Wardrobe
They say clothes make the man. He believed that, at least as it related to undercover work. Every single identity he had came with a very specific look. It was part of the cover.
He had a varied wardrobe in storage. Designer label suits, thrift shop hoodies, dozens of pairs of jeans in every color and price range. He had a $10,000 Viconya suit that was made specifically for him in Rio during a counterfeiting sting. He'd had six fittings and spent four hours shopping for the right tie and shoes. And he had a pair of $2 no-name denim pants that had come from a Salvation Army store in San Francisco when he was trying to infiltrate a human trafficking ring that preyed on poverty-level laborers. They were too big and too wide and not nearly warm enough for the cool mornings working construction in the Bayview District. But both the suit and the pants were exactly what they needed to be.
There was an entire warehouse somewhere that held wardrobe options for him and everyone on his team. According to Hetty, they had more garments in their wardrobe facility than the top three movie studios in Hollywood combined.
During some missions, he changed clothes a dozen times. During others, never. But at the end, he always returned everything – in whatever state – to be logged in, cleaned, repaired and made ready for the next time. Except once.
It was a particularly soft and supple black leather jacket that he'd first worn during a fact-finding mission in Moscow. He'd grabbed it on the fly when his contact changed the meeting location from indoors to outdoors, and he had never returned it to the rack. It had been new at the time, and not yet logged in. He's had it for six years.
Every time he wears it, Hetty always looks at him a little suspiciously. But she's never said a thing.