The Lacey Confession (20 page)

“Before you go to sleep, Harry, tell me where the document is—where you put it. I'll go pick it up while you rest.”

“It's safe.”

“I'm sure it is, but where is it?” Harry had an uncomfortable sense, a feeling there was an unfriendly edge to her voice. It bothered him. A lot. He fought to stay awake. Who was this Tucker Poesy anyway?

“Where are you from, Tucker?”

“Where am I from?” she said. Harry was thinking Connecticut, Maryland maybe Virginia. The kind of girl who went to Vassar or Brown. “Lincoln, Nebraska,” she said. That woke him.
Lincoln, Nebraska
. He'd never been there, not even close, but always assumed Nebraska to be chockfull of chubby, blonde farm girls who, if they went to college at all, went to one of several Midwestern state schools, the ones with 30,000 students, football teams and Veterinary Medicine departments. Either he had a lot to learn or Tucker Poesy was full of shit.

She really was from Lincoln, Nebraska. Subterfuge and deception of this kind—casual conversation—were not weapons in her arsenal. They weren't called for in her line of work and she wasn't ready to lie about something as basic as where she was from. She had no immediate sense it might be a good idea. Strictly speaking she was not from Lincoln. She said that because Lincoln was the first place she had her own apartment. She had, in fact, been born and raised in a series of small farming towns throughout Nebraska. Her father was a farmer—not the kind who owns a farm, the sort who gets up early in the morning with the crowing of the rooster and the rising sun, eats a breakfast of scrambled eggs with hot coffee and fresh baked biscuits, kisses his devoted wife goodbye and heads out to the fields for a day's work. Far from it. Wayne Poesy was a drunk with hardly a penny to his name. He always worked, but never had his own place. Tucker was brought up living from farm to farm, wherever her father was a hired man. Usually, the farmer—the real farmer—rented the Poesys a house as part of the deal. As a kid, Tucker never knew why they moved so frequently. She just knew they did. Wayne was a nasty drunk. His wife, to her credit at least, was a secret, quiet one. While Tucker's dad drank away the family's spare dollars, her mother often passed out by nine o'clock from the sheer volume of cheap wine she drank every day. Her father beat her as a child, along with her two older brothers. When she got older, he tried even worse. She fought him off as best she could, but she was a twelve-year-old girl and he was a powerful bully. The smell of whiskey and stale cigarette smoke haunted her still. At eighteen, she left, but not before shooting her father. She used his own .38, a large, heavy pistol with which she had practiced endlessly in preparation. A single shot struck him in the middle of his forehead. Wayne Poesy was the first person she killed and forever the most satisfying. Her mother knew, and her brothers were fairly certain, but the police never figured it out and probably didn't care to. Wayne Poesy had few friends.

Murder for hire is not a thriving business in Nebraska, so Tucker moved to Chicago looking for steady work. It wasn't hard to find. In real life, mobsters don't live in splendid isolation, surrounded by loyal soldiers. Quite the opposite. Most gangsters are sad, lonely men constantly frightened by any of a series of legitimate causes. In many cases, people really are out to kill them. The paranoid fantasies of regular citizens are the very essence of everyday life for many modern desperados. Calling
Tony the hit man
for help is hardly a realistic option.
He is never just down the hall or a phone call away. That only happens in the movies. Killers are actually hard to find and good ones command top dollar and preferential treatment. It's a good living. Tucker Poesy found employment in Chicago the same way most people do—she went around looking for an opening and when she found one, asked for the job. Everybody knew who the bad guys were in the city of Chicago. The best part was they were not like corporate vice-presidents. They were easy to see and friendly to talk to. She made the rounds like a would-be actor seeking an audition until one of the black street gangs retained her to kill a white businessman they couldn't get close to. She didn't ask why they wanted him dead—none of her business. All she needed was his name and a photo. The next morning, a single shot to the head, fired in a crowded office building lobby, made her reputation.

