A layer of gray winter clouds obscured the ground from Boston to the Carolinas. After that, it was clear skies, bright blue and sunny all the way to St. Thomas. Flight time was nearly four hours, and Abby had been awake since before five o’clock. The American Airlines plane lifted off from Logan at 7:40 am. After a pretty decent breakfast, she considered taking a short nap, but Devereaux had sent her too much material to sleep. Instead, she opened the large envelope and removed a single, full file folder. It was unmarked. His brief cover note was signed with a simple LD. Very much in the Kennedy style, she thought, and wondered if he signed all his papers that way or if he did it only for her. Louis had a sly side, a dry sense of humor meant as much to entertain himself as for anyone else’s benefit. Maybe this was his way of telling her he knew.

Early on she learned the Kennedys communicated, in writing among themselves, with initials—RFK being the first ones she saw. Later she had the President’s personal memos Bobby gave her to read. They were each initialed JFK. Whenever Abby received something from Rose Kennedy, all there was to show Rose had sent it was a little RK at the bottom. Like a good soldier, she assumed the position, took the Kennedys as Romans, and began signing her memos, letters and longer papers AO. The current generation of Kennedys, even those bearing the names of their Kennedy sons-in-law’s fathers, were never entirely sure what Abby O’Malley did. She had little to do with them, but when they were called upon, they were attentive and responsive, deferential. Abby O’Malley was a force to be reckoned with within the family. Among those younger Kennedys, she was referred to as AK, not meaning Abby Kennedy, as Abby first thought, but rather “Almost Kennedy.” Abby never minded. She decided early on that they used it, if not as a true compliment, certainly as a sign of respect. Going over Devereaux’s gift package, she recalled her conversation with him a few days earlier.

“Are you taking your bathing suit?” he asked.

“I’m sixty-eight, Louis.” Boston was freezing, but she was, of course, aware that summer never vacated the Virgin Islands.

“I didn’t know there was an age limit, Abby. I hear the beaches on St. John are among the world’s best.”

“You haven’t said ‘you’re still a beautiful woman, Abby O’Malley.’”

“Self-evident,” said Devereaux. “What are you going to offer him?”

“Money,” she said. “I find that usually works quite well.”

“Usually,” he replied. “But not always. Sherman’s as close to unbuyable as I’ve ever seen—for a sane man, that is—and Harry Levine . . . ?” He left the question hanging there. “There will be other buyers, you know that. Not to mention those who might see no reason to pay for something they can just take. You’re not the only player on this field.”

“We know that. I’m fully cognizant of the damage already done. I can’t worry about that. I need Lacey’s confession. Until I have it I can’t be concerned about protecting it, or him. There is nothing I can do to help Walter Sherman, except take it off his hands as soon as possible.”

“Sunday?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope so too. But it doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

“He’ll be ready, I believe. He thinks it was us—me—who ordered the killings in England—Sir Anthony Wells and McHenry Brown. That will help. It always does when you think you’re dealing with someone serious. Do I need to convince him we . . .”

“He already knows Abby.”

“Knows? Knows what, Louis?”

“That you are not responsible for the killings.”

“Not responsible? Why do you say that?”

“From what you told me about the way he handled your man in Amsterdam, I’d say he believes you’re harmless. I’m also just as sure Sherman also knows that somebody out there isn’t.”

Abby had been worried about that. Since this began, since Frederick Lacey’s death, she was well aware she wasn’t the only one waiting for Lacey’s diary, his personal journal. Whoever it was who really killed Sir Anthony Wells and the American Ambassador, she couldn’t be sure how much, if anything, they knew about the Kennedys. If others wanted Lacey’s document, for their own reasons, reasons unknown and perhaps unknowable to Abby O’Malley, and if they got it, they would learn the secret of the Kennedys. What sort of blackmail might ensue? She couldn’t let that happen.

“Do you think he knows who is doing the killing?” she asked Devereaux.

“Doing, not done?” he responded. “You expect more? No, I don’t think Sherman knows that, not yet. Give him enough time and he will. He’s that good, better even. If I told you what this guy has done . . .”

“I hear it in your voice, Louis. You’re an admirer of Mr. Sherman.”

“I met him, you know.”

“I declare—you’re star struck, Mr. Devereaux.”

“Had dinner with him. He can be shaken, but not easily. Once he reads it, he’ll figure out who it is.”

“Do you know?”

“Do I know? Of course not. How can I know without reading whatever it is Lacey’s written? I suspect there’s something in his confession—perhaps unrelated to the Kennedy family—something important to someone. Someone we don’t know. And there’s always the possibility that whoever that someone might be, they might kill to get the document, only to discover that whatever it is they’re looking for is not there.”

“No guarantees?”

“Guarantees? There is no guarantee Sherman even has the document with him. I’d say the odds were against you there. You can’t get it if he doesn’t have it, can you? Worse yet, Abby, it could just as well be that there is something in Lacey’s journal—forget what he did to the Kennedys—something that’s not just embarrassing, something instead that’s valuable.”

“Killing Joe Jr., John and Robert Kennedy is not just embarrassing, Louis. It’s historical treachery, an obscenity of mammoth proportions.”

“I meant no offense, really.”

“None taken.”