He then hailed a cab and was driven to an apartment in DC North West, where lived a man he had known in his days as Jason Bourne, a man who had done extraordinary work for the State Department's Treadstone 71. The man was a silver-haired Black who had been a taxi driver until one day a passenger left a Hasselblad camera in his car and never put in a claim. That was years ago and for several years the cabbie had experimented, and had found his true vocation. Quite simply, he was a genius at 'alteration' – his speciality being passports and drivers' licences with photographs and I. D. cards for those who had come in conflict with the law, in the main with felony arrests. David had not remembered the man, but under Panov's hypnosis he had said the name -improbably it was Cactus – and Mo had brought the photographer to Virginia to help jar a part of Webb's memory. There had been warmth and concern in the old black man's eyes on his first visit, and although it was an inconvenience, he had requested permission from Panov to visit David once a week.
'Why, Cactus?
'He's troubled, sir. I saw that through the lens a couple of years ago. There's somethin' missin' in him, but for all of that he's a good man. I can talk to him. I like him, sir. '
'Come whenever you like, Cactus, and please cancel that "sir" stuff. Reserve the privilege for me... sir. '
'My, how times change. I call one of my grandchildren a good nigger, he wants to stomp on my head. '
'He should... sir. '
Webb got out of the taxi, asking the driver to wait, but he refused. David left a minimum tip and walked up the overgrown flagstone path to the old house. In some ways it reminded him of the house in Maine, too large, too fragile and too much in need of repair. He and Marie had decided to buy on the beach as soon as a year was up; it was unseemly for a newly appointed associate professor to move into the most expensive district upon arrival. He rang the bell.
The door opened, and Cactus, squinting under a green eyeshade, greeted him as casually as if they had seen each other several days ago.
'You got hubcaps on your car, David?
'No car and no taxi; it wouldn't stay. '
'Must'a' heard all those unfounded rumours circulated by the Fascist press. Me. I got three machine guns in the windows. Come on in, I've missed you. Why didn't you call this old boy?'
'Your number's not listed, Cactus. '
'Must'a' been an oversight . '
They chatted for several minutes in Cactus's kitchen, long enough for the photographer specialist to realize Webb was in a hurry. The old man led David into his studio, placed Webb's three passports under an angled lamp for close inspection and instructed his client to sit in front of an open-lensed camera.
'We'll make the hair light ash, but not as blond as you were after Paris. That ash tone varies with the lighting and we can use the same picture on each of these li'l dears with considerable differences – still retaining the face. Leave the eyebrows alone, I'll mess with them here. '
'What about the eyes?' asked David.
'No time for those fancy contacts they got you before, but we can handle it. They're regular glasses with just the right tinted prisms in the right places. You got blue eyes or brown eyes or Spanish armada black, if you want 'em. '
'Get all three,' said Webb.
They're expensive, David, and cash only. '
'I've got it on me. '
'Don't let it get around. '
'Now, the hair. Who?
'Down the street. An associate of mine who had her own beauty shop until the gendarmes checked the upstairs rooms. She does fine work. Come on, I'll take you over. '
An hour later Webb ducked out from under a hair dryer in the small well-lighted cubicle and surveyed the results in the large mirror. The beautician-owner of the odd salon, a short black lady with neat grey hair and an appraiser's eye, stood alongside him.
'It's you, but it ain't you,' she said, first nodding her head, then shaking it . 'A fine job, I've got to say it . '
It was, thought David, looking at himself. His dark hair not only was far, far lighter, but matched the skin tones of his face. Also, the hair itself seemed lighter in texture, a groomed but much more casual look – windblown the advertisements phrased it The man he was staring at was both himself and someone else who bore a striking resemblance but was not him.
'I agree,' said Webb. 'It's very good. How much?
'Three hundred dollars,' replied the woman simply. 'Of course, that includes five packets of custom-made rinse powder with instructions and the tightest lips in Washington. The first will hold you for a couple of months, the second for the rest of your life. '
'You're all heart. ' David reached into his pocket for his leather money clip, counted out the bills and gave them to her. 'Cactus said you'd call him when we were finished. '
'No need to; he's got his timing down. He's in the parlour. '
The parlour?
'Oh, I guess it's a hallway with a settee and a floor lamp, but I do so like to call it a parlour. Sounds nice, don't it?
The photo session went swiftly, interrupted by Cactus's reshaping his eyebrows with a toothbrush and a spray for the three separate shots and changing shirts and jackets – Cactus had a wardrobe worthy of a costume supply house – and wearing in turn two pairs of glasses – tortoiseshell and steel-rimmed – which altered his hazel eyes respectively to blue and brown. The specialist then proceeded to insert the photos in place and under a large, powerful magnifying glass skillfully stamped out the original State Department perforations with a tool of his own design. When he had finished, he handed the three passports to David for his approval.
'Ain't no customs jockey gonna' pick on them,' said Cactus confidently.
They look more authentic than they did before. '
'I cleaned 'em up, which is to say I gave 'em a few creases and some ageing. '
'It's terrific work, old friend – older than I can remember, I know that. What do I owe you?
'Oh, hell, I don't know. It was such a little job and it's been such a big year what with all the hasslin' goin' on.'
'How much, Cactus?
'What's comfortable? I don't figure you're on Uncle's payroll. '
'I'm doing very nicely, thanks. '
'Five hundred's fine. '
'Call me a cab, will you?
Takes too long, and that's if you can get one out here. My grandson's waiting for you; he'll drive you wherever you want to go. He's like me, he don't ask questions. And you're in a hurry, David, I can sense that. Come on, I'll see you to the door. '
Thanks. I'll leave the cash here on the counter. '
'Fine. '
Removing the money from his pocket, his back to Cactus, Webb counted out six $500 bills and left them in the darkest area of the studio counter. At $1, 000 apiece the passports were a gift, but to leave more might offend his old friend.
He returned to the hotel, getting out of the car several blocks away in the middle of a busy intersection so that Cactus's grandson could not be compromised where an address was concerned. The young man, as it happened, was a senior at American University, and although he obviously adored his grandfather, he was just as obviously apprehensive about being any part of the old man's endeavors.
'I'll get out here,' said David in the stalled traffic.
Thanks,' responded the young Black, his voice pleasantly calm, his intelligent eyes showing relief. 'I appreciate it.'
Webb looked at him. 'Why did you do it? I mean, for someone who's going to be a lawyer, I'd think your antenna would work overtime around Cactus. '
'It does, constantly. But he's a great old guy who's done a lot for me. Also, he said something to me. He said it would be a privilege for me to meet you, that maybe years from now he'd tell me who the stranger was in my car. '
'I hope I can come back a lot sooner and tell you myself. I'm no privilege, but there's a story to tell that could end up in the law books. Good-bye. '