Hunter's Moon Page 11

  Wilson had green farmer’s eyes, commonplace but for their intensity. “When I say I don’t doubt your expertise, Dr. Ford, I’m not confirming your insinuation. But I’ve made my decision. Have your gear ready by . . . let’s say three p.m. That’ll give us another few hours to rest”—he moved his shoulders, working out kinks—“and I want to get some more fishing in.”

  “Have you spoken to Tomlinson? It’s his boat. His decision.”

  “No. But it’s time I said hello. I’ve been putting it off. I’m curious about how his friends will react.”

  Meaning would he be recognized. He didn’t sound as confident now as he did in my lab. He stepped back as if I were a fulllength mirror. “What do you think?”

  With the shaved head, the owlish glasses, I wouldn’t have recognized the man if I’d seen him on the street. But if someone took a close look?

  “Risky,” I said.

  “Suggestions?”

  On the bookcase, someone had left sunglasses with a white plastic nose shield attached. “Hand me your glasses.” I clipped the shield to the bridge, used a towel to clean the tinted lenses, and handed them back. “Try these.”

  He slid them on. “Any better?”

  “You look like you should be playing shuffleboard. Waxing the RV for a vacation from the retirement village.”

  The president’s response was profane but good-natured, then he added, “There’s something I haven’t shown you.” He put the skillet on the stove, pulled a leather case from his duffel, and opened it. “You ever see one of these before?” He began removing items.

  It was a kit assembled by the CIA’s Headquarters Disguise Unit.

  “No,” I lied. “Never.”

  “Then I can’t tell you where it came from. But have a look.”

  The agency employed Hollywood makeup artist John Chambers, who won an Academy Award for Planet of the Apes, as designer and consultant. The containers varied, and some of the contents, but the basics were there: facial hair, dental caps, uncorrected contact lenses, theatrical makeup and glue, synthetic skin, scars, moles, birthmarks. It wasn’t the crap sold in novelty shops. The kit was designed for operatives who had to escape from countries in which they were well known. Up close, the effects were more convincing than anything used on Broadway because they had to be.

  “Have you tried any of this stuff?”

  Wilson said, “A couple of things.” He pointed. “That . . . that . . . that. But I felt ridiculous. Like a kid playing dress-up.”

  I pointed. “What about this?”

  He shook his head.

  “It could work. And it’s simple.”

  “Do you know something about disguise?”

  I lied again, “No. Just a feeling. Give it a try.”

  The president took the item, held it up for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”

  IN THE INTELLIGENCE BUSINESS, AGENTS WHO RELY ON disguises are called “ragpickers”—a term that dates back to the days when spies dressed like bums so they could stand innocuously on busy streets. I’d been through an agency’s two-day disguise evolution because it was part of the required tradecraft. I’d felt ridiculous, just as the president described it. But the course probably saved my life a couple of years ago when, for the first and only time, I had to improvise a disguise to get across the border from Venezuela into Colombia. It was only a day after Rodrigo Granda, a FARC “revolutionary,” was kidnapped by “an unknown group” and spirited back to Bogotá to stand trial.

  A poor disguise invites scrutiny. Wigs, fake beards, rubber noses, dark glasses, scarves jar the human eye. They feel wrong. A good disguise is neutral, cloaking or repelling, without surprise. Joggers, tourist photographers, construction workers, fishermen are stereotypes so common that the eye sweeps past without alerting the brain. People with deformities or facial scars are invisible for a different reason: Our eyes dart away instinctively. The scar may register on the brain, but other details do not.

  Near the stove was a sink with a mirror. Wilson stood with his back to me, applying surgical adhesive to his face, as he asked, “Will this thing stay on if I get it wet?”

  I was reading the directions that came with the kit. “It’s supposed to. Once it dries, the only way to get it off is with this special solvent.”

  “It’s ironic you chose this. I hope it works.”

  I said, “The worst that can happen is Tomlinson’s friends realize it’s fake. A lot of them are painted, so it’ll be no big deal. Which reminds me: Tomlinson’s not going to like the idea of using his engine. He’s a purist. Especially with a bunch of locals watching.”