Nine years later, at 28, Tucker Poesy took an assignment in Europe. She had been many places in the United States. Her first time outside the country, her first time in Europe, was a great, new experience. She liked it there, and stayed. There was plenty of international work to be had. Louis Devereaux found her, by reputation only, two years later. She did a job in Prague the details of which he found hard to believe. Tucker was hired to kill a man thought by his enemies to be untouchable. Previous attempts had all failed miserably. The target, a modern-day Eastern European bandit, was ensconced in a rooftop suite in one of Prague's newest hotels. He was, according to the information she had been given, constantly accompanied by five bodyguards. She was given bad information. Her target actually had seven bodyguards. No problem. She managed to work around it. Tucker Poesy posed as a bellhop bringing dry cleaning to a guest. She entered the suite holding a suit, on a hanger, wrapped in clear plastic in front of her. Two bodyguards, one poised to take the hanger from her, opened the door. She shot each of them through the suit. The silencer on her Israeli-made .9mm was so effective even she had a hard time hearing the shots. As she went farther into the suite, she called out, “Housekeeping. Dry cleaning.” She spent more than a week getting those two words right, in the Slovak dialect expected of a hotel employee. Her accent was pretty good. The third bodyguard came from the hallway to meet her. He carried a pistol in a holster slung over his left shoulder, the gun tucked in beneath his armpit. Tucker handed him the suit in a way that required him to react with his right hand. At that point, when he was disabled, no longer free to reach his weapon, she shot him one time in the center of his chest. She expected to find her target, with two remaining bodyguards, in the sitting room at the end of the hall.

When she walked in and saw the man she was hired to kill sitting at a small marble table eating what looked to be sausage and vegetables, she also saw the other four men. She calculated immediately. Her handgun held nine shots. Three were already gone. With six remaining bullets she had to hit five targets. She was certain all of them would be in motion as soon as she showed her hand. She decided to leave her primary target for last. He was stuffing his face with food and appeared unarmed. She needed to hit four men before any of them struck back. Three of them were standing and from the positions they occupied in reference to herself, she decided two would peel off to her right and the third to her left. The fourth man was sitting and had his back to her. He could wait. He would be the last bodyguard. In less time than it took to cough up a tiny piece of sausage swallowed the wrong way, she shot all three standing bodyguards. They had moved exactly as she thought they would. The fourth man was slow to react. He turned to see what was going on without pulling his gun out. She shot him in the top of his skull while bounding past the fallen bodies, approaching the target. She had two bullets left. Her instructions were to make this death as painful as possible. She didn't care much for orders like that, but her client added twenty-five thousand dollars for her trouble. She felt honor bound to comply. The fat man, with food still in mouth, couldn't get up. He was frozen to the spot. His eyes were the size of tennis balls, filled with dread. Tucker reached over the table and fired a shot into his huge gut. The man tumbled out of his chair onto the floor grabbing his midsection, moaning. She didn't like that at all, twenty-five thousand or not, and fired her eighth shot into the back of his head. After dropping the dry-cleaned suit on the floor, she retraced her steps to the Housekeeping Department, removed her uniform and put her own clothes back on, then took the elevator to the hotel lobby, went to the bar and had a glass of cold Chardonnay before leaving for the airport. Soon thereafter, Louis Devereaux called to offer fulltime employment at a level of income she would have had a difficult time reaching on her own. She could base herself in any European capital she wished. She chose London, where Devereaux established her public relations company as a permanent cover. When she went to pick up Harry Levine, she had been working for Devereaux's rouge CIA unit for almost three years. She had never been happier.

“We need the document,” she said. “Mr. Devereaux wants it right away. Do you want to go with me to get it, or should I go alone? What do you think, Harry?”

“I'll take you,” said Harry. “Just let me sleep a half hour, okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Close your eyes. But listen for the stove. Water's boiling. I'm going to use the toilet for a second.”

“I will,” Harry said. “When the water's ready, I'll pour.”

Tucker Poesy kicked off her shoes and made for the bathroom down the hall across from the bedroom. As soon as she closed the door, Harry rose from the couch, grabbed his coat, which covered hers on the hook next to the front door and, closing the door slowly and silently behind him, quietly slipped out of the flat. Out on the street, he ran as fast as he could.

The whistle of the kettle on the stove got her attention. “Fuck!” said Tucker Poesy when she came out of the bathroom and saw Harry was gone. “Fuck!” She picked up her phone and made a call to Louis Devereaux in Washington. She told him exactly what happened, how she met Harry, where they went and what they talked about. She was not shy about telling Devereaux she fucked up by going to the bathroom, leaving him by himself. “I had no idea he was suspicious,” she said. “How am I going to find him now?”

“You won't,” said Devereaux. “But you won't have to. I know who will. What you'll do is follow him. He'll lead you to Harry Levine. His name is Walter Sherman.”

“Who's he?”

“Someone I never thought you—or I—would ever get to meet.
The Locator
himself. Watch yourself, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I'll send you everything you need on Sherman. Pick it up from the Indian in an hour. When Sherman leaves for Europe, which he'll have to do, I'll let you know. It might take a day or two. Don't screw it up again.”

