by Stuart Woods
“You mean your people owned slaves and all that?”
“Lots of slaves and lots of all that,” Bacon replied.
“So they were rich?”
“They were, for a time. They had to get it all back after the war.”
“The Civil War?”
“The War Between the States,” Bacon replied, “or the Struggle for Southern Independence, take your pick.”
Then something awful happened. A pretty blonde in her thirties came into the bar and sat down beside the man with the beard, giving him a peck on the cheek. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said.
“This is Mrs. Williams,” the man said to the bartender. “We were married just before we left New York.”
Mrs. Williams shook hands with the bartender.
“Is this your first time in Panama, seсor?” the bartender asked.
“It certainly is,” Williams replied. “We’re taking a private tour of the canal tomorrow.”
“I hope your rooms are satisfactory.”
“Yes, we have a real nice suite on the top floor.”
Bacon’s heart sank. “Shit,” he said under his breath.
“What?” Rita asked.
“Never mind, baby,” Bacon said. “You just eat your dinner, then we’ll go back to my place.” At least the evening wouldn’t be a total loss.
“Deal,” Rita replied, mopping up the last of the guacamole and receiving a plate of some sort of stew.
“What the hell,” Bacon said, starting on his stew. “You win some, you lose some. There’s always tomorrow.”
***
Teddy Fay watched the young couple at the bar from his table. “Mrs. Williams” was an American hooker he occasionally spent a night with in a hotel room, and he was looking forward to this night.
Teddy noticed the bartender head for the men’s room. He excused himself from the table, walked over to the bar, to where the credit card machine was kept, and quickly fingered through the pile of receipts. Bacon-that was one of the names on the embassy’s website. Bacon belonged to Owen Masters.
Teddy rejoined his date, but his mind was elsewhere.
47
Teddy Fay lay in bed, spent but wide awake, watching CNN while the girl snored lightly beside him. He was profoundly disturbed by what he was seeing.
A tall, handsome black man in a gorgeously cut suit was speaking to a luncheon crowd of black businessmen in Birmingham, Alabama.
“It is time,” the man was saying, “that we put America and the administration of President Lee on notice that gradual is not fast enough, that transition has gone on too long, that half a dozen black CEOs of large corporations is not full integration into the business life of this country, that new legislation is essential for the reinstatement of programs to help young black citizens participate fully in education and careers…”
CNN cut back to its correspondent. “There you hear the Reverend Henry King Johnson making an appeal to an influential and wealthy audience for campaign contributions. Meanwhile, at the White House, President Lee and his advisors are poring over opinion polls that have to be shocking to them, polls that for the first time actually put the president behind Bill Spanner in the election race and all because the Reverend Johnson is siphoning off enough black votes to make a loss for Will Lee a very real possibility.”
Teddy’s heart was pounding; it was time to go home. He switched off the TV, got out of bed, and got dressed. He left some money on the dresser for the girl, let himself out of the suite, and headed to his little apartment. There, he began by putting everything he no longer needed into a trash bag and leaving it outside for pickup. Then he packed some clothes and all the equipment needed to maintain his identities and disguises. From among his few weapons he chose the very small Colt Mustang. 380 and slipped the holster onto his belt. He put the screw-on silencer and an extra magazine into his coat pocket and pulled a baseball cap on over his wig.
He packed his goods into the old station wagon he owned and drove them to the little airport outside the city where he kept his Cessna 182 RG stored in a ramshackle hangar. He packed the airplane carefully, then rolled the airplane out with the tow bar and over to the fuel pumps, where he filled the wing tanks and the ferry tank in the rear seat that doubled the airplane’s range. Then he returned the aircraft to its hangar, closed it, and drove back to Panama City.
He parked the station wagon near where he kept the scooter and wiped it clean of fingerprints, then he started the scooter and drove to within a few blocks of the American embassy. The sun was well up now, and rush hour had started. He parked near the embassy and looked for transportation to steal. He found an elderly but well-kept Honda light motorcycle and spent no more than a minute getting it started. That done, he drove to within fifty yards of the embassy and pulled into a side street that allowed him a view of the area.
He had not been there for more than half an hour when he saw young Bacon get out of a taxi and start up the front steps of the embassy. Teddy held his position. For sentimental reasons, he did not wish to harm a bright young man just starting his career with the Agency.