  Still looking into the mirror, Wilson said, “We’ll find out how much of a purist he really is.” Hinting at something, the way he said it. Then he turned so I could see his face, his expression asking What do you think?

  I moved around the table and took a closer look. “Put your glasses on.”

  He did.

  I looked at his face from several angles. “Is it comfortable?” “I can’t even feel it.”

  “Amazing. Leave the nose shield on your glasses if you want, but you don’t need it. Not now.”

  “It looks real?”

  “It’s incredible.”

  He didn’t seem convinced as he returned to the stove, slid the hash onto a plate, and nodded toward the table. Breakfast was for me, I realized. “Eat. I’m having fish for breakfast.” He sounded very sure of himself.

  Wilson stood at the mirror briefly before he took the pan to the sink, scrubbed it clean. Then he went out the door, carrying the fly rod.

  I CHOSE A BUNK, LAID DOWN TO READ, BUT ALSO LISTENED to the news on the cabin’s clock radio. No mention of terrorists. No mention of a missing ex-president. But more trouble in Panama.

  Outraged by a speech given by the pope, IS&P’s CEO said he would “not be surprised” if Jihadists brought Holy War to Central America. “I am not inviting them,” Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish added, “but we will not turn them away, either.”

  Farrish was the most dangerous man on earth, Wilson had told me. Right again.

  I awoke an hour later with Tomlinson shaking my shoulder.

  “We got trouble, Doc. The water cops are out there talking to Kerney.”

  I said, “Who?”

  “Kerney.”

  “Who?”

  “You know—Kal Wilson. The president.”

  It took me a moment to recall that Kerney Amos Levaugn Wilson was his full name.

  I was wearing nothing but running shorts. As I ducked into a shirt, I said, “Were they looking for him?” I hadn’t heard helicopters. If one passes within a mile, I wake up.

  “I don’t know. I was asleep myself when one of the tribe got me.”

  “Did they recognize him?”

  “Man, I didn’t even recognize him for the first couple of minutes. His face—when I saw him, I thought What the hell happened? It’s so damn . . . real.” I was tying my shoes as he added, “Oh—Ginger Love’s involved, too. The cops are questioning them both.”

  “Wilson and Ginger?” Maybe I was dreaming. “How did he hook up with her?”

  Tomlinson lifted his eyebrows, a disclaimer.

  “What’s that woman doing here? Please tell me you didn’t invite her.”

  “Drum circle’s wide-open. I let karma handle all my detail work, man.”

  Ginger Love and Kal Wilson? If I was dreaming, it was a nightmare.

  Ginger Love is a self-described political activist. The islands attract them. Name an ideology or a cause. Ginger’s less motivated by political ideals, though, than by a lust for attention and her craving for a stage to vent hysterical rants. A few months back, she came to the lab and tried to enlist me in some project. Her perfume and rage filled the room. Ginger Love was a spooky, overmedicated pain in the ass.

  Tomlinson followed me out the door, then north along the shore. Where the beach ended and mangroves began, I could see the gray hull of a Florida marine patrol vessel—Florida F
ish and Wildlife, officially. Two uniformed officers were talking to the former president while a half dozen of Tomlinson’s group looked on—a couple of them painted but at least clothed. Ginger Love was there, with her Kool-Aid orange hair and signature straw hat.

  Wilson was standing next to our plastic canoe. He’d been fishing from it, apparently. When I mentioned it to Tomlinson, he said, “I bet he doesn’t have a fishing license. Maybe that’s what this is about.”

  In Florida, a saltwater license is required if you fish from a boat.

  “Even if he does, he can’t show it. Or his ID.”

  I said, “I hope you’re wrong.” I was imagining the president resisting, then news footage of Wilson and Love handcuffed. Humiliating.

  Before we got much closer, though, the officers gave farewell nods, pushed their boat into deeper water, and fired the engine as the little group splintered. Some returned in our direction, a few remained with the former president, Ginger among them.

