Kill and Be Killed

by Louis Begley

  We finished our coffee. She turned down my offer of a cognac or single-malt scotch, saying she had to go home to prepare for a deposition first thing the next morning.

  Are you walking? I asked.

  Yes, but Dad’s security guy will have my back, and I’ll call you when I get home. Though I’ve got to say I’m cross, she added, all evening I’ve waited for an invitation to another dinner that never came, and yet here I am, not going out of town, and free every evening!

  —

  During the rest of that week I went to the hospital for checkups, received reports from increasingly frustrated Martin and Lee, lunched at home with Simon Lathrop, wrote as much as five hours a day, and, of course—a warrior’s reward—had nightly dinner with Heidi. Don’t be fooled, Captain, she’d tell me. I’m really coming for Feng’s soups and dumplings, not your conversation. An unspoken question was seldom far from my mind. Is it possible that I’m falling in love—let’s not kid ourselves, have fallen in love—with this beguiling little witch? Even though it’s clear that she can’t and won’t love me? At the edge of that question, which I didn’t care to answer, I reasoned with myself. Of course, she likes you. She’s well intentioned and good-natured, and you’re an interesting and not-unattractive sort of fellow. But the teasing and flirting mean nothing. She can’t help casting her spells any more than she can help being beautiful and elegant. Enjoy being with her as much and as long as she’ll let you, but don’t be a knucklehead, don’t take any of it seriously.

  The result was work so concentrated that four days later, on Saturday morning, I completed my draft and was able to tell Heidi, when she called shortly afterward to confirm our dinner date at eight, that we’d have martinis as usual, but after the meal we’d drink a bottle of very good champagne. It’s the least we can do, I said. I have trouble believing it, but I’ve actually finished the goddamn book! All that’s left is revisions. I’m getting right on them.

  Unless, I added, you want to come over right now!

  How I wish I could, she told me, but I’m at the office working and when I finish I have to hit the gym.

  All right, I said. I’ll revise. Might as well keep going.

  That’s what I did. A lot of what’s involved in correcting the text of a true story like my account of Harry’s murder and the revenge that followed is mechanical. You have to make sure that you haven’t screwed up the chronology and that you’ve got right the places where you say you’ve been and the events that occurred there. I try to pay attention to such details as I go along, and each day, when I sit down to write, I first go over and correct what I wrote the day before, then write my obligatory thirteen hundred words, and, before I quit, I take a first crack at correcting that chunk of text as well. Like everyone who writes on a computer, I keep saving my text probably more often than is absolutely necessary. At the end of the day I take an extra precaution: I send the new text to myself as an attachment to a separate email account that I use for no other purpose: jdanatexts@gmail.com. Having lost several thumb drives that I used as backstops in the past, I’ve settled on this method as the surest. Yes, one can imagine Armageddon in which all of Google’s servers would perish, but if they did is it likely that, even if I were among the survivors, I would have nothing more urgent to worry about than my drafts? Or that there would still be readers eager for my new book? I never visit the jdanatexts account until I’ve completed the draft of a book unless, as has happened once, my laptop crashed and I plunged into jdanatexts to fish out and download the still current drafts to my new machine. But, when the draft is complete, I find immense satisfaction in opening the account and deleting the daily accretion of documents: chapter 1 as of such and such date, chapter 1 two days later, and on and on. It’s like cleaning out your closet and throwing out running shoes you’ve worn so long and so hard they have holes in them. During a pause in revising, I was happily deleting away, whistling off-key “It’s been a hard day’s night,” when suddenly I was brought up short. All those emails I sent to myself showed up as jackdanany with the subject line below. This one was different: kerryblack22—Kerry’s Gmail address that, before she left me, I’d see pop up on my G-chat screen whenever she had a free moment and could send a message, often just a few words followed by a smiley, to tell me she loved me, that she was thinking of our embraces. The subject line was URGENT-PLEASE READ. I realized that my hands were trembling. I leaned hard on my desk, controlled the tremor, and opened the email. The date jumped out at me: October 3, 2013, the day before she died. There were two attachments. I read the message with a mixture of elation and horror:

