The Lacey Confession

by Richard Greener

  Reagan was the most misunderstood. The public, particularly those who disliked him, thought he was out of the loop, perhaps even a little dense. Quite the contrary. Despite the fact he dozed off now and then, Louis knew from primary sources that Reagan approved everything. Whatever the Agency did while he was President, you knew Reagan wanted it done. He played the fool, yet pulled the strings. Reagan’s biggest failing was his sincere belief the CIA worked for him. It never dawned on him that when they did what he wanted, they did so only because it fit their agenda.

  The dumbest President by far, according to Devereaux, was Ford, dumber even than Bush 43. Ford’s agency code name: TAP—The Accidental President. Everyone knew Nelson Rockefeller called the shots in that short Presidency. All the Presidents used the CIA—except for Ford, who rarely even attended briefings—but only two ever issued personal orders to have men killed—Truman and Kennedy. The others were too scared or too slick. Louis wondered how this guy would react if and when the time came.

  Devereaux could tell a lot about the President from the way he sat, especially while he talked. The current occupant leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, elbows extended out and backwards, his legs straightened stiffly, a little bit of pressure pushing down from the knees, ankles often touching together and toes pointed. This was his position when he felt confident about something, when he had a plan and was about to make it known.

  Now was not a time for questions, not from Louis. Now was a time to hear the man out. When the President finished, he got up, walked over to where the food was, grabbed a chocolate-covered doughnut and took a big bite. Devereaux had yet to say a word. “Louis,” he said with his mouth full, small pieces of cake spitting from his lips, “this is pretty amazing stuff—no doubt about that—but is there a role we need to play? I’ve got no ‘Kennedy agenda.’ You follow me? Is there some overriding national interest in protecting the image of the Kennedy family? Do you see one? Have I missed something? Why not release whatever it is Levine has? Let History have its way.”

  This time Devereaux spoke—calmly, deliberately, with purpose, yet totally under control, any previous anxiety already quelled.

  “What would you do, Mr. President, if you came into possession of irrefutable evidence that George Washington molested little boys? Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Little boys, and white ones at that. On a regular basis. Maybe he strangled some of them when he was finished with his business. Buried their bodies somewhere, passed them off as missing. What if a document, written in his own hand, irrefutably Washington’s, proved this and was given to you? What would you do? Would you allow that revelation to alter our vision of American History? George Washington. He’s on the dollar. Banks and insurance companies have taken his name. High schools, colleges, city streets, bridges and tunnels. Whole entire cities, like the one we’re in right now. ‘The Father of his country’—isn’t that what you all say, Republicans and Democrats, Independents, Libertarians, Right to Life, Right to Die? All of them. Isn’t that what they say every time more than six of them gather together in public? You know what they teach about Washington in elementary schools, as early as kindergarten. Couldn’t tell a lie. The man couldn’t tell a lie. Chopped down the cherry tree and turned himself in. George Washington is woven into the national fabric in a way that makes him inseparable from the cloth itself. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” said the President. The answer was obvious, but he said it anyway.

  “How,” Devereaux asked, “would you assess the importance of the Kennedy myth to the twentieth century?” The President said nothing. He just sat there. Protocol called for Devereaux to remain silent and wait for his reply. But he knew when to ignore the rules. “Should we destroy that image? Joe Jr., the war hero? The martyred JFK, with his beautiful, vulnerable Jackie? His son, the small boy saluting the casket—a son sadly destined to meet a deadly fate himself, a few decades later? Do you tear that down, burn it to the ground? And there’s Bobby. Poor Bobby. Robert Kennedy the reformed sinner, gone from Joe McCarthy to Martin Luther King Jr. Can you see him lying on the kitchen floor in the Ambassador Hotel? The future President, taken from us, loved to this day by many—perhaps even more than his brother.” The serving President was silent. “Do you want to be the President who destroys all that? The one who takes the greatest American family of the twentieth century and trashes it? You want to do that? You?”

  The President had years of rehearsing the most complicated answers to a wide range of questions—military and foreign policy, jobs, Social Security, a balanced budget versus deficit spending, education and health care. Push a button and out sprung an answer capable of giving cover to whatever his real belief might be—if he had one—and, at the same time, leaving the solid impression he had a firm grasp of the subject. He was, by all accounts, a superb politician. But now he faced a question he had no idea how to answer. Louis Devereaux had set him upon the very point of the needle and the President desperately needed a plan to balance himself on something and then jump safely off.

  “But,” he said to Devereaux, “everything we now know, everything we’re learning about Kennedy—don’t you think that has already taken the myth down a notch? Is that vision of a Camelot still shining, just as strong?”

  “It’s not the women or that he was a very sick man and they kept it quiet. It’s all in the assassination,” said Devereaux. There, he thought, it’s out of the box. It’s not easy to speak of the assassination of a President, to a President. But he had said it, out loud. “Destroy the conjured image, a mass illusion owned in equal parts by millions, and you destroy the legend of John F. Kennedy. If that’s what you want, go ahead. It’s your decision.” At that point Devereaux shut his mouth and meant to keep it shut.

