The Lacey Confession

by Richard Greener

  She had called Walter yesterday, introduced herself as Aminette Messadou, and said she needed to talk with him. Talk about Harry Levine.

  “Why?” he asked her.

  “I think it’s best to wait until we meet, face to face, as it were.” She sounded like a young, American girl except for the slight vee when she said, “. . . until we meet . . .” Walter allowed there was a chance it was just the phone, a poor quality instrument and not the voice.

  “If I told you I had no idea who—what did you say his name was—Harry Levine is?”

  “I would say it is best we speak of it when we meet.” There it was, again, the vee. Walter agreed to meet Ms. Messadou at Caneel Bay, the next day. He’d wait until then, he determined, to place her accent.

  He spotted her immediately. She sat alone at a table near the front, facing the entrance, not the beach. Nobody ate alone here and most of the other diners arranged their chairs so all at the table could view the sea. She did not look comfortable or at ease. In fact, Walter thought she appeared visibly on edge. Her legs were crossed, but her feet were in constant motion, up and down, side to side. She moved silverware around with her hands. When he entered, stopped and stood by the hostess’ stand for a moment, she looked up. When she rose, sporting a pasty smile, he began walking her way.

  “Walter Sherman,” he said in his friendly, everyday St. John voice.

  “Aminette Messadou,” she replied, holding her hand to him. He took it politely, then gave it back. He figured her to be young, but this was younger than he thought. She was quite beautiful, but surely no more than twenty—if that—slim, skinny to some, with long, thin arms, legs to match and a neck that seemed to never quit. Her complexion was dark, Mediterranean, Central Asian perhaps, with no obvious imperfections save a single, small dark brown birthmark on the right side of her neck, near the ear. She wore her exceptionally straight, black hair long. Walter didn’t know much about women’s haircuts, but he was certain this one cost a fortune. Her smile was, as he noticed right away, forced. He decided to see how nervous she was.

  “I don’t take well to strangers,” he said. “Especially those who come to my island and have balls big enough to invite me to lunch. Of course, you don’t appear to have any balls, big or otherwise.”

  “Please,” she motioned, any sign of nerves gone, floated away with the gentle breeze off the water, “sit.” Pretty quick adjustment, he thought.

  A waitress approached, a middle-aged black woman, very short and considerably on the hefty side. She smiled at them both and took her notepad and pen out. “Miss?” she said looking at Aminette Messadou. “Have you decided?” The girl ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, onions, mushrooms, lettuce and tomato, French fries and a vodka martini with an olive and a twist. Not the salad and Evian Walter might have expected. Then the waitress turned to Walter and asked, “What would you like, Mr. Sherman?”

  “Turkey sandwich, on rye toast please,” he answered. “And Margaret, no mayo.” Margaret smiled again, at both of them, and was off to place her orders in the kitchen.

  “You are not drinking anything, Mr. Sherman?”

  “She knows what I drink. Now, tell me, who are you and what can I do for you?”

  “My great-uncle, four generations removed, was the great man Djemmal-Eddin. His brother was my father’s great-grandfather. I am named for Djemmal-Eddin’s daughter, Aminette Messadou, who died more than eighty-five years ago, in childbirth, as women will. It is my mission in life to be worthy of her memory. My family has not forgotten her. The man you are hired to find, Harry Levine, has something that belongs to Aminette’s husband. He too was a great man, her husband, a powerful man among his own people, widely respected and honored among mine. Now that he is gone we seek to recover what is rightfully ours.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “When you find Mr. Levine, you shall also find the document. We very much want you to persuade Mr. Levine he should give it to us.”

  “How badly do you want this . . . document?”

  “You are not familiar with it?”

  “The document?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I am not. May I ask, what is it that brings you to me in the first place? How do you know me and what makes you think I have any interest in this man you call Harry Levine?” Aminette Messadou was wearing a lime green summer dress made from a smooth and silky polyester. Catching the breeze as if it owned the wind, it barely fluttered about her shoulders, its scooped neck shimmering even without benefit of direct sunlight. The color was just right for her tan skin and black hair. She leaned forward across the table, elbows resting on the glass, and chuckled. Walter could see nearly all of her small breasts. It was a lovely sight, still he could not help himself. He looked carefully for tan lines. There were none. A girl with her skin color, he thought, it was hard to define a suntan. Either she had none or she regularly sunbathed topless. He had no time to figure that one out. Not now.