  Dearest Jack,

  Please believe me. I’ve never stopped loving you. I should have understood that you couldn’t stop yourself from killing that awful man—Slobo the Voice—not after having heard the recording of how he murdered Harry. Lord knows, you gave me fair warning that that was what you would do. But I got myself stuck in a groove of self-righteous indignation and once in it I didn’t know how to escape until it was too late, until I had sunk into such ignominious degradation that once you had understood it you would have had to reject me. Even if you had wanted to take me back, I wouldn’t have let you. You are honorable and good. Far too good for trash like me.

  Jack, my love, I hid so much from you. I thought I had to, if I was to have a chance to keep you. Now I think I made a mistake. If you had known from the beginning who I really was, you might have—because you are so generous and strong—taken me as I really am. You might have helped me. It’s too late for that.

  I have the file that swine Will Hobson and his sidekick Fred Minot tried so hard to find in Harry’s papers. It’s far more detailed than the road map he hid in your great-grandfather’s Bible. There is ten times more than enough in it to put Abner Brown behind bars for life without possibility of parole. Since his crimes gave support to terrorist organizations, perhaps he’s fodder for the capital punishment machine. I haven’t researched that point. Harry must have had a premonition of what would happen: the murderer sent to kill him, the frantic search through his papers at Jones & Whetstone, at his homes. The file was too bulky to conceal in a Bible or a similar hiding place, and he must have known that his safe wasn’t secure. They’d get it opened. So he came up with an astonishingly nutty solution. He placed the file in the Jones & Whetstone vault maintained at the firm’s principal bank and marked the envelope “Kerry Black Personal—Last Will and Testament and Estate Planning.” That’s something partners are allowed to do with their important personal papers. But without telling me about it! So as not to expose me to danger, I’m sure. What he didn’t think through is that the file might have lain there forever—well, not forever but almost—since not knowing that it existed I would have never called for it.

  Except for a weird coincidence. Last week, I received a notice from the firm’s archives manager listing the files existing under my name in the firm’s vault and asking whether they should continue to be maintained there or otherwise disposed of. There are limitations of space. The only file with my name on it was this file that Harry created. Since I had no memory of any such thing, I asked for it to be brought to my office and, inside the double sealed envelope, I found the documents and a note from Harry to me, dated 11/1/12, or, as we now know, a few weeks after Hobson threw him out of the firm and started spreading the lie that Harry was demented. The note, which you’ll find with the documents, said: “Kerry, forgive me for making you the temporary custodian of this file. I’m too distraught right now to think of another way of protecting it. As you will see, it’s office documents, documents taken by me from Abner Brown’s file, my own analysis of his criminal business. All of it is clearly covered by the attorney-client privilege. I have decided, however, that I will turn this material over to the government, and have given Abner one last chance to come clean before I do. I told him over the telephone that he has until January 15 of next year to meet with the U.S. attorney in Houston, or with the Justice Department—whichever his new
lawyer Will Hobson advises—and bargain for a reduced sentence on the basis that he has come forward voluntarily. If he does not do that, I warned him, I will deliver the file personally to the Criminal Division of the Department of Justice. I hope to God he will do the right thing.”

  Poor Harry! You know what happened in reality.

  Next week, I am scheduled to appear before the grand jury sitting in Alexandria that’s finally digging deep into Abner’s personal involvement in the crimes committed by his companies. I will take with me Harry’s file and another one I have myself assembled, and give them to the government. If I am alive.

  I’m scared, Jack, very scared. Two days after I withdrew Harry’s file from the safe, I got a call from Hobson. You know that he’s now with the Houston law firm, doing Abner’s dirty work and raking in cash. “Listen you little bitch,” he told me, “you’ve stolen a shitload of Abner Brown’s documents from Jones & Whetstone and want to present them to that Mickey Mouse grand jury in Alexandria. You do that and I’ll have you disbarred. As Abner Brown’s attorney, I hereby order you to surrender them to me. I knew we should never have made you a partner.” As you see, he’s learned Abnerspeak. I’d never heard anything like it coming out of his mouth before. I replied in kind—up yours, Will. And I hung up. Then I cried and cried because I know they will kill me. My darling Jack, if they do it, it will probably be just as well. Let them. I deserve it for the way I’ve lived since I left you. There is no other way out of the hole I’m in, and I’m too chicken to do it myself.

