Mounting Fears

42

LANCE CABOT HAD JUST FINISHED A MEETING WITH HIS NEWLY APPOINTED LONDON head of station, who was in town for a few days, when his phone rang.

His secretary picked up the line, then buzzed him. "The director would like to see you now," she said.

Lance got up from his desk, slipped into his suit jacket, adjusted his tie, and began the walk to the director's office, along the way composing himself into the attitude of glacial calm that he had learned over many years of practice. The secretary on guard told him to go in.

Lance knocked.

"Come in."

He took a deep breath, let it out, and opened the door. Katharine Rule Lee was at her computer, typing. "Have a seat, Lance," she said, without looking up from her computer.

Lance sat down and crossed his legs, waiting for her to finish typing.

The director finished, saved the document, and turned to face her visitor. "Lance, I had a very peculiar phone call yesterday from Kerry Smith at the Bureau."

Lance gazed at her and blinked very slowly but said nothing.

"The day before yesterday the editor of an execrable publication called the National Inquisitor was visited by a woman who showed him Bureau ID, a court order and a search warrant, all apparently bogus, all items we are capable of generating in-house. Do you know anything about that?"

"The national what?" Lance asked, to give himself time to think.

"Lance, you look well fed," the director said. "I'm sure that sometime in the past twenty years you must have visited a supermarket."

"Oh, that thing."

"Yes, that thing. Now what do you know about this incident?"

Lance gazed at her lazily but said nothing.

"Well?"

"Director, I recall that once you said to me something on the order of 'There will be times-rarely-when things will occur that I should not know about.' "

The director flushed slightly. "The description of the fake FBI agent closely resembles that of your assistant, Holly Barker," she said.

"Do you remember saying those words to me, Director?" Lance asked. "And if so, do they still apply?"

The director looked at him for a slow count of about five. "That will be all, Mr. Cabot."

"Good day, Director," Lance said, rising and walking to the door. He had the knob in his hand when she stopped him.

"Lance, is Teddy Fay still alive?"

Lance turned and looked at her. "Certainly not, Director," he said, then he opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind him. He was back in his office before he allowed himself to take a deep breath and expel it.

He hung up his jacket and sat down at his desk, then turned to his computer. He entered the code word for restricted personnel files, entered his personal code, then two other codes before he reached the security level he sought. Then he typed in the name Owen Masters. The computer responded by bringing up the restricted record of that agent, and it began with six rows of photographs of the man, one taken each year since he had been recruited from Brown University thirty years ago.

Lance studied the progression of the photographs. It was a pictorial biography, showing the years, cares, and shocks levied on the subject over an adult lifetime, and it revealed a sad decline.

Owen's file was 526 pages long. Lance placed the cursor in the search window and typed in the word termination. Almost instantly this produced the message "Not found." Clearly not specific enough, Lance thought. He typed in the word assassination.

This produced a dozen or so references, mostly political murders, of figures whose paths Owen had crossed during his career, but none of the deaths had been at Owen's hand. This was not good.

Lance gave it some thought, then typed in the words assisted departure. Two references popped up. Once, in 1979, Owen had "assisted the departure" of an African politician. Again, in 1984, he found the words "an assisted departure," this time in Egypt. Lance closed the file and exited the restricted records level.

He consulted his computer phone book, found a direct line to Masters in the Panama station and told the computer to dial it.

"Yes?" Owen's voice said.

"Scramble," Lance said.

"Scrambled," Owen said a moment later.

"Do you know who this is?" Lance asked.

"Yes," Owen replied.

"This is for your ears only," Lance said. "Forever."

"I understand," Owen replied.

"I hope you did not follow the instruction I gave you concerning the destruction of a photograph."

"I would have to check."

"He is alive and within your purview," Lance said, ignoring Owen's evasion, "and neither of those things is acceptable. Do I make myself clear?"

Owen was silent for a moment, then said, "What are your instructions?" He was going to make Lance say it.

"Give him every assistance in his departure," Lance said. "And ensure that he is not encountered by anyone again." He hoped that was clear enough. "And when that is accomplished, take some snapshots and prints and fluids."

"How much time do I have?"

"It must be accomplished at the earliest possible moment that it can be, while taking every care."

"I understand," Owen said.

Lance hung up.

OWEN SAT AT HIS DESK and stared out the window. It had been one hell of a time since he had received an order like that. Oh, what the hell, he thought. May as well go out with a bang, so to speak.

He opened his safe, extracted an envelope, and shook out of it the photograph that he had been ordered to destroy. He sat back in his chair, polished the glasses that hung on a string around his neck with a necktie, and put them on.

"Ah, yes, Teddy," Owen said aloud.