  “We are too cute,” she laughed, her smile now genuine and warm to the eye. “You and I are to be allies, Mr. Sherman. We have nothing to fear from one another. Harry Levine’s aunt is among the most famous people on Earth. When she visits you—a man who makes his way through life finding others—it is both not a secret and not a mystery. Not much of one anyway.”

  “Did you ever meet Lord Frederick Lacey?” Walter asked. For an instant, nervousness, maybe even fear, reappeared in Aminette Messadou’s deep brown, almond eyes. She sat back in her seat as Margaret served them. The last thing the heavy-set black woman did was put a Diet Coke in front of Walter, in a glass bottle.

  “No,” Aminette Messadou said. “I never met him. Yet he was one of us, family to us. And we to him.”

  “Just why do you need this document? What’s in it?”

  “That I cannot say. To be true, I do not know. But I was told that when you asked such a question, I was to tell you, you would be better off not knowing.”

  “Humm,” said Walter taking a small bite of his sandwich, watching this lovely girl do battle with her huge burger. She took a bite so large she closed her eyes tight. Juice, cheese and a little tomato dripped from the side of her burger bun farthest from her and nearest to him. He could hardly restrain himself. It was all too funny. Had he just been threatened? He chose to be direct. “Your people have sent a child to do the work of a grown-up,” he said. “A delightful child, to be sure, beautiful as an afternoon on St. John—like this one—but still a child.” If he had been threatened, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge it.

  “I assure you . . .” she said, trying hard not to talk with her mouth full.

  “It appears there’s very little you can assure me of.” Walter sipped his drink, took another, bigger bite of his turkey sandwich and relaxed a little. The ball was in her court, if indeed she had a court. Either he was right—they had sent a kid to do an adult’s job—or this was her defining moment, the time for her to stop shitting him and say what it was that was on her mind. He had no place else to go, plenty of time. It was a lovely day. The food was on her tab. He’d wait, at least until he finished his sandwich.

  “I will tell you,” she finally said. “Because you are known to be a man of discretion, a man of trust.”

  “You will tell me the truth?”

  “I know no other way. As you have seen, I have been reluctant to say anything, but I have not been false. And I will not be.”

  Djemmal-Eddin Messadou was a leader, a Georgian with a strong following also in Dagestan, the land of his ancestors. He was not unknown either in Azerbaijan. Aminette Messadou told Walter that when Georgia, together with Dagestan and Azerbaijan, formed the anti-Bolshevik Transcaucasian Federation, in 1917, and later on, when the Federation collapsed and Georgia declared its independence on May 26, 1918, Djemmal-Eddin was a leader of both movements. It was during those years, Aminette related to Walter, that her namesake met and married the dashing young Englishman, Frederick Lacey. “He was a military man of great reputation. H
e was in the British Navy. All my life I have heard him spoken of and no one has ever been sure of his place, his rank as you say. So many stories. So many different ranks. There is more mystery than fact about him, of that I’m certain.” She continued on with her story. The freedom of Georgia was short-lived. The British and Americans, like the Turks before them, and many others before the Turks, abandoned their Asian outposts on the edges of mother Russia. One by one, the free republics that had declared their independence from the Czar and the Bolsheviks fell before the might of the Red Army. Lithuania, Moldavia, Don, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Dagestan, Armenia—all of them. And Georgia too, in February 1921.

  Djemmal-Eddin marshaled his forces in retreat, having no choice but to run from the advancing army of Russians. Finally, she told Walter, the nephew of the Lion of Dagestan brought his men through the Klukhori Pass, to the edge of the sea, to the last remaining spot of free Georgia, the old Turkish fortress of Sukhum-Kale. All hope was gone. Bloody defeat was a certainty. Aminette told her story with a depth of feeling Walter found irresistible. He saw eighty years of telling it in her youthful face. This may be the story of a defeated people, but there was a majesty and wonder about it. It was with grace that Aminette presented to him the glory that was Georgia and the memory of her family’s proud role there.

