said, taking off his necktie, “and put this on.”
Cat did as he was told.
Jim continued talking while he snapped a picture, pulled a tab on the back of the camera, and glanced at his watch. “There’s a guy who might be just the man, and fortunately he’s in Atlanta. He’s an Australian, name of Bluey Holland; he’s lived in this country for a while—well, off and on, anyway. He’s spent a lot of time in Colombia, and he knows all the wrong people, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you think he might be free?” Cat asked.
“Well, not exactly,” Jim said. “He’s in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. But he’s up for parole soon. I can see that somebody puts in a favorable word for him. You’ve changed a lot since your last passport picture was taken,” he said, holding up a sheet of four photographs of Cat.
“Well, apart from the beard and haircut, I’ve lost about fifty pounds.”
“That’s good. Nobody’s going to recognize you as the man who had his picture in all the papers a while back.”
“What’s Bluey Holland in for?” Cat asked.
Jim returned to his chair, fished in the large case, and came up with some sort of small machine. “Old Bluey is a hotshot pilot—Australian outback, bush flying in Alaska, that sort of thing, and he’s made not a few runs between this country and various strips in South America.”
“I see,” Cat said.
“This last time, though, Bluey got mixed up with someCubans on a deal—Jesus, nobody should get mixed up with Cubans these days—and they stuck him in Atlanta with them.”
“Is this guy a hard criminal?”
“Well, let’s just say that old Bluey has always taken a liberal view of U.S. Customs regulations. He doesn’t hit people over the head and take their money, doesn’t do contract killings. Bluey loves flying, preferably low and fast, and he prefers small, dark airports to big, brightly lit ones. He’s a pretty capable sort of fellow, and as I’ve said, he knows the territory down there.”
“How can I contact him?”
“I’ll have him contact you when he’s out. He won’t know where the message came from. Tell him Carlos pointed you at him.” Jim snipped the four photographs apart, took a small blue booklet from his case, and, using the machine in his lap, sealed a photograph into the booklet. “There’s not a hell of a lot more I can do for you, except give you some thin cover.”
“How do you mean, thin cover?” Cat asked.
Jim tossed him the booklet.
Cat opened it to find his photograph in the United States passport of one Robert John Ellis.
“You’ll need this, too,” Jim said, tossing something else.
Cat caught a well-worn wallet. Inside were half a dozen credit cards, a social security card, a Georgia driver’s license, and other cards, much like the ones in Cat’s pocket.
“Sign them and the passport.”
Cat started signing.
“Ellis is a salesman with your company,” Jim said. “Other than having a different name and address, he’s alot like you. His passport expires on the same date and it has the same stamps as yours, the same travel history. In fact, since you’ve lost so much weight and shaved the beard, his passport information is more like you than yours is.”
“You really think I’ll need all this?” Cat asked, a little nonplussed.
“I don’t know, but if I were going where you are, I’d want some cover. The passport, the driver’s license, and the credit cards are all real. You’re on all the right computers as of today. If you go through Colombian or U.S. Immigration, the passport will hold up. If you charge dinner on the Ellis American Express Card, it will go on your company account. Oh, when you get back to Atlanta, have your company print some Ellis business cards, and tell your switchboard operator that if he gets any calls, to say he’s in South America. You’d better brief your brother-in-law, too, but don’t tell him about any of the ID materials, just that you might be
Cat did as he was told.
Jim continued talking while he snapped a picture, pulled a tab on the back of the camera, and glanced at his watch. “There’s a guy who might be just the man, and fortunately he’s in Atlanta. He’s an Australian, name of Bluey Holland; he’s lived in this country for a while—well, off and on, anyway. He’s spent a lot of time in Colombia, and he knows all the wrong people, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you think he might be free?” Cat asked.
“Well, not exactly,” Jim said. “He’s in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. But he’s up for parole soon. I can see that somebody puts in a favorable word for him. You’ve changed a lot since your last passport picture was taken,” he said, holding up a sheet of four photographs of Cat.
“Well, apart from the beard and haircut, I’ve lost about fifty pounds.”
“That’s good. Nobody’s going to recognize you as the man who had his picture in all the papers a while back.”
“What’s Bluey Holland in for?” Cat asked.
Jim returned to his chair, fished in the large case, and came up with some sort of small machine. “Old Bluey is a hotshot pilot—Australian outback, bush flying in Alaska, that sort of thing, and he’s made not a few runs between this country and various strips in South America.”
“I see,” Cat said.
“This last time, though, Bluey got mixed up with someCubans on a deal—Jesus, nobody should get mixed up with Cubans these days—and they stuck him in Atlanta with them.”
“Is this guy a hard criminal?”
“Well, let’s just say that old Bluey has always taken a liberal view of U.S. Customs regulations. He doesn’t hit people over the head and take their money, doesn’t do contract killings. Bluey loves flying, preferably low and fast, and he prefers small, dark airports to big, brightly lit ones. He’s a pretty capable sort of fellow, and as I’ve said, he knows the territory down there.”
“How can I contact him?”
“I’ll have him contact you when he’s out. He won’t know where the message came from. Tell him Carlos pointed you at him.” Jim snipped the four photographs apart, took a small blue booklet from his case, and, using the machine in his lap, sealed a photograph into the booklet. “There’s not a hell of a lot more I can do for you, except give you some thin cover.”
“How do you mean, thin cover?” Cat asked.
Jim tossed him the booklet.
Cat opened it to find his photograph in the United States passport of one Robert John Ellis.
“You’ll need this, too,” Jim said, tossing something else.
Cat caught a well-worn wallet. Inside were half a dozen credit cards, a social security card, a Georgia driver’s license, and other cards, much like the ones in Cat’s pocket.
“Sign them and the passport.”
Cat started signing.
“Ellis is a salesman with your company,” Jim said. “Other than having a different name and address, he’s alot like you. His passport expires on the same date and it has the same stamps as yours, the same travel history. In fact, since you’ve lost so much weight and shaved the beard, his passport information is more like you than yours is.”
“You really think I’ll need all this?” Cat asked, a little nonplussed.
“I don’t know, but if I were going where you are, I’d want some cover. The passport, the driver’s license, and the credit cards are all real. You’re on all the right computers as of today. If you go through Colombian or U.S. Immigration, the passport will hold up. If you charge dinner on the Ellis American Express Card, it will go on your company account. Oh, when you get back to Atlanta, have your company print some Ellis business cards, and tell your switchboard operator that if he gets any calls, to say he’s in South America. You’d better brief your brother-in-law, too, but don’t tell him about any of the ID materials, just that you might be
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