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  THE PRACTICAL SPY

  Copyright 2014 Doug Walker

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Someone had inflicted a large, vertical scar on the right side of his face, from his forehead to the bottom of his chin. He wore a black patch over the scrambled flesh where his eye had been. Previously he had prized his anonymity. Now, one glance and no one could forget him. It had changed his life.

  His name, Orson Platt. His parents had named him after Orson Welles. In retrospect, Welles was a tragic figure who failed to realize his full potential. But Platt’s parents had admired Welles for his considerable talent and charm.

  For us he is Platt, or Orson. Forget Welles. At the time of this story he was just under forty. His background included prep school, Dartmouth, Army, special forces, CIA, black opts, photographic memory, many acquaintances, rich family, never married, widely read, many feared him. Could a CV be more perfect?

  Through his adult life he had remained busy reading, making mental notes, consulting with the high and mighty in various countries, keeping his hand in, ferreting out the difficult to ferret out. “Ask Orson” had become a stock response. In return, he might ask a favor. He had been something of a romantic, but now felt self-conscious about his appearance. He believed the average person might be repelled by him.

  Thus armed, with a life-change, midlife crisis, whatever, he sought out his Delilah. Delilah Simpson to be exact. Her parents had also been playful, their surname almost Sampson. But that’s fairly obvious.

  She had been a brilliant, liberal, TV personality, a stately, handsome woman with some athletic ability. Also rich. Published a couple of books on social issues. Married briefly to a well-known womanizer who threw her over. Had an affair with a female intern. Bisexual. A student of politics and political figures.

  Poor Delilah. She was the victim of a car bomb, perhaps planted by an anti-abortion or gun-crazy sort. That kind of lot. She didn’t really care who bombed the car, so many crazies out there. Politics – so much greed in the world, so many seek money, then power, then absolute power, no less.

  She lost the lower part of an arm, one side of her face was twisted and disfigured, scalp partially burnt, deprived of a patch of hair. Quite a sight, but she had both eyes. At the time of Orson’s first visit, she was in her sixth month of recovery.

  She later recalled that his first words to her were, “I have come to court the fair maiden.”

  Her reply, “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” followed by, “You’d make a splendid German general if you shaved your head. Is that the mark of Heidelberg?”

  “A machete-like weapon wielded by a deceased ill-tempered gentleman.”

  She made what passed for a smile on her disfigured face. “You might try plastic surgery, then a glass eye,” she suggested.

  “Dear lady, I have had plastic surgery. This is the best they can do. There is no eye socket, thus no place for an eye. The gentlest I can be toward the rest of the world is to keep that bit of twisted flesh concealed.”

  “Good point. What do you think of my appearance so far?” she questioned.

  “About what I expected. I’ve spoken with your doctor. He’s brought me up to speed on your condition.”

  “Those things are confidential.”

  Orson smiled. “Of course. I have certain patterns. I try not to be devious, but I’m of a certain nature.”

  “I see.” She seemed to understand his non-explanation.

  “Of course I’m interested in you totally, but your reproductive system especially caught my attention.”

  “It’s still there, believe it or not.”

  “That was of interest to me. When married I hope for a child.”

  “Just one?”

  “One for me. One or more for you if you like. But one will do for me, the first born.”

  She had caught on by this time. He was serious about courtship. She attempted another smile, but knew it must look disastrous. “If I make this grimace,” she explained, “it might pass for a smile.”

  “I understand.”

  “And you do understand quite a bit, being seemingly serious about two disfigured individuals uniting in wedlock, then sharing a nuptial bed. It seems not only bizarre, but also with gruesome characteristics. How might I test your sincerity?”

  “The handsome young man-about-town, the two of you were united briefly in marriage. I understand he was the architect of your break up.”

  “He threw me over.”

  “I can have him killed. Would that speak to you?”

  “I don’t really hate anyone. Certainly not enough to set a capital crime in motion. But here we are, we two, we disfigured two, we happy two. Perhaps he could join us in our disabilities and disfigurement. I am beginning to have interesting vibes, maybe the two of us are soul mates. Written in the stars, long ago and far away. So, be off on your quest, Sir Orson, and returneth thou with task accomplished and clean slate. Orange blossoms and bells of joy may yet be ours.”

  So Orson departed. He felt the interview had been a smashing success. He did see the fair Delilah as a true soul mate and fit partner for life. With a scarcity of words they had connected. Now to prove his intentions were honorable.

  Days before his next visit and well along in her recovery, Delilah learned that her ex had involved himself in some sort of back-alley brawl and come off the worse for it, quite a few teeth missing, jaw badly broken, flesh peeled away above his right eye, part of an ear gone, apparently bitten off.

  His general health remained robust, but his appearance would be altered forever and not for the better. She longed to lay eyes upon him and shower him with insincere sympathy. But that could wait. Viewing the incident as a sign of blossoming romance between her and her scarred hero, it seemed to her that arranged marriages often turned out to be the very finest.