“My apologies, Mr. Victor. It was necessary. Believe me. It is to our advantage to pretend that you are an impostor and that the man impersonating you in Manila is the real Steve Victor. We aren’t sure that the Commissioner can be trusted. It’s possible that he would sell information to anyone for a price. The Russians-S.M.U.T. -— anyone. Also, with Major Worthby involved in S.M.U.T., we can’t be sure if he’s dragged any of his fellow officers in with him. So, under the circumstances, it seemed best to make a point of imprisoning you and then arranging your escape.”
“But they’ll know that I’ve escaped.”
“Yes. But the assumption will he that you’re a Russian agent. They may even decide to leak information to the Russians proving that you’ve defected. That way they’ll figure the Russians themselves will take care of you. We may even have a corpse fished up out of the bay so they’ll think that’s exactly what happened to you. Then they’ll dismiss you from their minds and concentrate on worrying about the man they think is the real Steve Victor in Manila.”
“But why should someone in Manila be impersonating me?!’
“We don’t know that, Mr. Victor. But we do know he killed a S.M.U.T. agent there and that you’re wanted there for murder.”
“Remind me to stay away from Manila.”
“That would be wise. But let me continue. We don’t have much time. As things stand now, we only have one lead to S.M.U.T. in Malta—-Mrs. Dwight Worthby."
“The Major’s wife? I thought she’d been arrested.”
“We arranged to have her tipped off, and she evaded the police. We wanted her to go free. She’s the only one who might lead us to the higher-ups in S.M.U.T. She’s really been the brains in Malta. Her husband was only a front man.”
“Then Domino was right.”
“Yes. Now, Mrs. Worthby is in hiding, but we have her under surveillance. Indications are that she’s making arrangements to get out of Malta. We want you to follow her. No matter where she leads you, we want you to stick with her. We’re hoping she’ll take you somewhere near the top man in S.M.U.T.”
“But I met the lady once,” I remembered. “In the casino. Won’t she recognize me?”
“Lagula told me of that meeting. It was brief. And I’ve made arrangements for you to have a disguise. You’re going to be fixed up immediately.” Putnam pulled a bell-cord hanging beside the porthole.
“But why me?” I asked. “Why don’t you have one of your regular agents tail her? ”
“Alas, none of our regular agents has a way with women comparable to yours, Mr. Victor.”
“Huh?”
“It's true. You see, we don’t want you just to follow Mrs. Worthby. We want you to get to know her and to worm your way into her confidence if possible.”
“What do you mean by ‘worm my way’?”
“I shall leave that up to you, Mr. Victor. I have implicit faith in your ability.”
“Thanks a whole heap. Have you seen Mrs. Worthby? She's not exactly my type, you know.”
“Sometimes one’s country must call on one for sacrifices above and beyond the call of duty.”
“What makes you think she’s so inclined? After all, she is a married woman.”
“Our information is that that has never stopped her in the past. Mrs. Worthby, it seems, has a penchant for illicit affairs with men that amounts to an obsession. If Major Worthby had a horn for every time he’d been cuckolded, his forehead would look like a trophy room.”
“And you don’t think she’ll remember me? ’
“Not when we get through with you. Ahh, here is Andre now.” Putnam greeted an effeminate young man wearing the white coat of a beauty-parlor operator.
I smelled Andre even before he came through the door to the cabin. It was the aroma of a flower garden which had gone far too far. His appearance fit in with it. His hair was thick, black, curly, and coiffed into a Medusa-like complexity. His moustache was waxed, pointed at the ends, and shaped into a permanent sneer. His eyes were soft as a doe’s, and his hands fluttered like butterfly wings as he surveyed me.
“Irish,” Putnam told him. “Red hair, red beard, uptilted nose, rosy cheeks-—the works.”
Andre went to work. His hands proved stronger than they looked, and only slightly, slyly caressing as they moved over my head and face. Hair dye flowed, covering roots and all; putty was molded into my nostrils, turning up the tip of my nose; more putty raised my cheekbones and widened and angled my forehead. Even my ears were forced outward, away from the side of my head, and the lobes made pointy. Then came the beard and moustache, created on the base foundation he’d made of my face.
“Dimples?” he asked Putnam, standing back to survey his handiwork.
“Perhaps one.”
“No! ” I drew the line. “Absolutely not!”
“Oh, very well.” Andre actually sighed. “But it would do wonders for your facial personality.” He stood back and studied me. “I think I’m finished,” he announced with—honest to Elizabeth Arden—a dramatic flourish. “Yes, it is done.” He handed me a mirror.
Macushla! The face looking back at me out-Irished Paddy’s pig. Saints be preserved! It was carved right out of the Blarney Stone. Up the Irish! It was a ruddy slab of the Auld Sod from County Cork itself.
But it was more than merely Irish. It was Irish with character. The bushy red hair was a flaming banner flung in the face of the Black and Tans. The red beard, equally aflame, was worthy of a Killarney highwayman thumbing his nose at the British landowner whose coach he’d just robbed. So help me, my pearly white teeth actually flashed when I grinned behind the beard. All in all, I looked like the archtype of the Irish renegade.
“Sure now, an’ ’tis a sight to behold,” I brogued aloud.
“Excellent, Mr. Victor,” Putnam approved. “A lilt of an Irish accent will be fine. Only don’t overdo it. Now, remember this. Your name is Liam O’Ryan. You are a writer by profession, and you come from Dublin. You're on the run from the British. Perhaps you killed someone, but you won’t talk about it. You hate the British and the Americans, too, because you feel that they’ve financed the British and enabled them to maintain partition. But you have no use for the Commies, either. In short, you're a perfect possibility as a recruit for S.M.U.T. You’ll be provided with papers to bear out your story. Also, arrangements will be made so that your story will check out back in Dublin if inquiries are made. Now, in a few minutes you will be rowed ashore. A car will be waiting. It will take you back to Valetta. You will be dropped off at a Gypsy tearoom. Go into the back and ask to have your fortune told. Your appearance will identify you. The woman who tells your fortune will be your only contact with us. She will inform you of Mrs. Worthby’s movements. You shouldn’t have to contact her more than once. Good luck, Mr. Victor.”
“Just a moment!” Andre had been silently standing by all this time, and now he clapped his hands and jumped excitedly. “I have it. Just the touch. Do not move, sir.” He rummaged around in his large case of beauty aids. “Here!” He came up with a black eye-patch with an elastic band attached to it. Before I knew what he was up to, he'd fastened it over my left eye. “Voila!” He stood back and stared at me, his face transfixed with an expression of fulfilled inspiration.
“Now what the hell do I need that for?” I asked Putnam.
“I never interfere with genius,” he told me. “If Andre feels it’s necessary to complete the picture, then I must uphold him. If I didn’t, he might defect to the Russians or the Chinese. He’s had offers, and he’s very temperamental. I don't know how we'd ever get along without him. Such artists must be treasured.”