The Man With Eighteen Names

He was as innocuous appearing as a man could possibly be. Not only was he never given a second glance by anyone who saw him (which was exactly how he preferred it), but even people who had to interact with him such as salesclerks or waiters, would have a difficult time recalling his appearance even ten short minutes after interacting with him.

His goal had always been to appear as harmless and inoffensive as a man could, and to that end he dressed in the least distinguishable manner possible, had any and all prominent physical features he was born with (moles, the natural bright blonde color of his hair, his striking light blue eyes, the square shape of his jaw) either removed or modified with dyes, prosthetics, or plastic surgery, and spent years learning to carry himself in the least remarkable manner possible.

Over the course of a thirty-seven year career as an Intelligence operative he had participated in nearly every form of espionage imaginable, and had worked with and/or against agents from more countries than he could remember, friend & foe alike, and yet there were only six people in the entire world who knew his real name.

Of those six people he was related to three. The other three were his handler at the agency, that man's immediate supervisor, and of course the Chief.

To the hundreds of people he had met over the past three plus decades, he was known by at least seventeen different identities, all of which were substantiated by verifiable credit, work, education, and even family histories - each of which were manufactured to conform to the specific dominant cultural and religious idioms of the various areas of the world in which he operated.

He was not considered a master of disguise however. He was considered something much more considerable than that. He was considered invisible.

And he thought he was invisible, at least until this afternoon, when the young woman in the bright yellow dress walked straight up to him and held out a large envelope in her right hand and said, "Mr. Raymond Cooper, please take this to your employer - the fate of the world is at stake."

He briefly stared after her as she turned abruptly and faded into the crowd. His face did not betray the shock he felt as he quickly turned his attention to the envelope he had taken possession of. 

No one looking at him would ever guess that he was currently wondering if he should be chasing after the girl or if he should be downing the little cyanide pill that was concealed in the third button from the bottom of his shirt.