He met her in 1988. In January, in New Orleans. She was there for a concert at the Superdome when he called. He flew down from Washington hoping his hometown would be warmer. He arrived on the coldest day of the winter, the temperature near freezing and a stiff breeze blowing in from Texas making it feel just as cold as Washington, D.C., worse yet for the disappointment. Conchita Crystal was staying at The Maison de Ville in the French Quarter. In those days, international terrorism was hardly a matter for public discussion. Although its roots have always been ideological, in 1988 terrorism was mainly thought of as a for-profit business that crossed national boarders. Few even used the word
terrorism
. Hijackers, kidnappers, thieves, even bandits were some of the common descriptions. From time to time reports crossed Devereaux's desk about thieves and killers whose activities appeared to have political connections. Some probably did. Some didn't. It was not a high priority concern for him or anyone else at Langley. In the main, his task was to review the reports for political and historical import and accuracy. As far as he knew, none of the activities he examined had ever been the cause of a CIA reaction on the ground. Using the resources at their command, the CIA was able to enlist others to do their work for them when called for. Devereaux knew of one such action involving the local police in Frankfurt, Germany and Istanbul, Turkey. The culprits were rounded up, shipped off to jail and the problem solved. To the best of his knowledge, there had never been a valid event in the United States.

The information that came to his attention right after New Year's 1988 changed that. For the tiny leadership group with access to this operation, the Conchita Crystal Affair would mark the beginning of Islamic terrorism aimed at the United States. No one at headquarters wanted to broaden the scope of it or bring into the picture new people. Keeping things close was a religion at the CIA and Louis Devereaux, while not yet a Cardinal, was every bit a senior Archbishop. It was left to him to deal with Ms. Crystal.

She was expecting him. He called her the day before. She was impressed that he could get right to her, past all the interference put in place to make that very thing impossible. He explained briefly who he was and that he needed to see her immediately. He did not give her any details. Then he went to the airport and flew to New Orleans. When she answered the knock on the door of her cottage, Devereaux introduced himself and said, “Let's talk in the courtyard. You never know how much privacy you have in a room.”

“It's beautiful there, Mr. Devereaux, but it's—”

“Cold. I know. Put on a jacket or a coat. If you don't have one we'll get you one. But we'll talk outside.”

Of course she had a coat. He knew she would. She got it and they walked to the courtyard and sat at a small table near the center. It was beautiful and it was cold. It was late in the morning, too late for breakfast, and they were the only ones there.

“On a nice day this place would be crowded,” he said.

“I'm sure.”

“I'm surprised you're staying here,” said Devereaux. “I would have thought—”

“My people are at the Hilton,” she smiled. “We all have
people
, don't we?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But you probably don't have to make hotel reservations for yours, do you? I like this hotel. I'll show you around when we're done.”

“Thanks. I'd like that. I've always been partial to the Vieux Carre. You know, Ms. Crystal, some say the Maison de Ville and its cottages are the oldest structures in New Orleans. This courtyard, for instance, was first built after the terrible fire of 1786. Tell me, if you don't mind, why are you staying in a two-bedroom cottage instead of a suite?”

“I like the room,” she said. “You're a fountain of information about this hotel, aren't you? What else can you tell me? You've stayed here before, haven't you?”

“No, I haven't. But I can tell you that Tennessee Williams did. He used to stay here all the time. He wrote
Streetcar
over there in room number nine.”

She looked at him, waiting for the other shoe. “And?” she said.

“And, when I'm in New Orleans, which is not as often as I'd like, I stay at home.” He smiled at her. It was a way of showing he was a friend. “You haven't answered my question—the cottage, not the suite?” This time it was Chita who smiled. “And?” prompted Devereaux.

“And, who knows,” she replied. “You never know when you'll need the room. I might have a friend stay over.”

“In the other bedroom?”

“Sure,” said the mega-star Chita Crystal. “I'm a married woman, if you didn't know.”

“Separated, I believe. Divorce papers ready to file any day.”

“You know a lot. That's not public and hasn't been leaked either.”

“Yes, I do Ms. Crystal. I know things other people don't. That's why I'm here.”

She took it well. No histrionics. No melodrama. Devereaux laid it out for her. A group of radical Muslims, headquartered out of Yemen, had plans to kidnap certain celebrities. Currently they had a short list, one name—hers. It was also a small group, a group with no record of activity in the past, but the information was first-rate and the concern heightened by the fact that they had been unable to take out these people in an operation staged three days earlier. Devereaux told her he was seriously concerned she might be a target right now. “I believe you are in immediate jeopardy,” he said.

