Harry was drained, worn down by the adrenaline rush of Lacey’s revelations. His confusion and bewilderment were compounded by the simple sight of the document he had been reading, lying on his kitchen table. It rested there, next to the morning Times and today’s mail, as harmless as if it were any set of papers. Just a pile of old paper? he thought. No, it was a bombshell, scheduled to explode the day after tomorrow. Harry had rushed through Lacey’s confession, looking for the Kennedy names, but there were others as well. Skimming through the pages he saw many familiar names—Churchill, Hitler, Roosevelt and Stalin. Czar Nicholas II was mentioned on more than one page, together with many others. Some Muslim names were strange to him. A big Billy Joel fan, Harry was particularly taken with a name he saw on a page that seemed to be about 1917—Solly Joel. Who was he, he wondered? He made a mental note to come back to that page later. Lacey was apparently fond of writing down interesting or useful quotes. Harry saw them, on pages here and there, in quotation marks with the author’s identity. They stood out because he wrote them in all caps. “MORAL INDIGNATION IS JEALOUSY WITH A HALO”—H. G. Wells. Harry chuckled when he read that one. Did Lacey see himself in that nugget of wisdom? He noticed the names of Chaim Weizmann and Sir Herbert Samuel. He knew who they were. And he wrote down a quote from the Latin for further reference, one for which Lacey gave no attribution. “UBI DUBIUM IBI LIBERTAS.” He wasn’t sure of the meaning, but Harry couldn’t help thinking of Roy Orbison. He was getting punchy. He’d been reading too long. Hey! he scolded himself. This is serious business. This is the confession of Lord Frederick Lacey. He killed John Kennedy!
McHenry Brown was off somewhere. Harry had no idea where, or how to reach him in an emergency. Jesus Christ! This was an emergency. The whole thing agitated him. He paced about his apartment, walking from the kitchen into the living room and back again a half dozen times, wondering what to do, his mind becoming a shambles.
He heard it on the BBC Noon News. “. . . Sir Anthony Wells . . .” He heard the name but couldn’t make out the rest, not from the kitchen. He ran into the living room where he heard the BBC news reader saying, “. . . beaten to death in his office earlier this morning; however, the official cause of death has yet to be released by the Police. Sir Anthony was apparently alone. Authorities said they knew of no appointments on his schedule for today.” Harry’s mind raced crazily. He felt lightheaded. “. . . said they were unsure as to a motive. While his office was found in total disarray, it appears Sir Anthony was not robbed . . .” In the bathroom, Harry splashed cold water on his face. Holding his hands over his eyes he let the water drip down his neck. Slowly, he regained the sense of control he had lost. He returned to the kitchen, picked up the telephone and called the Ambassador’s office. He got the Embassy operator who put him through to McHenry Brown’s Administrative Assistant.
“Elizabeth, it’s Harry Levine. Is this a good line? Can I speak openly?”
“Is there something wrong?” she asked, with a cool composure comparable to the best an Englishwoman could muster. “Where are you calling from?”
“I’m home.”
“How important is it?”
“What?”
“How important is it,” Mrs. Harrison repeated.
“It’s important!” Harry yelled. “It’s critically important!”
“Let me call you back,” she said. “Hang up now.” A moment later the phone rang. Harry answered before the first ring finished. Elizabeth Harrison told him they were now on a secure line.
“What is it, Harry?” she inquired.
“When can I talk with the Ambassador? How soon?”
“Well, it’s just after noon. I don’t expect him . . . Harry, what is it?”
“I can’t tell you Elizabeth, but I must speak with Ambassador Brown and I need to talk to him right now.”
“You won’t be able to reach him until early this evening. He’ll be returning, not here, but to his home. He should be there by eight-thirty or nine o’clock.”
“Isn’t there a number, a way you can . . .”
“No, Harry. Not today. I don’t have a number to call him. He didn’t think anything would come up,” she said. “Not today.”
“What? Are you saying you don’t have a number to reach him? I thought that was standard procedure.”
“He didn’t leave one,” she said coldly.
“I don’t . . . understand . . .,” said Harry. “How could he not leave a number? Where is he? This is important, damnit!”
“Harry.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t know about Ambassador Brown, do you?”
“What? Know what?”
“You really don’t know,” she said, more to herself than to him, with what seemed to Harry to be a touch of amazement in her voice.
“Elizabeth, what are you talking about?”
“The Ambassador . . . how can you not know?”
“Elizabeth . . .”
“McHenry Brown is gay.”
“Jesus!” Harry said. “So what?”
“On Saturdays he meets his ‘friend.’ They play tennis and . . . go off together . . . somewhere. I don’t know where. Sometimes he tells me where he’ll be, if he’s expecting something or someone, you know. But mostly he just goes . . . and today in particular . . . nothing’s supposed to happen today.”
“Give me the special number for the White House. The hotline, or whatever you call it.”
“Harry, that’s a communication link for extreme emergencies, to be used only by the Ambassador and the President of the United States.”
