“I’ve talked with the chief investigator from the Panamanian National Police,” he said, “and I’m afraid we’re in something of a bind, here.”
“How can I help, sir?”
“Let me explain. The chief investigator believes that Owen was involved in some nefarious activity that resulted in his murder.”
“No, sir,” Bacon said. “He wouldn’t have assigned me to find that man, if that were the case.”
“Todd, have you been through Owen’s desk and files yet?”
“I’m in the middle of that now, sir, and I’ll be finished shortly.”
“So far, have you found any written reference to your assignment in his papers or on his computer?”
“Ah, no, sir,” Bacon replied.
He’s beginning to get the picture, Lance thought. “The man Owen assigned you to find is known to the Panamanian National Police,” he said, “though not by name. It is their view, though not officially, of course, that Owen was in business with this fellow and that the deal went south. Owen’s next step would have been to eliminate the man, which may be why he ordered you to find him, but the tables were turned and it was Owen who was killed. It’s possible that, in observing the man last night, you inadvertently did something that tipped him off that Owen was after him. So…”
“God, I hope that’s not the case,” Bacon said, sounding shocked.
“Don’t worry about that, Todd. At least you didn’t become involved in Owen’s extracurricular activities. There’s something else to consider, as well. While Owen had Agency life insurance, there is a much larger payment to be made to his widow, if this were a line-of-duty matter. Since we have no hard evidence that it wasn’t line-of- duty, the director is desirous of Mrs. Masters receiving that payment, as it would make a substantial difference in her standard of living.”
“I believe I understand, sir.”
“Good. This is going to require great discretion from all of us. And since I believe I can count on your discretion, I’ve decided not to send a replacement to fill Owen’s position. Instead, I’m appointing you station chief for Panama and the Canal Zone.”
“Why, thank you, sir,” Bacon responded, obviously stunned.
He would be less stunned after he had thought about it, Lance thought. “I’ll send you another man to fill in, Todd. He’ll probably be right off the farm, so he’ll be green, but I’m sure you can bring him along. Pick another of your personnel to fill your assistant station chief’s job, and let me know whom you’ve chosen.”
“I’ll do that, sir. It will probably be Nesmith, since he’s next senior to me.”
“Fine, I’m sure he’s a good man and a good choice. I’ll be in touch Todd, and my congratulations.” Lance hung up.
Holly was looking at him. “You think that’s going to do it?”
“It fucking well better do it,” Lance replied.
50
Katharine Rule Lee left her office for the drive home a little after six. Normally, she worked on papers and reports during the drive, but she had left all of that on her desk or in her safe. She had something else to think about, and she didn’t want to be distracted, not even by the thought of sixty people en route in the black of the Afghan night to the Pakistani border. Her driver seemed to sense that she was deep in thought and did not wish to be disturbed with chat.
Kate was now able to admit to herself that Teddy Fay was still alive, and she was pretty sure he had killed Owen Masters, but she didn’t know why. Lance Cabot knew, but he wasn’t going to tell her unless she pressed him, and she couldn’t afford to press him. She couldn’t afford, in fact, to know that Teddy Fay was alive.
Teddy was supposed to have died in a small aircraft crash off the coast of Maine, but the FBI had tracked him to New York, where he was supposed to have died in the collapse of a building under construction. Later, he had been rumored to be on the island of St. Marks, in the Caribbean, and Lance Cabot had dispatched a team to find him and, presumably, kill him.
She had thought the Fay problem had ended when the small yacht he had owned was witnessed in a sinking condition, and no body had been found. But now he had been spotted in Panama by a tourist who knew him, and she had produced an old photograph. She presumed that no copies of that photograph existed, since Holly Barker had confiscated all the copies and the negatives while posing as an FBI assistant director.
The only official threat now was Assistant Director Kerry Smith of the FBI, and he couldn’t prove that Teddy was still alive. No one, in fact, could prove it, and Teddy wasn’t going to turn himself in. Her only choice seemed to be to sit on the Teddy Fay problem until after the election. If it came out then, well, she was good at damage control.
Her husband didn’t know any of this, of course, and she had to keep it that way. By the time she reached the White House, she had made and reconfirmed that decision.
At least, she thought, Teddy Fay was out of the country, and nothing he could do there would affect the election.
Teddy Fay, meantime, was working on his laptop in a Covington, Georgia, motel room, reading the schedule of the Reverend Henry King Johnson on his very nicely constructed and informative website. One question that lay heavily on Teddy’s mind was: Did Johnson have Secret Service protection? His guess was that Johnson did not, because he had not run in the primaries and didn’t loom large enough in the polls.
Johnson was traveling a lot now, raising money and working to get on the ballot in as many states as possible. That made him a moving target, but his published schedule also made him predictable, and that was good enough for Teddy.
He noted that the Reverend Johnson was due on Amelia Island, Florida, for a convention of black undertakers in a week. He knew something about Amelia Island: it was a golf-oriented upscale community near Jacksonville.
Then he noticed something else on the reverend’s website: he was to perform a marriage ceremony the day before on Cumberland Island.
Teddy Googled Cumberland Island.
Martin Stanton checked into the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver, which dated from its days as a cow town, and rapped on the door to the adjoining room. Liz opened it and gave him a big, wet kiss. “More later,” she said. “I have some phone calls to make.”
“Before you do that, order yourself dinner from room service,” Stanton said. “We don’t want them delivering two dinners to my suite.”
“Right,” she said.
Stanton closed the door, ordered his own dinner, and went to get a refill for his pen from his briefcase. As he opened it, he heard his secret cell phone vibrating, and he picked it up. “Yes?”
“It’s me, baby,” Barbara said.
“Good to hear from you,” Stanton replied, not entirely convincingly.
“That sounded like something you’d say to a campaign contributor,” she pointed out.
“I’m sorry, hon. It’s just that they’ve had me on a breakneck schedule for three weeks, and I’m sort of operating on autopilot. How are you? What are you up to?”