  There was a leak at Jones & Whetstone—certainly about the documents I’ve culled from the files and perhaps, although I can’t imagine how, about Harry’s file that had been in the vault, and a leak at Justice or the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Alexandria. Those swine have their fingers in every pie.

  Give Harry’s file to Ed Flanagan—you remember him, the U.S. attorney in New York. Don’t try to avenge me. They’ll just kill you. There is no need for you to die as well.

  Scanned images of Harry’s file are attached. I’ve sent them with this letter to your jdanatexts account because no one will think to look for it there. The original is in your name at Mail Boxes, Etc., corner of 86th Street and Third Avenue, in a box I’ve rented in your name.

  My own file, the one I assembled while combing through the office files of the associates who did due diligence on the aborted public offering of Abner’s holding company, I’m sending to my closest friend, Heidi Krohn. Next to you, she’s the best person in the world. If something happens to me—as I know it will—she’ll get in touch with you. Please trust her as you would trust me. Standing alone, the file she has should be enough to put Abner Brown away. Put it together with Harry’s, and he hasn’t got a chance.

  This letter is for you only. Also attached to this email is an “official” letter you will be able to show to the U.S. attorney.

  Goodbye, my darling, try not to think of me too harshly even when you’ll know everything. Remember instead how much I loved you—from the first moment I saw you.

  She signed—Kerry. And inserted a little smiley.

  I got up from my desk, staggered to the liquor cabinet in the pantry, and poured myself a stiff bourbon. Having gulped it down, I poured another, added two ice cubes, and went back to my laptop. The other letter was short. Dear Jack, she wrote,

  The attached electronic file consists of scanned images of documents prepared and assembled by your uncle, Harold C. Dana, in order to show the extent of the criminal enterprises engaged in by companies owned or controlled by Abner Brown, and Brown’s own personal involvement in such activities. The originals I have sent to a box opened in your name at Mail Boxes, Etc.—

  Here she gave the address.

  I am taking these precautions because, having been threatened by William S. Hobson, formerly chairman of Jones & Whetstone and now Abner Brown’s principal lawyer at Lindsey & Graham, Houston, I am in fear of my life.

  This file supplements, of course, the memorandum as to the functioning of Abner Brown’s criminal enterprises found in Harold Dana’s library shortly after his death last year and delivered to Edward X. Flanagan, Esq., U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, at a meeting attended by you, myself, and certain others. It is my hope that you will now deliver this file as well to Mr. Flanagan or such persons as he may designate.

  Your friend,

  Kerry Black

  I opened the second attachment, the file for the possession of which Kerry was murdered, and scrolled down it feverishly. Although I was reading much too fast about subjects and transactions I understood incompletely or not at all, enough of the sense got through to convince me that this was it. Once the government had these documents, Abner’s goose was cooked.

  Must go for a run, I whispered. Old automatism. Running was my remedy for acute distress, as well as a way to keep fit. Then the throbbing in my thigh reminded me of my gimpy leg and the arm that the surgeon suggested I keep quiet for a while, in a sling, as much as possible. Feng was in the kitchen when I reached the pantry. I poured myself another drink. Heidi was due for dinner at eight-thirty. It was a few minutes before six. I told Feng I would lie down and asked him to wake me if I wasn’t stirring by eight.

