Mounting Fears

44

OWEN MASTERS FINISHED READING THROUGH THE FILES OF HIS FOUR RESIDENT agents. He had read them before, of course, but he was looking for something different this time, a kind of blind resolve. He thought he caught a glimpse of that in the report of a student's unarmed combat instructor. "At times," the man had said, "he seemed to want to kill his opponents." Owen put down the file and buzzed the young man.

Todd Bacon was ordinary-looking, Owen thought, except for his apparent fitness level. His blond hair was already going thin on top, though he was only, according to his file, twenty-eight. He sat in the hard, armless chair he had been offered, seemingly comfortable and calm.

"Where did you go to college, Bacon?" Owen asked him.

"The University of Alabama," the man replied with a soft southern accent.

Good, Owen thought, a state university man-something to prove to the Ivy League boys. "How long have you been with us?"

"Three and a half years," Bacon replied

"Are you enjoying the work yet?"

Bacon paused before he spoke. "Sometimes."

"Not getting into the field enough?"

"I could use more field time."

"You think you could handle yourself in a tough situation? Physically, I mean?"

"Of course," Bacon replied.

"You'd better give some thought to that," Owen said. "In this business, you don't get to square off with an opponent. It's not like at the Farm." The Farm was where agents underwent their first training. "Never let your guard down when you're in the field," Owen said. "You can be as easily killed by a small woman with a penknife as by a big guy with a gun."

"Good point," Bacon replied.

Owen noted that the man had never called him sir. "Do you think you might be just a tad overconfident?"

"I don't believe so." Bacon was looking a little less comfortable in his hard chair now.

"At your age and level of experience you don't believe you're mortal," Owen said, "but you are. I've seen young officers brought home in pieces and in body bags. I know two who, at forty, are in wheelchairs for the rest of their lives. Do you think you have the tradecraft and good sense to avoid that?"

"I hope so," Bacon replied, showing the first sign of any modesty.

"Hope won't be enough," Owen said. He was now ready to bring this boy into it, and he hoped, but doubted, that he had managed to put the fear of God into him. "I have a field assignment for you."

The young man leaned forward. "Yes, sir," he said.

Owen placed the photograph of Teddy Fay on his desk and pushed it across. "This man is an American, now in his sixties. This photo was taken some years ago. He is around six feet tall and could weigh anything from one-fifty to two-fifty, though I expect he has kept himself trim."

"Who is he?" Bacon asked, staring at the photo.

"He has a range of skills worthy of a good spy novel. He is expert in manufacturing identity documents, forging background paperwork, and creating legends. He is athletic, with many physical skills, and adept at flying, scuba diving, marksmanship, and all sorts of killing. He could end your life with a couple of fingers before you knew what had happened to you. His bland appearance lends itself to disguise, and he is a master at that."

"Any other photographs?"

"This one is, to the best of the Company's knowledge, the only one in existence."

"Is he in Panama?"

"He was; he may still be. He murdered an American reporter for a gossip rag-at least, it's thought he was murdered. His body was found on a tanker on its way to Galveston after passing through the canal. Do you see how clever that is? It prevents the police from knowing where he died. If he had been found a day later, the Galveston police would be wondering the same thing. Am I building a picture for you?"

"You certainly are," Bacon replied.

"Assume he is in Panama City," Owen said. "I want you to find him."

"And then?"

Owen ignored the question. "You will be at a great disadvantage: He will be disguised, you will not be. He will be ready for someone like you, you may not be. If you see him on successive days, he may appear to be another person, one you are unlikely to recognize. If you give him the slightest reason to suppose you may know who he is, he will kill you, and there will be little you can do to prevent it."

"Am I to kill him," Bacon asked, "if I can?"

Owen was so glad he had asked. "Please," he replied. "And if you are so fortunate, his body must never be found, and you must not be connected in any way with him or his death."

"I understand," Bacon said.

"Mind you, Bacon, should you find him you must be certain of whom you're dealing with. We don't want some businessman from home to meet an untimely end and stir up a lot of trouble for us because of mistaken identity. You must be sure."

"How am I to identify him?" Bacon asked.

"That will be the hardest part of all," Owen replied, "but he will probably be alone, or possibly with a woman, in a bar or restaurant. He likes the bar at El Conquistador and a restaurant called El Parador, across the canal, though I doubt if he will return there any time soon. He may look older or younger than he is. He will almost certainly bewig himself. Anything looking like a toupee will give you an indication. You were trained to look at subjects with your peripheral vision most of the time. See that you do. He must not know he has attracted your attention."

"Is that all you can tell me?"

"Look at the photograph, at the left ear, which is turned slightly toward the camera."

Bacon did so.

"Do you see it?"

"I'm not sure."

"It's a fold in the flesh, just above the earlobe, like a tiny gully."

"Yes, I see it now."

"We can't tell if this is symmetrical, if the right ear is the same, because of the way his head is turned, but that little mark will be present on his left ear. Unless, of course, he has filled it with spirit gum and makeup. But it gives us just a chance to identify him."

Bacon nodded. "May I keep the photograph?"

"No," Owen replied. "Take one last look at it, and give it back to me."

Bacon did so.

Owen returned the photo to his safe and removed a box with some gadgets in it. He removed two cell phones and handed Bacon one. "Memorize this number," Owen said, repeating it twice. "If you believe you have found him, leave the location in a taxi, call me at that number, give me any pertinent information-a companion, say. Then give me a meeting place nearby and return to his location by a circuitous route. Watch the place where you saw him and wait for me to turn up. Do not, repeat, not speak to him or confront him. If he speaks to you, be polite, then excuse yourself."

"Who is this man?" Bacon asked.

Owen sighed. "Whoever he says he is."