“Over time,” he said. “Over years. Many will be easy, but many others will be well protected. We can’t just waltz into Europe and begin killing people left and right. Those left alive will sense what we’re doing. We need to move slowly, with resolve. But, the longer we wait to get started, the greater the jeopardy to us.” That afternoon Louis Devereaux received Presidential authority to set up and manage a network of agents with a single mission: Clean up. He had, as he expected, no budgetary limits. And, of course, he was given the first of his misleading job titles.
The Bambino called two minutes after Devereaux’s page. Nearly all of his agents were women, The Bambino included. He considered her his very best. None of them were Agency people, Company employees. All his agents were casuals, private independents recruited and brought together personally by him. Most were not Americans. They worked for money, and Devereaux had a river of cash that flowed with a swift current. They took their orders only from him. They knew no one else, not even each other. He gave them code names he derived from sports figures. He admired great athletes. He marveled at their success and had a professional’s appreciation and respect for the discipline and determination the very best among them constantly exhibited. And he loved their nicknames. He was sorry he never had one himself. He named the women of DEVNET—as his group came to be known within the tiny circle of people who even knew it existed—to match their special characteristics. So it was that a Latvian agent, whose tireless dedication produced results when most would have conceded defeat, was called The Horse, after the great Baltimore Colts fullback Alan Ameche, a player who never gave up, especially on third and short. And there was Spike, a French agent with a distinctly unpleasant personality, who had no manners at all and who would just as soon cut your balls off as give you the time of day. She was named for Ty Cobb. The Bambino earned her code name one evening in Prague. Once he heard the story, in all its detail, Devereaux selected the name he had saved for just such a person. He hadn’t even met her yet. Hired her, sight unseen. She had taken out eight targets in a single episode, killed them all, including five bodyguards, in a hotel suite in the heart of the city. Afterward, she calmly changed clothes, took the elevator down to the lobby and had a drink in the bar before leaving. Obviously, she could hit for power. She could also hit for average and rarely swung and missed. Best of all, she could bat cleanup. She could carry a whole team. The nickname Babe was too sexist—he had five older sisters to heighten his sensitivity to things like this—so Devereaux settled on The Bambino. She was his Babe Ruth. The Bambino worked out of an office in London, pretending to be some sort of Public Relations outfit. The conditions presented by Harry Levine were perfect for his big hitter. She was convenient, moments away in the same city, and Devereaux always liked being able to use the best.
In her own apartment, a small flat with a distinctly academic look about it, DEVNET’s Ruthian equivalent poured herself a cup of tea, kicked off her shoes, flipped them through the open door into her bedroom, muted the Tom Waits CD she was playing, and sat down to return the page left by Louis Devereaux. She did not recognize the number, but it had to be Devereaux. He was the only person in the world who had the number to her pager. The phone next to the couch in the Oval Office rang. Louis Devereaux picked it up.
The drive from the Atlanta airport to Roswell goes straight through the middle of the city of Atlanta. After picking up his rental car, Walter took I-85 North and merged onto the Downtown Connector just south of the city’s center. As he passed the exit for Freedom Parkway, the one that would have taken him past the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, right to the Carter Center and a nearby neighborhood bar he couldn’t forget, he realized he was not riding alone. The 800-pound gorilla in the back seat was Isobel Gitlin. Could she see him from her office window? Right now, while he was on the highway? And if she could, would she know it was him? “Five years,” he whispered. His cheeks flushed and he felt a small lump gather in his throat. Could it be five years since Isobel moved here to be the Executive Director for The Center for Consumer Concerns? Five years she’s been living in Atlanta. And five years since the last time he saw her, at that old bar, the one with a lot of photographs of the owner on the walls. Five years since Leonard Martin. Five years since . . . He turned the radio on, very loud and jerked the car into the left-hand lanes of the Connector. When it split apart, I-75 heading north to Tennessee and I-85 turning east toward the Carolinas, he stayed on I-85 until he exited at GA Rt. 400, and headed north to the Atlanta suburbs.
