Stuart Woods - Shoot Him If He Runs

“Why?”

“First, because the Agency people I showed the photographs to unanimously agreed that he is not; too young, wrong facial features. Also, I have been able to confirm that he is, in fact, one Barney Cox, one of four British subjects sought for questioning in a robbery of cash from a company at Heathrow Airport, in London, some months ago. Confidence is extremely high, to the point of certainty.”

“Thank you for confirming that,” Lance said. “I’ll see that the information is passed along to the appropriate authority.”

“Now,” Mona said, “about the other two. At first, the photos seemed to be ordinary British passport shots, the kind you’d get at a dozen photographers’ in the West End of London. I analyzed them right down to the dot level, or rather, the pixel level on the computer, and there were a number of similarities, so much so that I began to think that they might have been taken by the same photographer. What kept throwing me off was that the light was different in the two shots-a slightly different color temperature and with the light coming from a different direction.”

“Is there some way to identify at which studio they were taken?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not there, yet; I’m just walking you through what I found.”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“It turns out that where they were taken isn’t really relevant, though I suspect London. They were taken with a Polaroid camera, the kind that takes four shots at once; very common in photo shops.”

“Not digital?”

“No, that’s what you’d expect if they were taken in a large U.S. city, where the conversion to digital photography may be a bit farther along than in England, but again, that’s not the point. After I had taken that analysis as far as I could without identifying a specific shot, I started to do multiple comparisons of the faces.”

“And…?”

“Well, look at the two faces: you see,” she said, pointing, “the man on the right, Weatherby, has had his nose broken at some point, and his jawline is a little firmer than the other man, Pemberton.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Mona hit a few computer keys. “Now, here I’ve enhanced and enlarged the Weatherby photo: look at his Vandyke.”

“Right, I’m looking at it.”

“What do you see?”

Lance gazed at the enlargement. “A mustache and goatee.”

“But look at what appear to be the roots of the hairs: they seem to have a tiny, thicker dot at the root of each one.”

“Which means?”

“Which means that it’s a false beard, though a very good one.” She moved to another enlargement. “Same at the hairline; it’s a wig.”

“So Weatherby is disguising himself.”

“Yes, but still not the point.”

“Get to the point, Mona.”

“Now look at an enlargement of the broken nose,” she said, moving to another photo. “What do you see?”

“Come on, Mona, tell me.”

“All right.” She pointed at the place where the nose seemed broken. “No pores in the skin,” she said.

“So it’s a false broken nose?”

“Just a clever application of spirit gum, a common theatrical makeup substance.”

“All right, so he has a fake broken nose, too.”

“Right.” She changed photos again. “Now here’s the Pemberton nose, enlarged, alongside the Weatherby shot. Look at the other side of the nose.”

“I’m looking.”

“The other side of both noses is very like that side of Weatherby’s.”

“But not the chin,” Lance said. “It’s softer, less firm.”

“It certainly is, but here’s what happens when I straighten Weatherby’s nose and remove his Vandyke.” She switched to two photos where the hair was cropped out but the faces were enlarged. “What do you see now?”

“They’re beginning to look related,” Lance said. “Brothers?”

“No, there’s spirit gum on Weatherby’s chin, as well as his nose. If we remove that we get…”

Lance furrowed his brow. “Pemberton’s chin?”

“Exactly. They’re not brothers; they’re the same man.” She clicked on two other photos, and images appeared that made the two men look the same.

“Has anybody who knew Teddy Fay seen these?”

“The only two people still in Tech Services who knew him. They both said it could be, but they couldn’t say for sure. Of course, I’ve altered the photos to reflect what I think the men would look like without disguises, but since there are no known photos of Teddy, we can’t be sure it’s him. But I’d put the chances at around seventy-thirty that it is.”

“Well, at least we can have our people hunt down these men-this man, rather-and photograph him.”

“From what I’ve heard about Teddy, that could be awfully hard to do,” Mona said. “But I’ve done this,” she said, switching to a page of a dozen photographs, all different. “I’ve made up this man with various combinations of wigs, mustaches and subtle changes in the face. Why don’t you e-mail this page to our people and see what they can do with it?”

“I will do so immediately, Mona,” Lance said.

She handed him a DVD. “Here’s everything,” she said. “Let me know how it works out.” She took her laptop and left.

Lance picked up the phone and dialed Holly’s satphone number. No answer and no voice mail. He sat down at his computer, inserted the DVD Mona Barry had given him and transmitted it to Holly’s laptop, along with an e-mail explaining what she had done.

Stone and Holly lay on the bed, panting and sweaty. The remains of their lunch were on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Once more?” Holly asked.

“You’re killing me,” Stone said. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Only joking.”

“Thank God.” Stone changed the subject. “Have you reported in to Lance?”

“Ah, no, not yet.”

“You’re afraid to tell him we aren’t going to find Teddy, aren’t you?”

“Certainly not.”

“You sound uncertain.”

“I’m not uncertain, I’m lazy. I’d rather fuck you than talk to Lance on the satphone.”

“Well, that would be my choice, too.”

“Then you should be a happy man.”

“Tired, but happy.”

There was a rap on the door, and Stone pulled up the sheet. “Come in.”

Genevieve opened the door. “You two feel like a swim?”

“Not since the shark,” Holly said.

“Oh, come on; the shark’s gone. And you don’t even have to get dressed.”

“That’s a thought,” Stone said. They grabbed towels and followed Genevieve, who was wearing only her towel, too. Dino was already in the water, waving them in.

Stone grabbed Holly’s hand, dropped his towel and ran with her into the light surf.

“What a wonderful temperature!” Holly yelled. “It’s just perfect!”

They swam out to the sandbar and stood up to rest for a minute.

“Look,” Stone said, pointing at a sailboat leaving English Harbour, “it’s Harold Pitts.”

“Pretty boat,” Holly said. “You think he’s leaving St. Marks?”

“I don’t know,” Stone said. “I had the impression Harold had begun to think about staying on here with Irene.” They could see a lone figure at the helm; Stone waved, and he waved back. Then he bore away, tacked and began to recede into the distance.

“I wonder where he’s going,” Stone said.

Lance grew weary of waiting for Holly to return his call. He tossed his satphone into his briefcase, got into his jacket and walked out of his office, running into Carolyn, Hugh English’s secretary, in the hallway.

“Hi,” she said. “I’ve booked your jet; it’s the Hawker, and it will be at the St. Marks airport at noon tomorrow.”