  —

  She arrived exactly on time, wearing a knee-length black velvet dress with long sleeves and a little white collar—I teased her about the new habit of punctuality, due entirely, I claimed, to respect for Feng’s culinary prowess—and said she was starved. I made our customary martinis and let her demolish a good two-thirds of the plate of canapés before speaking of Kerry’s email. My laptop was in the library. I had brought it there on purpose, opened my texts account, and said, Please read. I’ve told Feng to hold the dinner. He’s sure it’s not a problem. She read Kerry’s letters quickly and started to cry, more and more uncontrollably. The sons of bitches, she muttered, the fucking sons of bitches.

  Yes, I said, now stop crying, we’re on to the thing that Kerry wanted us to have. Please look at the file and see whether it’s the dynamite she thought it was.

  Just like Kerry, half the time she didn’t have a handkerchief in her handbag, and I had become fond of giving her mine. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, put on her reading glasses—which I had never seen her use before—and started to read with intense concentration.

  After about fifteen minutes, she put down her glasses, shook her head as though to chase a headache, and said, Yes, this is it. Kerry wasn’t fooling herself. This is enough to hang Abner and take down a bunch of his cronies. I must say I don’t understand your uncle. What possessed him? Why didn’t he take this stuff and whatever else he had to the U.S. attorney?

  I wish I could give you a convincing answer. Simon Lathrop, his best friend at the law firm and classmate at law school, would say that this was pure Harry, the incredible straight arrow and stickler for rules. I guess given the enormity of what he found he thought he ought to remonstrate, or whatever you call it, with that bastard once again before violating the privilege, and give him that chance to come clean. There is another possible reason that I don’t like. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone other than you. Harry sometimes lacked resolution. His nerve failed him. He’s paid dearly for it. For being such a straight arrow and for the irresolution.

  That’s right, Heidi answered. So has Kerry. And so has that poor Jeanette.

  Stop, I said. I can’t bear to hear this.

  We had another martini, mostly in silence.

  Over dinner, finally Heidi said, Look, Jack, there is no do-over. We better follow Kerry’s instructions. Take her file and my file to Ed Flanagan, and let him take it from there. If you like, I’ll come with you to authenticate the file Kerry sent to me. You should probably tell your friend Scott what we have and what we’re doing. From what I’ve seen, the Agency will go ape over this stuff.

  You’re right, I replied. Give me a few days, though. I want to hear whether Martin and Lee have made any progress on Boris. And I would like
to see Simon Lathrop once again. An idea is taking shape in my mind. To carry it out I will need his help.

  Yup, she said. Boys will be boys! Is Feng off on Sunday night?

  He should be, I said, but he won’t take time off.

  Then may I come to dinner? I’ll start paying for my board. Thank God, given the chic of this place, I don’t have to pay for my room.

  I’d give it to you free, I told her. Yes, definitely come to dinner. But tell me one thing: what kind of security do you have during the weekend or, for that matter, when you’re at home? My new idea may make Abner more dangerous in the short term than ever.

  I’m embarrassed to tell you. She laughed. There’s someone from Father’s security following me all day. Then I discovered there was also a guy sitting in the lobby of my building all night. I told Father that was intolerable, really a cruel way to treat someone, so he said there were two solutions. I could move in with you, in which case you’d be my bodyguard, or the guy has to be in my place. I told Father he should be ashamed of himself, pushing me into the arms of a goy! So there’s a series of Mossad types who spend the night in my apartment. In the spare room! So that’s the deal. It’s worse than a chastity belt.

  XIII

  The following Tuesday was Election Day. I lunched with Simon Lathrop at his grand club. We’d both voted for Christine Quinn and had the unpleasant feeling that Bill de Blasio would be our next mayor. I didn’t want to tell this extremely proper old man the sordid story of Lena’s and Boris’s end and thought there was no real need for it. So after we’d exchanged brief expressions of regret that Mike Bloomberg couldn’t be New York’s mayor for life, I came straight to the point.

  Simon, I said, what with one thing and another—I pointed to my left arm, which I had just slipped out of the sling, and then in the direction of my thigh—I haven’t kept in touch the way I should have. But I need your help.

  Of course, dear boy, and don’t worry about not lunching more often with this old body. I know you’ve been writing and have had an unscheduled adventure.