  When Mike Westhoff, one of Tomlinson’s few jock pals, got close enough, I called, “What’s the problem?”

  Coach Mike smiled. “That woman’s nuttier than a bucket of loons. If it wasn’t for your uncle, she’d be on her way to jail’bout now.”

  Tomlinson and I exchanged looks. “Whose uncle?”

  “Your uncle, Doc. He’s right there.” Mike used his linebacker chin to point. “Your Uncle Sam. He was great, the way he handled the water cops.”

  I was thinking Uncle Sam? The former president’s alias had just gotten better.

  Ginger, Coach Mike explained, had gotten into an altercation with the Fish and Wildlife officers. “The water cops were on the beach for some reason and she started bitchin’ at them. Who knows why. But it attracted a crowd. Ginger has the rare ability to alienate everyone. But then Sam paddles in. He got everybody calmed down.”

  I said, “What did he do?”

  Coach Mike thought for a moment. The man’s a football coach, and he also has a Ph.D. in psychology. Even so, he was puzzled. “Damned if I can say. Just started talking. Asking questions, mostly. Very polite, but not faking it. Usually, when someone butts into a fight, they’re the first ones cops put on the ground. But Sam, he’s cool. You know”—Coach Mike was still digesting the scene—“he reminds me of someone. I can’t put my finger on it. He looks a little like that actor, the older guy who plays a pilot, or a senator. Except for the scar, of course—no offense, Doc.”

  I said quickly, “None taken.”

  “He get a bad burn or something when he was a kid?”

  “Burned, yeah. A long time ago.”

  “That’ll make a person strong. It shows. Your uncle’s not wimpy, like the actor, and he doesn’t have the TV hair. But in the face, you know what I mean? Around the eyes, and the way he smiles.” Coach Mike was nodding. “Bring him to a Jets game sometime. You always have the most interesting relatives. I’d like to get to know Sam better.”

  I replied honestly, “Some people say that my uncle’s unforgettable.”

  AS WE APPROACHED, THE WAITRESSES FROM THE RUM BAR, Liz and Milita, were watching as Ginger Love talked, rapid-fire, moving her hands as if conducting a symphony. Wilson faced her, expression patient. When he saw us, though, he held up a palm, telling us to stop where we were. “Sorry I’m late, guys. I’ll be right with you.” Setting up his escape.

  Pretending we couldn’t hear, Ginger said, “Sam, it’s such a shame that Doc didn’t inherit your charm. Or your sense of civic responsibility. Some men, though”—her laughter was weighted with forbearance—“never grow up. He and Tomlinson are so alike in that way.”

  I noticed that her eyes never lingered on the president’s face. It’s impolite to stare at scars, which is why I’d suggested it.

  The Rum Bar waitresses were walking toward us as Wilson replied, “Very insightful to recognize the similarities, Ginger. But I don’t agree with your assessment. You should get to know the guys better.”

  What was different about his voice? Had he added a slight Southern accent? I was paying closer attention as Ginger replied, “Oh, I’ve tried and tried with those two, my friend. They’re both terrified of strong women. Poor Doc, he scampers into his little world of fish and chemicals and experiments. Know why I think he’s not politically involved? He’s so naïve. If the man was somehow magically transported to a foreign country? A place where life is hard—places we’ve experienced, Sam—I think he’d be as helpless as a child.”

  I heard Wilson say, “Well, I hope you’re wrong about that,” as Milita and Liz stopped with their backs to Ginger Love, close enough for Liz to whisper, “Bitch.”

  Both women grinned.

  “We tried to rescue the poor man. But Ginger pretended like we were invisible.”

  “Typical,” Milita added. She turned to look at Wilson. “We really like your uncle, Doc. I wish he wasn’t wearing that wedding ring—a man like Sam, a woman doesn’t care about age. Why isn’t his wife with him?”

  Tomlinson and I exchanged looks. “She transitioned to the next Dharma,” he said. “It was less than a year ago.”

  “Dah-harma?”