Sadie Fagan lived in an older subdivision with rolling hills, heavily wooded lots and a large lake, around which Walter had to drive to find her street. She and her husband bought the house in 1967. The house was just up the block, within walking distance of the pool and tennis complex. Back then, living here was thought of as way out of town. Not so far now. In those days, people in Atlanta looked at Roswell as almost being in Tennessee or North Carolina. It wasn’t, of course. The Tennessee state line was more than a hundred miles from Roswell and North Carolina a good two-hour drive. Roswell was barely fifteen miles from downtown Atlanta. But back then, there were no major highways or interstates connecting Atlanta and Roswell. Larry Fagan’s original commute, about half on tree-lined, two lanes and half on Atlanta’s city streets, took about forty-five minutes each way. Even without traffic the trip could take nearly that long. For him, that was nothing compared to what he was used to—getting into Manhattan every morning from Brooklyn. More than a few of his co-workers in the Atlanta office thought he was nuts to live so far away. There were plenty of nice neighborhoods in Atlanta, they said. None of them, of course, came from New Jersey or Connecticut. The Fagans liked their house and never saw a need to buy another one. Elana lived and died there. Harry grew up there. Now, it was just Sadie and Larry. It was a big house for the two of them, but it was their home.
On its headlong rush to Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s northern sprawl reached Roswell not too long after Sadie did. By the time Harry was grown up, the once small town with its own cobblestone Historic District and antebellum mansions, had become a bedroom community. Some of the old mansions were turned into trendy restaurants. Others were available for weddings and other special occasions.
The instructions she gave him were simple. Walter found Sadie’s house with no trouble. He parked in the driveway and rang the front doorbell. An older woman, about his age he realized with a little shock, short, squat and heavy set, with a smile that strangely reminded him of Ike, greeted him warmly.
“Mr. Sherman. Come in. Please come in,” she said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fagan.”
“Come in. Come in.” Sadie led Walter through a narrow foyer into a living room or den. In a new house such a room is referred to as a great room. It was a room that showed every sign it was comfortably lived in. Walter noticed the cushions on the large, tan, fabric-covered couch were spread about randomly, not perfectly in place. Someone had been lying there, maybe napping, recently. Two paperback books were on the coffee table that separated the couch and a large recliner from the TV. He couldn’t make out the titles, but he did see that the spine on each was broken in a manner to show they’d been opened and read. The copy of TIME he recognized to be the current one. The floor was carpeted, and had two small throw rugs on either side of the coffee table. Family photos hung on the wall. Walter took note of the one showing Conchita, Harry and Sadie. It had been taken outside, in the front yard of the Fagan house, with all three standing next to the big pine tree that dominated the lawn.
They went into the kitchen to sit and talk. Sadie motioned for Walter to have a seat at the small, wooden block table. Her half-filled coffee cup and today’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution lay facing him. A copper bowl loaded with fruit—apples, oranges, plums and bananas—rested in the middle of the table. The faint scent of cooking oil hung in the air.
“Can I get you something?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
“A cold drink
perhaps?”
“Sure, any diet soda, please. That would be nice.”
Sadie Fagan put a cold can of Diet Dr. Pepper in front of Walter. He thanked her as she said, “You said Conchita hired you to find Harry? I didn’t know he was missing.” The tone of her voice told Walter she was not especially concerned. He gave two possibilities for that: first, she knew where Harry was; second, she’d heard from him, maybe today. One or both might be true, he thought. It was too early to know. Of course, she might not know anything at all about this.
“Conchita hasn’t spoken to you about this?” he asked.
“No, she hasn’t. We don’t talk all that frequently, you know.”
“You’re not close?”
“Oh, we’re very close. No, no, I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that we don’t talk all that frequently.” Walter stared at her, waiting for more, and she added, “We’re both very busy.”
