“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.”
45
Will sat on a sofa in the Oval Office and gazed at his pollster.
“All right, Moss, let’s hear it.” His chief of staff, press secretary, campaign manager, and political consultant were very still.
Moss consulted his papers. “In the first poll since Henry King Johnson announced, he appears to have attracted about a quarter of the black vote.”
Will made a point of not showing a reaction. “Go on.”
“Bill Spanner, as you know, is doing much better than expected, and the combination of those two elements means that if the election were held today, you would lose to Spanner by around five points.”
Will turned to Tom Black. “Tom?”
“We have two commercials in the can showing you with civil rights leaders over the years. I want to punch up the voice-overs and rerecord, and we can have them on the air by the day after tomorrow.”
Moss spoke up again. “Mr. President, I think you should know that as Reverend Johnson starts to campaign and get press coverage, the bleeding off of black voters is likely to continue.”
“That’s depressing,” Will said.
“Unfortunately, we haven’t yet reached a point in this country when voters will ignore race. He’s going to get a lot of black votes simply because he’s black, just as you’re getting some white voters for the same reason.”
Sam Meriwether spoke up. “In addition to running Tom’s new commercials, we need to schedule more events with predominantly black audiences: schools, churches, wherever we can gather a crowd. Then we need to photograph those events and use them in advertising, particularly in southern states where black voters are a majority or nearly so.”
“We can’t just let the black vote slide to Johnson,” Kitty said. “We have to stop the bleeding and as quickly as possible.”
“Why is Henry doing this?” Will said. “I’ve always had a good relationship with him.”
Tim Coleman, Will’s chief of staff, said, “I’ve had word that Reverend Johnson has bought property adjacent to his church and plans to tear down the old building, which is in disrepair, and build a rather grandiose new church and an office building, most of which he will rent out to black-owned businesses. He’s counting on the press exposure he receives during the campaign to put him over the top in his fund-raising.”
“I’ve never heard of this plan,” Will said.
“He’s keeping it under wraps. He presented it to his board of deacons only a few days ago, and it will go unannounced until he feels the moment is right.”
Kitty said, “Maybe we need to find him a big contributor, who…”
“No.” Will cut her off. “The moment we do anything that smacks of bribing him to get out of the race, we’ll take a big hit among voters at large, and justifiably so.”