  I translated. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh no! That’s so sad! Geez, poor Sam, I bet he was married to a good one. You can just tell, can’t you, Liz? He’s so . . . solid.”

  Liz was nodding but also listening. She timed it so she interrupted Ginger in midsentence when she called, “Sam? Sam! We need your advice about something. Personal, if you don’t mind us borrowing him, ma’am.”

  Ginger didn’t like being called “ma’am.” It’s something I’ve noticed in women of a certain age. She stood glaring as Wilson joined us. She was still glaring as we turned down the beach toward our cabin, Milita saying, “If you’re going to be in the area for a while, Sam, why don’t you stop by the Rum Bar for a drink?”

  WHEN WILSON, TOMLINSON, AND I WERE ALONE, THE former president said, “Nobody recognized me.” He was delighted. “Know what I worried about most? Someone recognizing my voice.”

  I was right about the Southern accent.

  “It comes natural,” he explained. “I spent the first part of my life in a little piney-woods village. I worked hard at getting rid of the drawl. But it’s always right there if I want. Just a hint—actors always overdo it.”

  Tomlinson leaned to get a close look at Wilson’s face. “Did you have a professional makeup artist create that?”

  “In a way. But not for me.”

  “It’s artistry, man. Even from here, it looks real. Such a small thing—but what a difference.”

  “So far, so good, but the fewer people I meet, the better. I was nervous, at first, the way the woman with the hat was looking at me.”

  The president had given us a condensed version of what had happened between Ginger Love and the water cops. Something to do with her being questioned about a loggerhead turtle shell she’d found. He was more interested in how strangers had reacted to him.

  “Most people averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. One of the deputies said I looked familiar, but even he wouldn’t look at my face. The woman asked if I’d ever thought about going into politics.”

  I said, “What did you tell her?”

  “Told her I was flattered. But I came too damn close to using a Richard Nixon line—I have to stop quoting presidents. It’s become automatic. But I was right. They didn’t make the connection.”

  There was a boyish quality in his tone.

  “What’s the Nixon line?”

  I’d omitted the prefix, which irritated Wilson. “President Nixon said that politics would be a helluva good business if it wasn’t for the goddamn press.” He looked at his watch, then at Tomlinson. “Can we leave in an hour?”

  Tomlinson said, “Sam, we can leave now if you want,” celebrating, his inflection saying You did it, man. You’re free.

  11

  Three miles off Redfish Pass, wind out of the southwest, No Más on a starboard tack: Tomlinson said so
ftly, “He used the same leverage on me.”

  “How?” I kept my voice low. Kal Wilson was belowdecks, reading.

  “He said I don’t really know who you are. That there are things about myself I don’t know. And that he could get me pardoned. Because the president owes him.”

  Meaning the current president. During Wilson’s last days in office, Tomlinson explained, he signed nine executive pardons as a personal favor for the man who would succeed him two terms later.

  I said, “I know. He showed me the list. It checks out—if you believe he’ll do it.”

  Tomlinson said, “Yeah. If.” He thought about it a moment as I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before 6 p.m. The Gulf of Mexico was gradually encircling us as we moved off shore. Waves slid past, gray buoyant ridges that lifted No Más, zeppelinlike, inflating then deflating the fiberglass hull.

  “Doc?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The man didn’t have to threaten me. Hell, I still don’t know exactly where we’re going. But I wouldn’t’ve missed taking a trip like this, unless . . . unless he’s on some kind of destructive mission—”

  I held up a warning finger as Wilson’s head appeared in the companionway. He came up the steps carrying a nautical chart.

  “I feel like I’m interrupting, gentlemen. Comparing notes?”

  I said, “Tomlinson’s worried you’re planning something destructive. He was telling me he would’ve come along even without the coercion. I probably would’ve, too.”

  Wilson appeared pleased by my honesty. “The definition of coercion varies. Didn’t we talk about that? I’m offering you both something of value in return.”

  Tomlinson said, “If I committed a crime, man, I have a moral obligation to pay. Reciprocity, man. That’s what karma’s all about.”