  The President took a long time before saying, “You have a way . . . about you, Louis. Look, we have to do something—even if it’s not just for the Kennedys—because Levine is our man and he’s in way over his head. There’s murder involved here. I suppose he can’t just show up at the Embassy and say, ‘Here I am. Here’s Lacey’s diary. I didn’t kill anyone.’ He can’t say that, can he?” Now, Devereaux knew better than to say anything. The President was on a roll. He stopped and looked directly at Devereaux. “Why can’t Levine do that?”

  “He could,” said Devereaux. “He could do exactly that. Turn himself in and turn over the document at the same time. History—as you say—could be left to deal with the Kennedys. Eventually the questions about your role in it would subside. But what about the other things that are in the Lacey Confession? The other things we don’t know about?”

  “Like what?”

  “Who knows? At this point, who knows? Frederick Lacey was there for all of it—from the Bolsheviks to Nixon. He knew them all. Worked for all of them, sometimes at the same time. Not only the West. Asia, the Middle East too. He was a man in the midst of everything important in the twentieth century. Richest man in the world, they said. Nobody wants to see the sausage made. Lacey did. He made it. How much has he written down? Names, places, people—things no one wants made public. Do you—don’t we all—have an agenda for the Lacey Confession? Do we want to neglect that, to go ahead and open this Pandora’s Box because you have no Kennedy agenda? And what about Harry Levine? Maybe the English burn him at the stake.”

  “Well, that’s crazy . . .”

  “Crazy? Why can’t they hang him out on murder, take Lacey’s revelations for themselves to know—keep them as their secret—and ship Harry Levine off to prison somewhere. You don’t think they can do that? And then what—the English have it all. Everything in the Lacey Confession is theirs to use as they see fit. Do you want that?”

  “So, if we don’t get Levine—and Lacey’s document with him—someone else will?”

  “Yes, they will. They surely will,” said Devereaux. “Levine’s fate is cast. Your first instinct was right,” he added, allowing the President to credit himself for what came next. “We need to do something.” />
  Devereaux said nothing to the President about his old friend Abby O’Malley—a name that would mean nothing to the President. A name, just a name—a woman he’d have no way of knowing. Louis Devereaux knew her, knew her well, and knew she had been waiting for the Lacey Confession for decades. He would not let her down now, with the moment at hand.

  “Here’s my idea,” the President said. He swallowed the last of his doughnut, washed it down with coffee lightened by lots of milk and sweetened with two packets of Sweet’N Low. Within the grand scheme of his eating habits, no one could figure why he used Sweet’N Low instead of sugar. “If the document, even a copy of it, is still there, somewhere at Sir Anthony’s firm,” the President began, making direct eye contact with Devereaux, “then Sir Anthony’s firm will have to carry out the instructions in Lord Lacey’s will and the document will be read, or published, or whatever you call it—made public—on Monday. Is that your understanding, Louis? You’re a lawyer.”

  “So are you, Mr. President.”

  “Yes. So we are, aren’t we? Both of us.” The President walked back over to the small table holding the tray and poked around among what remained of the doughnuts and crumb cakes. “Well,” he said picking a loose piece of cake and popping it into his mouth. “We can’t let that happen. If Lord Frederick Lacey did kill John F. Kennedy, we can’t allow his document, his confession, to be made public. Why the hell would he do a thing like that?”

  “Apparently that’s what his document reveals.”

  “No, no. I mean why would he write a confession in the first place? And Christ—why would he insist it be made public when he’s dead! Who knows what else is in there. Not that it matters much. Killing Kennedy is plenty. What else do you think is in there?”

  “That’s hard to say, Mr. President. There are so many stories about Lacey. Some true. Some false. Some embellished perhaps. Then there are the stories only hinted at. So much of his activities were, shall I say, informal, unrecorded. Who knows? But what difference does it make?” said Devereaux. “We have a problem. Let’s solve it.”

  “Levine is afraid,” the President said. “He’s scared. I heard it in his voice. What are we going to do about him? I told him to wait. I’d call him back. What do you think?”

  “He’s right to be afraid,” said Devereaux.

  “He is? Of what? Of who?”

  “Of whoever killed Sir Anthony Wells,” said Devereaux. “For starters. We can’t know everyone who might be offended by Lacey’s journal—his confession. What Levine said he already read provides motive for some, but how many? And who? Don’t forget, we haven’t read it. Who might be after him? I think there’s a good chance it’s a long list. A long list,” Devereaux repeated. “And a dangerous one.” The two that came immediately to mind were Abby O’Malley—with whom he had not yet spoken—and the vultures still searching for the Czar’s gold.

  Before Louis Devereaux could say any more, they were interrupted by Ethel Livingston, from the National Security Agency. She was the Saturday Duty Officer. Her voice came across the intercom. “Mr. President,” she said, obviously standing at the President’s secretary’s desk just outside the door to the Oval Office. “The British Ambassador just called from his car. He’s on his way here. It’s an extremely urgent matter, he said. I think he’s already through the gate and on the grounds.”

