breaking through his anger with The Bambino, decades later, Devereaux heard it all again, the sonorous tones of Yataka Andrews reciting the words of the Soviet tyrant. It rang in his ears- “a better place to hide.” Of course. That’s where Walter Sherman was headed, to a better place to hide. Devereaux smiled. He couldn’t help but also remember that the Plataeans, despite the surprise advantage of their attackers, had routed the Thebans in their pre-dawn battle. They fought furiously with wild abandon, men, women and children. Even the slaves fought against the invaders. Better the master you know than the one you don’t.
Devereaux knew what lay ahead for Harry Levine, for the Lacey Confession, for The Locator. He just didn’t know the fine details. No matter, he was sure of the outcome. He poured himself a cup of tea, tore off a chunk of the French bread that lay on the kitchen tile next to the stove, and picked up the phone again. This time he called his old friend Abby O’Malley. After a minimum of small talk-they were truly glad to hear each other’s voice-Devereaux said, “I’m on it, Abby. I was close, and missed, but I’ll have it soon.”
“You mean… Lacey?”
“Lacey. I’ve got a man working it as we speak. Actually, he doesn’t exactly work for me, but he works for me, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I do,” said Abby. “I certainly do, Louis.”
“His name is Sherman, Walter Sherman. I’m positive he’s got Levine-and the document. I thought we had him in Holland, but he’s out now. We’ll find him again.”
“Walter Sherman?” she said, quite openly amused. “I thought we had him in Holland, too. But it’s okay, Louis. Really it is.” Abby O’Malley was laughing now, a gentle laugh meant for an old friend, with no hint of mean spirit.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“I have his cell phone number,” she said. “He left it for me.” And now they both laughed.
They slept most of the way to Juarez. The last road sign Harry saw said Torreon. He never heard of it and had no idea where he was. The sign next to it had an arrow pointing right. Monterrey, 382 km. Well, at least he’d heard of Monterrey. What was 382 kilometers? About 250 miles? Something like that. Harry thought back to when Walter first said they were taking a bus. Why? He knew it was easily a thousand miles from Mexico City to Ciudad Juarez, a thousand miles to Texas. In Harry’s mind, he was certain a Mexican bus meant a rickety, old half-truck, sputtering its way along dirt roads, luggage loaded on the roof. He pictured old men, Indians no doubt, chewing something vile, spitting on the floor, and behind them, sullen-faced fat women surrounded by chickens. He remembered Turkey and especially Egypt. Could Mexico match what went for public transportation on the outskirts south of Cairo? Of course, he was wrong about Mexico. This bus turned out to be an ultra-modern vehicle, air conditioned, complete with comfortable tilt-back seats equipped with headphones offering a selection of music channels, clean restrooms, even a cold drink machine, and easy-on-the-eye recessed lighting. You could sleep or you could eat or you could read without invading the privacy of the person next to you.
Harry had no idea what lay at the end of their journey or where that might be. Walter told him things one step at a time. By now, Harry could hardly remember what day it was. Just because it was sunny didn’t mean it was daytime. Not for his body clock. In Rotterdam-when was that, yesterday? Or the day before?-they took a train to Brussels. They had breakfast there, in the train station, Harry remembered. Walter had even made a joke, a bad joke about Belgian waffles. Then they cabbed to the airport where, just before eight o’clock, they took an Iberia flight to Madrid. After Rotterdam, everything was waiting for them. Arrangements had been made. Probably the Dutchman, Aat van de Steen, Harry thought. They stopped only to pick up tickets. Walter knew just where to go and what to ask for when he got there. In Madrid they made their way to The Palace Hotel, ornate, elegant, the domed lobby perhaps the most beautiful he’d ever seen. Harry tagged along as Walter walked up to the desk and announced himself. It was not yet eleven in the morning. Their rooms, Harry figured, would not be available for hours. Then it struck him-arrangements had been made. The desk clerk handed Walter a key and minutes later they were shown to a suite overlooking the plaza. As the bellhop swung open the high, double-door windows, Harry saw the Ritz facing them across the busy plaza below. When they were finally alone, Walter pointed toward a bedroom down the hall.