Walter began where Conchita brought him in. He made it plain to Sadie that what he told her was what had been told to him. He had no firsthand knowledge of events. He told Sadie everything Conchita had told him about Harry, the document he came into possession of and his flight from London, to parts unknown. He said only that certain people’s deaths contributed to the confusion that might have precipitated Harry’s disappearance. He offered no details or names. He didn’t say why any of this had happened. He never mentioned the Kennedys. He watched her eyes and the corners of her mouth as he told her about people having already died in connection with Harry’s disappearance, looking for signs of some existing understanding on Sadie’s part. How much did she know? He saw nothing remarkable. She talked with Harry weekly, at least once a week, she said. But it was not unusual to go days without a call. She really didn’t know he was in any trouble.
He asked Sadie about the early years with the four of them living in her house. “Tell me about Elana,” he said. Sadie told him the whole story of David being drafted, Elana being pregnant, David getting killed—that’s how she put it—Harry being born and the two of them moving to Atlanta. Elana Levine had been dead eight years, but it was easy to see how much Sadie missed her. Then she changed the subject.
“Why did Conchita hire you? I mean, why you?” She tried not to sound judgmental.
“I help people in this way,” Walter said. “It’s the work I do.”
“What way?”
“I find people, missing people, people who may be lost.”
“How long?” Sadie asked. Walter understood her perfectly, knew exactly what she was getting at. He was inclined to like this little old lady with a slight hint of a moustache.
“Thirty years,” he answered, with a warm grin Sadie returned. It was a look only two older people could share. “Forty, if you count the Army.”
“Vietnam?” she asked, nodding her head to indicate her sympathy.
“Yes.”
“Too bad you couldn’t find David.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “It is. Tell me about him.”
Sadie drank tea and talked about her brother while Walter listened for clues about his son, Harry. David Levine died more than thirty-five years ago. He lived in New York City. Sadie Fagan moved to Atlanta when David was only seventeen. In truth, Walter knew, there wasn’t much she could accurately remember about him. Although she spoke about David Levine, Walter heard more about Harry. She revealed more about herself and her nephew than about her brother. Her memory of David was colored by time and distance. What she had to say about Harry, on the other hand, was current. Perhaps, he thought, she spoke with him earlier today, or yesterday, or maybe the day before.
“Tell me more about Harry, if you will.”
Walter’s cell phone rang in the middle of Sadie’s monologue. She was telling him about Harry as a youngster and how he loved living in Roswell. “He always wanted to be home,” she said. “Right here.” The ringer was on vibrate and Walter felt it buzzing against his chest in his shirt pocket. “Excuse me,” he said to Sadie. “I’ll take this outside.”
“No need for that,” she said. “I’ll be in the other room. Holler when you want me.” With that pronouncement, she took her teacup, the Atlanta newspaper, and walked off. Walter flipped open the cover of his phone, pushed the call button and said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Walter—may I call you Walter?—You and I need to talk.”
“Who is this?” Walter asked, then quickly added, in his usual, neighborly tone, “You can call me whatever you like.”
“Good.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Louis Devereaux. I’ve admired your work for many years. It’s a treat just to talk to you. I guess you might say I’m a fan.”
“What is it I can do for you, Mr. Devereaux?”
“I think we can help each other, Walter. We need to talk about Harry Levine. I’d love to join you later today, perhaps even for dinner. I can be there, in Atlanta, this afternoon. Do you know Il Localino in Inman Park? A small restaurant. It’s on Highland in a very quiet street. Meet me there at seven. We’ll have an early dinner and it’ll give us plenty of time to chat. How does that sound?” Walter had no idea who Louis Devereaux was. But he knew Walter’s cell phone number, was familiar with his work, knew he was in Atlanta and used Harry Levine’s name. Impressive stuff, he thought.
“See you at seven, Louis,” he said, then snapped his phone shut and put it back in his shirt pocket.
Harry’s aunt was outside, sitting at a wrought-iron, glass-top table on a concrete slab in the backyard. Walter brought his cold drink with him, sat down next to her and for an hour or more listened to Sadie Fagan talk about her nephew.