“I know that. That’s exactly why I need the number. I’m going to have to talk to the President. I know it’s early in the morning there, but I can’t wait until this evening. I’ll turn this all over to the Ambassador when he gets back, but I’ve got to do this now, right now.”
“Are you sure?” asked Elizabeth Harrison. Now the tone of her voice reminded Harry of his Aunt Sadie. It made him feel very uncomfortable. Harry spoke so firmly it chilled Elizabeth Harrison, to the bone.
“This is a matter directly related to my meeting with Sir Anthony Wells, whose murder has just been reported by the BBC. This is a matter of critical importance. I need the special number and whatever calling instructions go with it. Have I made myself clear?”
He entered the numbers in the exact order called for. Elizabeth Harrison had read the entire instructions to him and he followed them precisely. To his surprise, there was no ringing on the other end. Almost as soon as Harry pushed the last number, he heard . . .
“Please identify yourself.” It was a man’s voice.
“Who am I speaking to?” asked Harry.
“Please identify yourself,” the man repeated.
“My name is . . . no wait a minute. Who are you? I placed this call and I want to know who you are.”
“Please identify . . .”
“Hold on!” Harry shouted in a voice dangerously near the breaking point. “I want to speak with the President of the United States. That is what this telephone is for. Who the hell are you?”
“You are speaking to Lawrence Albertson. I am a special assistant to the President and it’s my job to handle this communication link. Will you please identify yourself and state your location.”
“My name is Harry Levine. I’m calling from London, from the American Embassy, to speak with the President.”
“That’s not a credible response.”
“What?”
“Your reply is incorrect.”
“What the hell are you talking about! I am Harry Levine from the American Embassy . . .”
“No sir, you’re not calling from the American Embassy in London.”
“No, no, no. You’re right. Wait a minute,” said Harry. “I’m not calling from the embassy. I didn’t mean to say that. What I mean is, I’m from the American Embassy. My name is Harry Levine. My job is . . .”
“I know who you are, Mr. Levine. Where are you calling fro
m?”
“I’m home. My flat. My apartment.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Thank you. How did you get access to this link and what is the purpose of your communication?”
“I need to speak with the President.”
“How did you get this number, Mr. Levine?”
“Who did you say you were? Lawrence who? What the hell’s going on here? I called this number to talk to the President. How I got this link and what my purpose is, is none of your goddamn business. Now, you will please put me through to the President of the United States at once.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Levine. My name again is Albertson. Lawrence Albertson. My responsibility is to take the details of your communication and report them to the President’s office and wait for a response. That response may be a written reply, which I will read to you, or it may be a message or other instruction for you, or there might be no response and, in that event, I will advise you to terminate this communication link.”
“What about the ‘response’ that brings the President on the line?”
“Mr. Levine, in my experience I’ve never encountered that response. Although I’m sure anything’s possible. If you will tell me what this is about we can get started.”
“I’ll talk only to the President of the United States,” said Harry.
The President sat at his desk in the Oval Office in the midst of a tough decision. Pencil in hand, poised to mark the appropriate box, unconvinced which way to go, he pondered the question—can Georgetown cover eleven points against Temple? It was the only game he hadn’t picked on the White House weekend college basketball pool. The games were starting in a few hours and his entry was already a day late. They’ll wait, he thought, not to begin the games of course, but for his entry sheet. I am, after all, the President of the United States. These difficult deliberations were interrupted by his secretary’s voice on the intercom.
“Mr. President, Lawrence Albertson is on ISCOM.” That meant the green phone in the upper right-hand portion of his desk, the one near the small lamp he brought with him from the Governor’s mansion. It was the phone designated International Special Communication. Therefore, ISCOM.
“This is the President,” he said picking up the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Albertson?” There followed some head shaking up and down, and “un huh” three different times. “Is that all he said?” the President asked. Another “un huh,” and then, he laughed robustly, “‘None of your goddamn business.’ He said that? Well, okay, okay Albertson. Let’s do it.”
The next sound Harry heard was the well-known, high-pitched, raspy, half-hoarse voice of the President of the United States. “What is it?”
“Sir, my name is Har . . .”
“I know all that already, now why am I talking to you?” As he spoke, the President decided to take Georgetown and give the points.
“Mr. President, this deals with a matter . . .”
“You misunderstand me,” interrupted the President. “I want to know why I am talking to you and not the Ambassador.”
“He’s not available,” replied Harry.
“It’s a long way from McHenry Brown to Harry Levine. That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I realize I’m not the Ambassador . . .”
“No kidding? So do I. Well you know, doesn’t matter if you were, I don’t get a lot of calls even from ambassadors on this line. This is a pretty important telephone hookup and I’m still trying to figure out what I’m doing talking to a Deputy in the legal department of the Trade Section. Can you answer me that?” demanded the President of the United States.
“Look,” said Harry, trying not to breathe too fast or too hard into the phone. “This morning I was given a document detailing the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and, at the same time, I was notified that this document will have to be made public this coming Monday.”
“Huh? You what?”
“I was given a document . . .”
“I heard that the first time. You were ‘given’ a document which . . . Are you serious?”
