The Lacey Confession (26 page)

“Put your pants on. Go ahead, it's all right.” Dooley pulled his pants up from around his ankles, tucked his shirt halfway in and buckled his belt. He was breathing easier now. Walter thought the vision of his balls ground into the hardwood floor was still very much in Sean Dooley's mind. “I want you to do two things for me, Sean, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. First, I want you to give Miss O'Malley this number.” He handed the Irishman a small slip of paper. On it was written a telephone number. “You won't lose it, right?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I won't lose it.”

“And second—and Sean, listen very carefully because your life depends on this—I want you to leave Holland, right now, and never come back. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave right now. When you walk out of here go straight to the airport. Sleep at Schiphol, if you have to wait before you can get a flight back home.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dooley.

“Here's the part where you have to listen carefully.” Dooley looked up at Walter from the floor and nodded in a manner that showed Walter he wanted to comply completely and he was eager for Walter to know it. Walter said, “If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Tell Miss O'Malley that if I see anyone else she sends, I will kill them and then, Sean, I'll come back and kill you too. Even if you've done everything I've said, I'll come back for you. Miss O'Malley sent you. If she sends anyone else, you'll pay too. You have good reason, a powerful incentive to convince Miss O'Malley of my bad intentions.” He waved Dooley's driver's license in his face and then tossed it over to Harry. The rest of the wallet he gave back. “I won't have any trouble finding you, you know that don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Walter. “Get the fuck out of here.”

–––––

“Pack,” said Walter as Harry poured himself a glass of milk.

“What? I beg your pardon. What do you mean?”

“We have to leave. It's too dangerous here.”

“But you let him go. You threw him out.”

“It's not him I'm concerned about. Our boy Sean hasn't been killing anybody. Sir Anthony Wells, and your Ambassador Brown, they were killed by pros, mean ones at that. They were beaten for information. Can you imagine a hundred-year-old man taking that sort of abuse?” Walter stopped for a moment and shook his head. He didn't have to ask what kind of man would do such a thing. He knew. “We need to get out of here,” he said, looking at the little clock next to the couch. It said 3:20 am.

Ten minutes later, after Walter made two phone calls, a taxi pulled to a halt in front of the building. Walter and Harry walked quickly down the stone steps and into the waiting cab. As they drove off, Walter looked in all directions. He saw no one. He gave the driver specific instructions—“turn here . . . turn there”—taking them through the empty residential neighborhoods in the Jordan section and then, quickly and unexpectedly, in the opposite direction toward the newly developed part of Amsterdam where clusters of gleaming glass skyscrapers surrounded the Heineken Music Hall. The streets were empty. Nobody followed them. Finally, no longer visibly on edge, Walter leaned forward and said to the cab driver, “Rotterdam.”

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.

“You take that one,” he said. “I'll take the one over here. Get some sleep. We won't be here long.”

Harry was awakened at three that afternoon. Walter nudged him gently. Nevertheless, he jumped out of bed—scared, or ready for the fight? Who knew? Walter was pleased. In circumstances like these, it was better to travel with someone on edge. He was sure of that. But he didn't want to pursue the thought for fear it might be fear, not readiness that put the spring in his companion's step. He had enough to worry about without that.

“Take a shower,” he told Harry. “Might be awhile before you get another one. It'll help wake you up too.”

Refreshed, and with a change of clothes, Harry saw that Walter had ordered lunch. The tray sat on the low coffee table in the living room. Salads and pasta with some grilled shrimp, water with ice. No coffee or tea. Through the open windows off the terrace, cool air blew in from the plaza. They ate, then left the hotel.

At six o'clock Harry and Walter buckled themselves in, in seats A and B in the second row of First Class on AeroMexico flight #4, nonstop from Madrid to Mexico City. “Drink as much water as you can,” Walter told Harry. “It'll help.” Favorable winds got them in forty-five minutes early. Still, it was a twelve-hour trip. Harry had difficulty sleeping on airplanes and even in First Class, twelve hours was enough to drive him nuts. Time was starting to really get away from him. It was early in the evening in Mexico City, around eleven, when they arrived, but for Harry and Walter it was already past breakfast time the next day. Walter seemed untroubled. Harry was trying desperately to accommodate. That was when Walter told him not to get comfortable. “We're going straight to the bus station,” he told him. Seeing the bewilderment in Harry's face, Walter said, “Ciudad Juarez.” With a light clap of his hands, like a magician freeing a white dove and, with what he hoped was a comforting smile, he added, “We're bound for Texas.”

