Randy White - Hunter's moon

He was talking about Tomlinson’s sailboat, I realized. No Mas was solid but not nimble.

I said, “Maybe we don’t. Depends on where you want to go. And how much time Tomlinson needs to sober up.”

“Does he often drink too much?”

“Tomlinson’s drinking habits are like the tides. He misses a day occasionally.”

“Then he’s used to functioning with a hangover. I want to get into open water as soon as possible.”

“It’s your trip. Where we headed?”

Wilson flipped the hash with a spatula, then stirred in a glop of pepper sauce. “When we’re a couple miles out in the Gulf, I’ll brief you.”

I said, “I can’t offer advice without information,” then explained that incoming current moved through Captiva Pass at six or seven knots. No Mas had only a small Yanmar engine. We couldn’t exit the pass until the tide changed. Under power, though, we could avoid the pass by traveling north or south on the Intracoastal Waterway.

He thought about that, not eager to tip his hand. “I don’t want to wait around here until sunset. We both need sleep, but we can do that once we’re under way.”

Like me, he’d been watching the sky, anticipating helicopters.

“Then we’ll have to use the motor. Head north and use another pass when the tide turns. Or head south to Sanibel and cut to the Gulf at Lighthouse Point.”

“Those are our choices?”

“Unless Tomlinson has another idea.”

“It’s settled, then. That’s what we’ll do.”

I hesitated. “But… what about that other matter we discussed? There’s equipment at my lab I need.”

“How do you propose to get it? We’re leaving in a few hours.”

“If we’re going south, Dinkin’s Bay Marina is on the way. If we’re not, I could hitch a ride in a powerboat, then arrange a rendezvous by radio.”

Wilson shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Mr. President,” I said, seeing his eyes over the lenses of his glasses, “you told me you pick good people and let them do their jobs. If you are serious about… about resolving the matter you alluded to, trust my judgment, sir. I know what’s needed to… to dispose of unresolved issues.”

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 Bogota 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.