Masters paused on the center island of the wide street to wait for the light to change, and, when it did, he started across. In company with half a dozen others, Teddy pulled into traffic, and, when the flow stopped for the light, he continued through the crosswalk, which took him within six feet of Masters’s back. He stopped. “Hello, Owen,” he called out.
Masters turned and looked behind him. With his left hand, Teddy pulled off the Vandyke beard, and he saw recognition in Masters’s eyes. Teddy shot him once, in the middle of the forehead, then gunned the motorcycle and raced off.
He made his way back to near where he had parked his scooter in an alley; abandoned the motorcycle; then stripped off his coat, wig, and baseball cap, and put on a windbreaker and a different cap that he kept in the scooter’s storage compartment. In a moment, he was on his way.
He drove by the embassy again and was made to turn off the main drag by the police, but he got a good look at the scene: Owen crumpled in the street, while two policemen tried to keep the curious crowd away from the corpse while they waited for backup.
An hour later, Teddy put the scooter inside the hangar, rolled the airplane out, and closed the door. He did a cursory preflight inspection, then got the engine started. He taxied to the end of the three-thousand-foot grass strip, did a brief run-up of the engine, and ran through his takeoff checklist, then he shoved the throttle in all the way and began to roll down the runway.
He needed nearly two-thirds of the airstrip to gain enough airspeed to rotate, and when he did, the Cessna climbed strongly. He flew north at five hundred feet to stay below canal radar and held that altitude until he had cleared Panamanian waters, then he climbed to eight thousand feet, leaned the engine, and settled in for the long flight. His fuel totalizer told him he had plenty for his plan, and he had a thirty-knot tailwind, to boot.
Four hours later he landed on a small strip in the Cayman Islands and took a taxi into George Town, where he visited his bank and replenished his funds. He also turned in his credit card and received a new one, usable anywhere and paid directly from his Cayman account; it was untraceable. He had some lunch, then returned to the airport, fueled his airplane, and filed a flight plan for Key West, using a false tail number.
He took off and flew north, contacting Cuban air traffic control for clearance to cross the island nation, which was granted. With Key West in sight he switched off his transponder, descended to wave top height, and flew northeast to Marathon, where he began a climb and contacted Key West approach. “November one, two, three Tango Foxtrot, off Marathon, VFR to Sarasota,” he told the controller.
Now he was just another American light-aircraft pilot, wending his way home. Well after dark, he landed at Covington, a small-town airport east of Atlanta. He had some dinner at a local restaurant, then checked into a motel and fell gratefully into a deep sleep.
Tomorrow he would begin his research on the Reverend Henry King Johnson and his movements, and within a few days, he was confident, their paths would cross.
48
Todd Bacon stood at the window of the office he shared with three other young CIA officers, sipping coffee and looking idly into the busy street below. He was, as usual, the first one in, so he had time to drink his coffee and take a look at the International Herald Tribune.
As Todd watched, he saw Owen Masters get out of a taxi on the opposite side of the street and start across. Owen limped a little and seemed older than his years, Todd thought. Would he end up like the older man? Station chief in some backwater, serving out his time? The traffic light changed, and Owen started across the street.
Todd was about to turn away when he saw something moving fast between the cars stopped for the light. He watched, thinking the motorcycle was going to plow into the crossing pedestrians, then it suddenly stopped in the middle of the crosswalk. Owen stopped, turned, and looked back. Then the man on the motorcycle held out his arm, and there was a wisp of smoke. Owen went down, and the motorcycle moved on.
Todd was horrified, but he had the presence of mind to watch the motorcycle, and he recognized the suit and the longish gray hair protruding from a baseball cap. It was the man from the night before.
He looked back at Owen. A police officer was bending over him, then putting fingers to his throat and shaking his head, while another officer waved the crowd away. Todd set down his coffee cup, went to his desk, and retrieved a typed list of telephone numbers. He found the number he wanted next to the words “Pizza delivery,” and he dialed it, while trying to control his breathing.
Lance Cabot was going over some equipment orders with Holly Barker when his phone rang and his direct field line started flashing. “Hold on,” he said to Holly and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Sir, it’s… I’m sorry, scramble.”
Lance pushed a button. “Scrambled.”
“Sir, it’s Todd Bacon, assistant station chief in Panama City.”
“What is it?”
“I’m in my office. I saw Owen Masters get out of a cab and start across the street. A man on a motorcycle shot him in the head, then made his escape. Owen is dead.”
Lance thought he was going to throw up. “Is Owen’s office secure?” he was finally able to ask.
“Yes, sir. He never arrived for work to open it.”
“Hold on.” Lance turned to his computer and pulled up a secure file. “Write this down: The combination to the lock on Owen’s door is 66759, the combination to his safe is 797461. Did you get that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re acting station chief until somebody can relieve you. Do not, repeat, not call the police. They will contact the ambassador’s office and be given Owen’s cover story. You are not to speak to them unless they seek you out, which is unlikely. If they do, stick to the cover story, understand?”
“I understand, sir, but there’s something you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“I know the man who shot Owen.”
“What?”
“Owen gave me an assignment to find him, and I found him last night, but I didn’t recognize him, since he was disguised.”
“What is the man’s name?”
“Owen didn’t tell me, he just showed me a photograph and gave me a lecture about how dangerous the man was. I saw him in a hotel bar last night and overheard his conversation with the bartender. He was with a younger woman he introduced as his wife. He said they were from New York and were taking a private tour of the canal tomorrow-today, rather-and I bought it. Do you know who this man is, sir?”
Lance ignored the question. “Did Owen assign anyone else to this operation?”
“No, sir, just me.”
“You are not to tell any of your Agency colleagues or anyone else at the embassy or the Agency of your conversation with Owen or your assignment, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir, if you say so.”
“How long ago did this happen?”
“About one minute before I called you. I want to track down this man and kill him.”
“You are not to do that, Todd. The man is already on the way out of the country, and looking for him would be a waste of time. He’ll be somewhere in South America by lunchtime.”
“But I know what he looks like.”
“You know what his disguise looks like, and he has already changed that.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Hang up, go to the ambassador ’s office, and tell him personally what you saw happen. Tell him your instructions are to stick to Owen’s cover story. Tell him that this incident will be dealt with from Langley and to