Like the flight from Madrid, the bus to Juarez was nonstop. A second driver slept in a sort of cubbyhole of a seat directly behind the driver at the wheel. A heavy curtain enclosed him. Whoever was in there was already hidden away when Harry and Walter boarded. At some point in the trip, he would emerge, take the wheel and allow the first driver to get some sleep himself. Harry wondered how many turns they took for a thousand-mile trip. The bus would stop only for gas and, while doing that, to let the passengers stretch their legs. “Why are we taking a bus?” Harry had asked as they left the airport. “Isn't it a long trip? A thousand miles or so?” It was, Walter told him. “Eleven hundred and three miles,” he said. “I need the time to think. Nobody's looking for us on a bus in Mexico. We're safe here and I need the time.” Harry asked no more questions.

Rolling along the Mexican highway, Harry tried to put it all together. What day was it? It all began on Saturday—Sir Anthony—McHenry Brown—The President of the United States and some guy named Louis Devereaux—Tucker Poesy. Christ, where was she now?—Sean Dooley. How many days had gone by? What's next? Who's next? And, of course, Frederick Lacey. My God! Harry closed his eyes, hoping to fall into a dreamless sleep.

They crossed the border into El Paso on foot. It was some ungodly hour, early in the morning, still dark. Walter bought a newspaper from a street corner box. It didn't seem to bother him that it was yesterday's. Harry watched him turn quickly to the pages advertising car dealers. After looking for just a minute or so, he tossed the paper into a trashcan and began searching for a cab. Harry followed. Walter asked the taxi driver something Harry couldn't hear. He spoke in Spanish. They hopped in and the cab drove for a while before pulling into a La Quinta Inn.

“Is this one okay?” the driver asked.

“Yes, this is fine,” said Walter.

Inside, Walter registered for both of them, paid cash and handed Harry a key.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Meet me here, in front, at noon.”

Four or five hour's sleep and a hot shower gave Harry a whole new attitude. He was getting his bearings at last. Holland, Spain, Mexico and now Texas. Tia Chita said to trust this guy. What choice did he have? The girl at the front desk called them a taxi. At a used-car lot, with a large sign reading
Texas Monster Motors
, he told the driver to let them out. “Let's go,” he said to Harry.

“What do you have in a four-wheel drive?” Walter asked the kid who came bounding out of the tiny, one-room mobile office building, sprinting to meet them.

“Lonnie P. Meecham,” the kid said with a smile meant to charm a snake. He wore electric blue pants and a red golf shirt with a
Monster Motors
logo on the front. Naturally, he had on the obligatory cowboy boots. He stuck out his hand toward Walter.

“Four-wheel drive,” said Walter without shaking hands.

“And you are?” asked Lonnie P. Meecham, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Four-wheel drive.”

“Absolutely. Why yes, absolutely.” Walter, with Harry trailing just behind, followed as the used-car salesman showed them to a section of the lot filled with SUVs. They walked down the line, stopped a couple of times and Harry observed as Walter gave a once-over, to first one vehicle then another. Walter paid no attention at all to whatever Lonnie P. Meecham was saying about the cars. The young Mr. Meecham, who talked endlessly, took no notice of Walter's disinterest.

“That one,” Walter said, pointing at a 2002 black Isuzu Rodeo. “You have a key?” A few minutes later, after a quick spin around the block to see if the car actually ran, Walter said, “I'll take it.”

“That's great,” said Lonnie. “That's great. Y'all made a great selection.”

“How much?”

“Well now, this particular one here is priced at seventeen, seven-fifty, but I . . .”

“I'll take it,” said Walter.

“Seventeen, seven-fifty?”

“Look Lonnie—can I call you Lonnie?”

“Why sure, you sure can, Mister . . . ?”

“I'm in a real big hurry, Lonnie.”

“Un huh.”

“And I just don't have the time to take care of all the paperwork I know you have to do on a transaction like this.”

“Un huh.”

“So here's what I'd like to do, if it's okay with you. I'd like to take this Isuzu, right now, and drive it out of here, and let you do all the paperwork without me.”

“But . . .”

“No, no,” Walter interrupted him. “I'm aware of how much trouble this puts you to. Believe me, I know. Why, you don't even know my name, do you? So, I'm going to pay you the seventeen, seven-fifty and I'm going to throw in another two thousand two hundred and fifty just for you.”

“Two thousand two hundred and fifty?” Lonnie P. Meecham was flabbergasted.

“Twenty thousand altogether,” said Walter. “Cash.”

“Twenty thousand?” The kid could hardly swallow properly.

“Give me the keys, Lonnie.”

It's a straight shot on I-25, about 325 miles, less than five hours, from El Paso to Santa Fe. They would stay there overnight and in the morning, as Walter planned, they would drive the last hundred miles or so, to a small cabin in the middle of nowhere, near the tiny town of Albert, New Mexico.