“Earlier this morning, sir, I was called upon to meet with Sir Anthony Wells who showed me a document, a confession really, prepared by the man who planned and was responsible for carrying out the killing of . . .”
“I don’t believe this,” the President said, his voice trailing away as if he had taken the phone and was holding it out away from his face. Harry envisioned the President reeling back holding the phone outstretched in his hand, looking at it, his brow all wrinkled, biting his lower lip, shaking his head in disbelief. “Look here, whatever this is about, you wait for your ambassador to make himself available, whenever that may be, and you talk to him about it. You just let Ambassador Brown handle everything. And as for you . . .”
“Mr. President, this morning I was instructed to meet with Sir Anthony Wells, the senior partner in the firm of Herndon, Sturgis, Wells & Nelson. He gave me a document, upon which I am at this moment resting my hand as I speak to you. He gave it to me to give to you. This document is, among other things, the handwritten, detailed confession of Lord Frederick Lacey that he killed President John F. Kennedy. What you also need to know is Lord Lacey was responsible for the death of Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. And, sir . . .” Harry tried to catch his breath, to calm his racing heart. “He killed Bobby Kennedy too.” Harry swore he could hear the President utter something, an involuntary, guttural, primal sound. He continued. “Shortly after meeting me, Sir Anthony was murdered. News reports said his office was torn apart. I believe whoever killed him was looking for this document. There are other things in it people would not want known. This is not a joke. I’m not a crackpot. Time is of the essence and this can’t wait for McHenry Brown. I’m scared, sir.”
Years of training, often just pretending, had prepared this President to act in an emergency. Once he recognized it as such, he treated it accordingly. As if by command, his respiration and heartbeat slowed, the muscles in his shoulders, back and arms relaxed. His voice lowered and his bowels constricted. “Tell me everything that happened,” he said, “starting from when you received your instructions until you placed this call to me. Take your time, son. Leave nothing out.”
“Some of the greatest, they never retired,” said Billy. He looked to Helen, who was shuttling back and forth from the kitchen to the bar. For reasons unclear to him, Walter or Ike, she stopped and looked at Billy.
“Who?” she asked.
“Like Sinatra, right?” Billy waited for confirmation, some positive sign he felt he had every right to expect from the woman he lived with. “He never quit. ‘The Chairman of the Board’ kept singing until the end, right?”
“That’s true, Billy,” she said and waltzed back into the kitchen, showing little regard for, and even less interest in, whatever it was he was talking about.
“See,” Billy went on. “I told you guys. There’s plenty of the best who never give it up.”
“What about Joe Louis?” asked Ike, belching smoke from his mouth and nose. An unforgiving breeze blew it straight back at him. He looked every bit a smoldering fire and showed not a wit of concern about it. “The man never should have come back.” He followed that with a cough. Ike was coughing more than ever, thought Walter, who made little effort to hide the concern he felt. The hacking sound coming from Ike inspired Billy to berate him for the millionth time.
“Damn! For the life of me I don’t know why that shit hasn’t killed you already.” Ike paid no attention to either one of them. He just took another long drag and this time exhaled quite smoothly. No grimace. No wheezing or coughing. Victory was his. A big smile crossed his wrinkled face while his mind spun in sweet circles drenched in nicotine, inspired by the sudden increase of carbon monoxide in his lungs and heart and brain and everywhere else.
“Joe Louis retired a champ,” he said. His chest back to normal, he picked up where he left off. “Top of his game. Then, when he came back, couldn’t do it no more. Rocky whatshisname, beat up
on him real bad. Beat up on his legend too. You hear that, Walter?”
“Willie Mays, too,” Billy added. “Quit and came back. Had nothing left. Punks who couldn’t get guys out in the Texas League were striking him out. Should have stayed retired.”
“Willie Mays only retired one time,” said Helen, not looking up at all. None of them had noticed when she came back into the bar from the kitchen. “He never came back either,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Am I sure, Billy? I am sure. He never tried to come back.”
“Well, he should have quit sooner then, because he had nothing in the tank at the end. A real shame.” Billy went back to wiping down the counter next to the old cash register. He was careful to move the rimless chalkboard and put it back in its designated spot when he was done.
“Sinatra didn’t have much left either,” said Ike. “Just a ghost of himself. But that didn’t stop him. People kept paying to see him. That’s why they call it show business, you know that. But it’ll keep for another time. I’ll go with the Brown Bomber. Quit. Came back. Shoulda stayed quit. Shoulda kept his money too, like Sinatra.”
“And I’m sticking with Willie Mays,” proclaimed Billy. “I don’t give a shit if he retired or not.” He glanced at the kitchen door looking for Helen who wasn’t there. “The Say Hey Kid was no kid anymore and all that ‘Say Hey’ was say-gone. You know what I mean?” Billy was satisfied with that. They both waited on Walter. But he said nothing. He just sipped his Diet Coke and continued reading The New York Times. At least he looked like he was reading it. They knew he heard every word. Finally, without looking up from his paper at either of his friends, he said, “Winston Churchill. Retired. Came back. Retired. Came back again. Saved the world from the fucking Nazis. Not bad for an old man.”
The Lacey Confession Page 11