  Just as the inevitable end approached, Djemmal-Eddin was saved by his son-in-law, Frederick Lacey. Under Lacey’s command, a fleet of ships rescued him and many of his men, sailing from the Turkish port only hours in advance of the Russian onslaught. “There were many items, of a personal nature, important to my family, that were carried out of Georgia on those ships, Mr. Sherman. We have waited many years to reclaim them.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Walter. “Why didn’t you—your family, I mean—get them off the ships when you reached safe harbor?”

  “Those were difficult times. My people were in exile, stateless, in need of friends. Much of what we had went to secure those friends. Other things were best hidden for safekeeping. It is those things we seek now.”

  “Why didn’t Lacey give them back years ago? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I told you I never met Lord Lacey, and that is true. But I have heard him discussed many times. And always he is described as a special man, a strange man in certain ways, a man devoted to my father’s great-grandfather’s brother, Djemmal-Eddin. When Lord Lacey lost his wife, in the birth of their daughter, he turned to Djemmal-Eddin for comfort and found it there. When he too died, not long after free Georgia died, Lacey decided not to reveal the hiding place to anyone. I said earlier, he is of our family and we are of his, but Lord Lacey was not a trusting man, never close, in a personal way, to my family after his beloved wife and her father were gone.”

  “You believe the hiding place for your family’s jewels is written down in Lacey’s journal?”

  “Yes, we do. And, I said nothing about jewels.”

  “Just a saying,” said Walter. “Not meant literally.”

  “Will you help us?”

  Walter gazed into her tender eyes. God, he thought, if you could bottle that and sell it, there’s no telling how rich you would be. There was nothing he could do now, no way he could help with a document he did not have, no way he could encourage cooperation from Harry Levine unless and until he found him. “Who knows what the future will bring,” he said and told her she should stay in touch. Then he invited Aminette Messadou to dinner at Billy’s. She declined, saying she had to leave the island immediately. She was expected elsewhere.

  The old man saw him come through the door and quickly made his way to the front of the restaurant. Harry recognized him too, from Louis Devereaux’s description, but didn’t immediately understand how the Indian had recognized him. He expected to announce himself at the hostess’ desk and decided to ask if anyone left a message for him. Harry had no idea Devereaux had faxed his picture to the little office behind the kitchen in The Standard. The Indian was ready for Harry Levine.

  “Ah, Mr. Levine,” he said, in that peculiar singsong accent Harry had grown so fond of. He seemed very happy to see Harry and spoke to him as if he were a frequent and loyal customer. “Here’s your order.” He handed Harry a paper bag. The smell of curry was in the air. “Be careful, Mr. Levine,” he said. “It’s hot on the bottom. Don’t forget now, okay?”

  “Thank you,” Harry said. He handed the Indian some money—he thought it was the right thing to do under the circumstances.

  “No, no,” protested the old man with a big smile. “It’s all taken care of. Enjoy.” Harry took the bag, turned around and walked out, back into the fast darkening afternoon, still cold, still wet. Once again, he had nowhere to go. As if by instinct, he hailed the first cab he could find.

  Without thinking he gave the driver the address of his own flat and instantly realized that had been a mistake. If they were looking for him, they would eventually find a cabbie who had a fare who instructed him to go to . . . What a stupid thing to do! Harry silently berated himself. Too late now. Comfortably secure, warm and dry in the back seat, Harry opened the bag. Inside was a container, the kind used for take-out meals. It was warm but not hot. He opened the lid to find some sort of chicken dish with a rich, full aroma, not curry, in a sauce he was unfamiliar with. Indian food had never been among Harry’s favorites. There didn’t appear to be anything else in the bag. The Indian told him it was hot on the bottom. It wasn’t, not when he gave him the bag back in the restaurant and not as Harry opened it. He lifted the food container. Underneath, on the bottom, was a piece of paper folded in half. Harry pulled it out, unfolded it and looked at it. A number, that’s what it was, a telephone number.

  “You can let me out here,” he said to the cab driver.

  “Are you sure, sir? Bit nasty out there.”