The gentrification of North Highland, in Inman Park, on Atlanta’s east side, began in the 1990s. The old apartment buildings, four and five stories tall, the ones with the Depression-era, pre-WWII facades, were renovated, turned into condos and sold to lawyers, IT professionals, advertising executives and salespeople. Most of the new apartments, mainly condos, were too small for big families. That kept the neighborhood relatively free of children. The city built jogging paths and lined local streets with bicycle lanes. Housing prices doubled, then doubled again. So did property taxes. Still, they came. The old residents, working-class people who bought their clothing and kitchen appliances at the same store—Sears—were forced out. Developers descended like locusts. Bars, coffeehouses and restaurants followed close behind. The yuppies and buppies of Atlanta, the ones who wore two-hundred-dollar tank tops from Hugo Boss and drank their coffee from espresso machines imported from Milan, flocked to the neighborhood. The men proudly displayed their Rolexes and always carried business cards no matter how they were dressed. The women wore underwear from Victoria’s Secret so that if they got hit by a car, they’d look good. At The Emory Clinic, an outreach of Emory University’s hospital and medical school, Inman Park was often called Herpesville. An MBA offered no protection from an STD.
Il Localino was one of four restaurants on the same, tree-lined block of North Highland. They shared a common valet parking lot. Walter pulled his car up to the entrance. The attendant, a young, clean-cut, college kid, asked him which restaurant he was going to. He told him and watched as the young man jotted it down on the portion of the ticket he kept to place on the dashboard. He supposed it was to help them sort out and locate the folks who got so drunk or so lucky they never made it back to their cars. Louis Devereaux was waiting for him, already seated at the corner table by the front window. As he entered the restaurant, a smiling Devereaux rose to signal him. Walter realized he’d been made on the short walk from the parking lot to the front door. He never once looked around to see if anyone was looking at him. Stupid, he thought. Just plain dumb.
Louis Devereaux was a man in his fifties, average height, trim and fit, with a full head of dark brown hair. He had sharp features, a bony forehead, small nose, thin lips and a pointed chin. Except for the gleam in his eyes, he was the kind of man who could easily fade into the background. His smile w
as internal. Walter had seen looks like that before, smiles meant only for the smiler, smiles to complement fiery eyes. Devereaux’s grin was definitely on loan from the Devil.
He was from Washington. Walter was sure of that. Everyone in Washington wore the same dark-blue, three-button, natural shoulder suit with a shirt and tie designed to make them inconspicuous. These were not cheap clothes, not by any means, but they did defeat the very purpose of dressing in the first place, especially in this neighborhood. Walter was reminded of something a Dutchman said once, in Vientiane in 1971. One evening in a hotel bar, as they watched the Frenchmen come and go in the capital city of Laos, Aat van de Steen said to Walter, “A man who dresses not to be seen, is a man who will not show you who he is.” A lesson learned in Laos, still true in Il Localino.
“Hello,” said Walter, reaching across the table to shake hands.
“A pleasure to meet you, Walter,” Devereaux responded. They shook hands and took their seats. “Do you like this place?”
“Very nice,” Walter said without looking around at all. A skinny, old Italian man, accompanied by a young girl who might have been his niece or more likely his granddaughter, approached immediately. He brought with him a bottle of wine.
“Gentlemen,” he said presenting the wine bottle to them as if it were a great treasure. “Allow me to select this fine Chianti for you. Colle Bereto Chianti Classico, 1995. This is a wonderful wine, believe me. Make you warm in winter. Keep you cool in summer and make the women love you. If you don’t like it, you tell me so, it’s on me.” He handed the bottle to the young girl who tore off the seal and began screwing an opener into the top of the cork. While she did this, the Italian began with the specials for that night. With each one he went into great detail about the ingredients and the method of preparation, and ended each item with an opinion on the merits of the dish. He looked at Walter and, with a warm smile, said, “For you, the grouper piccata in a white wine sauce, with lemon and fried capers. On the side, some linguini, al dente, in a light clam sauce. No?”
The Lacey Confession Page 15