“What do they want with me?”

“They want to behead you.” That got Devereaux a reaction, just the reaction he wanted if she was going to cooperate. She stopped breathing and the color in her face—her beautiful, brown-skinned face—went to white. It was really the first time Devereaux allowed himself to think about how lovely Chita Crystal was. “They want to attack the symbols of Western culture. No one fits that description better than you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You'll have to cancel your concert. Say you're ill. We have the medical records to prove it if necessary. We would like to put you up someplace until we get this thing under control.”

“Where?”

“Delaware. The house belongs to us. It's clear for fifty acres. Absolutely safe. We've used it before. And the facilities are magnificent. You will not be unhappy there.”

“Who will be there with me?”

“Staff.”

“What staff?”

“My staff.”

“How long will I be there?”

“I don't know. Not long. A few days. A week, maybe two. Not long.”

That was how they met. Chita stayed in Delaware for eleven days. Devereaux came to see her every day. They talked, sometimes for hours. He didn't have to be there and she soon realized that. He wanted to be near her, with her. Many men had the same desire. She was used to dealing with that. Since she was fifteen, men offered to take care of Chita Crystal. She'd made some mistakes along the way. Her second marriage was about to go bust and she was not yet thirty years old. An army of men waited for her. Louis Devereaux was different. His protection was real, as real as the threat. And on the eleventh day, he came to tell her the people who wanted to cut her head off were all dead themselves. She was safe to go. Louis Devereaux had killed for her. That was a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac. It was Chita who first reached out to hold him, to bring him close to her. Louis Devereaux was as ready as any man would be. Their affair began that afternoon.

Few people knew it, but kick-ass rock 'n' roll was Devereaux's favorite. Allman Brothers, Bob Seger—he was especially fond of The Band, a little softer sound, but nothing he ever heard compared to “The Weight,” done live. Because The Band was so closely connected to Bob Dylan, a lot of people thought “The Weight” had religious overtones. Devereaux, however, knew it was only about a trip to Nazareth, Pennsylvania, home of the world-famous Martin guitar company. Many times, over many years, he sang along with that recording. The opening chords repeating and repeating in his head were often impossible to silence, sometimes even while he was in the midst of the most important meetings. After awhile, he no longer fought it.

Pulled into Nazareth/was feeling
'
bout half-past dead

Now, all these years later, he was singing a familiar duet with Robbie Robertson, as he fixed a small plate of cheese and crackers.

AND, AND, AND—put the load right on me

The two glasses of ice-cold Chardonnay sat next to him on the counter, ready to go. A minute later he put his tray down next to the bed.

“You think of everything, Louis.”

“For you, my dear, everything is hardly enough. I'd give you the Earth and the stars, if I could. You'd take it too.”

“You can't?”

They both laughed, neither sure of the answer.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, watching her reach over to pick up a glass of wine. The bed sheet, which was the only thing left on the bed, caught a gust of air as Chita sat up, and floated away, dropping to the floor. She looked at Devereaux and saw in his eyes what she had never seen in the eyes of any other man. No matter what happened to her, nothing muted Louis' self-confidence. It wasn't that her own accomplishments were less. How could anyone question her success? It was just that his were more. She was a figment of popular culture, marketing, advertising, promotion. He was a man of substance, a man who knew not only how the world turned, but a man who guided its spin. He was a man who killed for her. Who else had done that? Who else could have?

She recalled the story of Marilyn Monroe, when she was Mrs. Joe DiMaggio. Marilyn had returned from a USO tour, visiting the troops in far-off Korea. Her head was still buzzing from the fantastic reception she received. “Joe!” she cried, all excited. “There were twenty-five thousand men, all screaming and cheering for me. Can you imagine what that's like?” No wonder DiMaggio beat her. Chita would never make that mistake with Louis Devereaux. It could never happen. Whatever the façade of her celebrity, he wore power—real power—and it fit him like a comfortable bathrobe after a clean shave and a hot shower.

“Come over here,” she said, without speaking a word. As he leaned toward her, she reached up holding his face in both hands. “Think you can—do it again?” she asked with a little laugh. “Or does a man like you need a few minutes more?” Louis Devereaux gently placed his wine glass on the end table next to the bed, lay down and rolled over grabbing and twisting her until she sat on top of him. Nothing pleased him as much as looking up at her, this way, her breasts only inches away from his mouth, her smile his only blanket.

“I love you. You know that, don't you?” he said.

“Will we find the gold? Is it really there?” she asked.

“It's there. Worry not, my sweet.”