  “It’s okay, Ethel. Send him in when he gets here. You come too.” Louis Devereaux and the President looked at each other. Neither spoke. Moments later the President’s appointment secretary opened the door for his NSA duty officer who entered accompanied by British Ambassador Brian Curtis-Moore. At seventy-eight, Curtis-Moore was among the oldest diplomats stationed in Washington. He walked into the Oval Office with the ease of a man familiar with his surroundings.

  “Mr. President,” he said offering his hand. “I’m truly sorry to break in on you like this. But, actually . . .” he stopped and looked in the direction of Louis Devereaux.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said shaking his hand and turning back toward his desk. “Do you know Louis Devereaux?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. A pleasure, Dr. Devereaux.”

  “I’m sure whatever we have to talk about can be discussed while we’re all here,” offered the President. “Including Ms. Livingston from our National Security Agency.”

  “Actually, I don’t think so, Mr. President,” said the Ambassador. “I’m afraid that with a matter as particularly sensitive and peculiar as that which I’ve no option but to bring to your attention, the people who share our conversation ought to be, shall we say, limited.”

  “Certainly,” replied the President. He motioned Ethel Livingston out of the room. The look he gave the British Ambassador conveyed the necessity of Louis Devereaux’s continued presence.

  “Well then, sir. I have the sad duty to report to you the death of your Ambassador, the Honorable McHenry Brown.” Ambassador Curtis-Moore was sitting in one of the three visitors’ chairs directly facing the President. When he delivered this terrible information, he noticed movement in the throat and a visible change in the President’s respiration. Louis Devereaux sat on the couch to the Ambassador’s right and well behind him out of sight. Had he been able to see Devereaux, the British Ambassador would have detected nothing, no reaction at all. “It happened late this morning, London time.”

  “What happened?” asked the President.

  “He was the victim of a homicide, Mr. President.”

  “What!”

  “I’m afraid it was murder. His body was found at a resort establishment near London. He was beaten quite terribly, I’m sorry to report, and there were some rather personal and quite sensitive additional circumstances attendant to the scene. I’m not entirely comfortable in explanation . . . You see, there was another man . . .”

  “Ambassador Curtis-Moore,” the President interrupted, “we are aware of Ambassador Brown’s sexual orientation. Please go on.”

  “Yes, of course. This other man was also killed. Shot once in the middle of his forehead. He was not beaten at all. Both of them were naked.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m advised the hotel suite was pretty well torn up. Whoever did this seemed to be looking for something and we’ve no idea if they found it, whatever it was.”

  “Have you notified anyone at our Embassy?”

  “No, Mr. President, we have not. We wanted to bring you the news first.”

  “Thank you for that consideration. I realize this is a serious crime, a homicide, and the proper authorities will be involved according to whatever local laws require. But I would appreciate our people being able to remove the Ambassador’s body without any unpleasant ramifications. No press about the sexual aspect. Can you manage that for us?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll do my level best . . .”

  “I need your word on that. I’m sure you understand.”

  “And so you have it, sir. I’m certain there’ll be no unnecessary details released to the press. There is, however, one area of concern, which presents a bit of a bother to those undertaking the investigation. We suffered another tragic, awful and strangely similar killing this morning. Sir Anthony Wells, a very prominent attorney indeed, and a gentleman already past his one-hundredth birthday, was also beaten to death. His office, the location of his vile murder, was gone through from top to bottom. There’s a disturbing link, a possible connection I’m told, between Ambassador Brown and Sir Anthony. An American, one of your embassy people. A man named Harry Levine. He met with Sir Anthony this morning. Mr. Levine, it appears, has a role in this. He may have something of Sir Anthony’s, something freely given I’m sure, something that could be important in these delicate circumstances. Our investigators would like to talk to Mr. Levine, but so far we’ve been unable to locate him. He’s not been found. If he’s safe—if you know he’s safe—do you think we could get some help with that effort?”

  “What sort of connection?”


  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why do you want to talk with this man Levine? How does he fit in here?”

  “Well, I really don’t know. Perhaps no one actually knows. I suppose that’s why they want to talk to him.”

  “I’ll make sure,” the President continued, “someone at the embassy assists your authorities in speaking to Harry Levine, but any interview will have to be conducted at the embassy. Particularly now, when there’s bound to be a great deal to do there after the murder, the killing of Ambassador Brown. As long as we’re clear on that point I don’t see any trouble in getting the right people together. Is there more I need to know?” the President asked.

  “I think not,” answered Brian Curtis-Moore, fully aware his meeting was now concluded. “Again sir, my Government’s and Her Majesty’s sincere condolences and deepest sympathy.” With that he took his leave.

  The President was upset and equally confused. Were the British on to Harry Levine? Did they know he had the document and were they after him? Did the British even know about the document? All the answers must be yes, the President conceded. What was it Curtis-Moore said Harry Levine had—“something of Sir Anthony’s”? Of course the British knew about Lacey’s document, his confession. The only question unanswered was—did they know what was in it? Maybe they really thought Harry Levine had some connection to the killings. The killings! Jesus Christ, people were dying here. What for? And why? His mind was racing while Louis Devereaux sat silent across the office. Finally, the President said, “He never mentioned Lacey, did he? And what is this thing with Curtis-Moore and you, Louis? You know him?”