  “I am. This will be fine, thank you.” As the taxi drove away, Harry recalled how earlier, he had been forced to look for a public telephone to call the President—My God! he thought, he’d called the President of the United States, twice today!—but the number on the piece of paper the Indian gave him was a local one. Harry flipped open his cell phone and punched the numbers. It rang only once.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “This is Harry . . .”

  “Harry!” she shouted. There was sheer joy in her voice, a glee that could only indicate great intimacy. “I thought we were going to be late. I’m so happy you called. They’re expecting us at the Waterstone’s in twenty minutes. See you there, darling!” Harry had no opportunity to say anything. She hung up. The Waterstone’s in twenty minutes? What the hell was that all about? Then he realized—she was afraid her telephone was tapped, afraid someone was listening. In the rush to get to The Standard, and afterward in the comfort of the cab, Harry had forgotten the danger he faced. His mind was spinning. Every American in Egypt is in jeopardy, he kept thinking. The fear was back. Waterstone’s . . . ? Of course, the bookshop. Twenty minutes. He’d be there.

  It took him less than fifteen minutes to get to Piccadilly Circus. The rain had stopped. It made no difference that it was Saturday. For London another chilly winter day had edged its way into a cold evening. He knew the bookstore well. He’d been there many times. He walked into Waterstone’s trying not to look around too much. Who am I kidding? he said, practically out loud. He had no idea who he was looking for. He didn’t want to bring notice to himself, or look silly. Whoever this woman was—she had sounded more like a young girl than a woman, somebody in her twenties perhaps—Harry had no doubt she would know him by sight. The Indian had. He was thumbing through a copy of C. P. Snow’s Time of Hope when he felt a soft hand touch his own.

  “Come with me, Harry,” she said, in a calm and definitely personal voice. He hesitated, just an instant, his body jerking ever so slightly to one side then to the other. “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re safe with me. No one’s looking for you here.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am sure of it,”
she said. “If they knew where you were, they would no longer be looking. They would already have you, wouldn’t they?” She looked at him with an expression that clearly asked for confirmation of what seemed such an elemental fact.

  “Right,” he said. He closed the book, put it down and together with this strange young woman, he walked out of the bookstore, into total uncertainty, vulnerable as if he were naked.

  When he was fifteen, Harry underwent surgery to repair a hydrocele, a highly sensitive condition, the unfortunate result of a failure on his part to properly protect himself playing pickup football in the neighborhood. Leaving Waterstone’s, he was reminded of that time. He recalled the helplessness he felt being wheeled down the hospital corridors on his way to the operating room. His testicles were, after all, the matter in question and even at fifteen—maybe especially at fifteen—the idea of somebody taking a knife to that special area did not leave Harry with a good feeling. His safety, perhaps even his manhood, was in the hands of strangers with sharp instruments. He knew it couldn’t really happen, but for a moment, fifteen-year-old Harry Levine, worried anyway about the possibility of someone cutting his balls off. Fortunately things turned out well, the hydrocyle repaired, his balls intact—both of them still there. His experience, post-op, had been a positive one. He’d gotten through it with good spirits. He decided now, walking arm in arm with a woman whose name he didn’t even know, going who-the-hell-knows where, to adopt the same positive attitude.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To my car.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tucker Poesy. Walk faster,” she urged him. “I’m cold.”

  “Isn’t that a boy’s name?”

  “Do I look like a boy?” she challenged him.

  “No,” Harry said, although why he bothered to say it mystified him. She didn’t and he knew it, knew it the moment he first saw her. Tucker Poesy looked like the kind of girl he went to law school with. Only better looking. She was small, maybe five feet four inches, thin featured in the way New Englanders sometimes are, with straight, dark hair, cut above the shoulders. She was light complexioned, a fact Harry thought might just be the result of living in London. It was winter. Who got any sun these days? A light coat was all she wore over a simple, black dress with a high neckline. As much of her legs as he could see looked quite nice. The rest of her, he imagined quite accurately, was slim, taut, small breasted. She was nobody’s law student. Tucker Poesy had a dancer’s body—hard but smooth, muscular, swift. Was she? He wondered. Was she a dancer?