He waited another forty-five minutes before he saw Owen Masters get out of a cab across the street from the embassy and start picking his way through traffic. Teddy started the motorcycle.
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 direct police inquiries to me through the State Department switchboard. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I want you to go back to work, doing what you would ordinarily be doing. When you get into Owen’s office, I want you to search his desk and file cabinets for any reference to the assignment he gave you. If you find anything referring to it, I want you to scan it and e-mail it to me, then shred any documents and, particularly, the photograph of the man. We already have that.”
“Who is he, sir?”
“Whoever he says he is,” Lance said, then hung up.
Holly looked at Lance expectantly but didn’t ask any questions.
“Teddy Fay has killed Owen Masters in Panama City,” Lance said.
“Oh, shit,” Holly said.
“Yes, exactly,” Lance replied. “Who do we have of station head rank, currently unassigned?”
“You want to promote somebody, or do you want another Owen Masters?”
Lance thought about that for a moment. “Another Owen Masters,” he said.
“There’s Terence Cotten. We pulled him out of Madrid a month ago, and he’s sitting downstairs in a transient office, working his way through a book of New York Times crosswords, waiting for his pension.”
“Perfect. Get him up here in half an hour. Right now, I have to go and see the director.”
“Are you going to tell her Teddy’s back?”
“Teddy who?” Lance asked, getting into his jacket.
49
Lance had to wait for ten minutes while Katharine Rule Lee finished A meeting, which gave him more time to think. Finally, he was told to go in.
“Sit down, Lance. What is it?” the director asked.
“Director, I’ve just had a call from the assistant station chief in Panama City. Owen Masters has been shot in the street by an assassin. He’s dead.”
“Good God!” the director replied. “I knew Owen when he was a top agent.”
“He was, for quite a long time.”
“How long before retirement?”
“Four months, give or take.”
“What’s your theory of this, Lance?”
“I haven’t spoken to the police yet, but I don’t think this is Agency related. Owen wasn’t working on anything that would have gotten him killed.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“I am, unless he was working something on his own, and frankly, I think Owen was too tired to go chasing hares. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless he went off the ranch-trying to make some extra retirement money.”
“Drugs?”
“Possibly. From what I’ve been told, the killing sounded professional. He must have pissed off somebody.”
“Have you talked to his widow?”
“Not yet. I want to let embassy and State Department protocol run its course first. I should be able to speak to her before the day is out.”
“What insurance will Owen have?”
“He’ll have the standard Agency policy, based on h
is pay grade.”
“What about line-of-duty fatality?”
“If he was really off the ranch, he wouldn’t qualify for that.”
“I’d like Mrs. Masters to have that, if we can manage it.”
“Then I’ll manage it,” Lance said. That was a fairly direct order to cover up any off-ranch activity, he thought.
“Keep me posted,” the director said, then turned to answer her buzzing phone.
***
Lance went back to his office, where Holly was still waiting. She handed him a phone slip. “You had a call from the Panamanian police on your State Department line,” she said.
Lance picked up the phone, then paused and put it down again. He had an idea.
“Okay.”
Lance phoned Capitбn Lуpez.
“Seсor Cabot,” Lуpez said, “I believe you may have already been notified of the death of your diplomat, Seсor Owen Masters.”
“Yes,” Lance replied. “We’re all deeply shocked. What can you tell me of his death?”
“Seсor Cabot, do you have any reason to suspect that Seсor Masters might be involved in any… financial activity not related to his work at the embassy?”
“No, do you?”
“The nature of his death suggests other connections.”
Oh, come on, say it! Lance wanted to scream at the man. “What sort of connections are you referring to, Capitбn?”
“The means used to end the gentleman’s life are often associated with the drug trade in this country, seсor.”
Lance paused meaningfully, then said, “I see.”
“I do not wish you to think I am making any accusations, Seсor Cabot,” Lуpez said. “I am merely making an observation based on my long experience as a police officer.”
“I understand, Capitбn,” Lance replied. “Perhaps you could tell me, privately, what chance you believe you might have to find this killer?”
“Oh, we will make a thorough investigation, seсor, you may believe that. But… at the end of it all it is unlikely in the extreme that we will be able to make an arrest, let alone secure a conviction. In cases like this, you see…”
