He took a breath and spoke rapidly. “And the Europeans will shut their mouths for a change, and then it will be Cuba’s turn, then North Korea. And the Russians will keep their mouths shut as well. Because after we go nuclear once, everyone will understand that we will do it again. And when the time is right, we will smother the China problem in its cradle before it grows up to challenge us.”

Harry Muller watched the other men as Madox continued his tirade. It seemed to Harry that the other guys were a little uncomfortable now that Madox had taken off from the Islamic terrorist problem and was finding new enemies to kill. And then there was the oil thing, which Harry thought was at least as important to Bain Madox and Global Oil Corporation as getting rid of terrorists. Harry already knew this guy was nuts, but now he was seeing how nuts-and so were Madox’s buddies.

Madox stood, and his voice became strident. “And as a Vietnam veteran, I tell you, we will also redeem our lost honor when American troops march into Saigon and Hanoi without a peep from China or anyone.”

He looked at his four colleagues and concluded, “For us not to go nuclear-for us to continue this fight against our enemies by conventional and diplomatic means, to waste lives and treasure in this battle, to prolong it without a clear victory in sight-is morally wrong. We have the means to end this quickly, decisively, and cheaply through the use of nuclear weapons that we already possess. To not use these weapons against people who would use them against us if they could would be national suicide, a strategic blunder, an affront to common sense, and an insult to God.”

Bain Madox sat down.

The room was still.

Harry Muller studied the faces in the dim light and said to himself, Yeah, they know he’s nuts. But they don’t care because he’s just saying what they’re thinking.

Bain Madox lit a cigarette and said matter-of-factly, “Okay, let’s talk now about which American cities need to be sacrificed, and how and when we’re going to do that.”

PART V

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After dinner at the barge restaurant, Kate and I drove out toward Orient Point on the eastern tip of the North Fork of Long Island.

The sky was partly cloudy, but I could see stars, which I rarely see in Manhattan.

The North Fork is a windswept spit of land, quite beautiful in a stark sort of way, surrounded by the Long Island Sound to the north, Gardiner’s Bay to the south, and the Atlantic Ocean to the east.

Because the surrounding water holds its summer heat, the autumns are unusually warm for this latitude. In fact, this microclimate, plus maybe global warming in general, was the reason for the newly planted vineyards, and the resulting explosion of tourism, which has changed the feel of the land.

As a kid, I summered out here with my parents along with other hardy and less affluent families who could not afford the Hamptons, or who specifically wanted to avoid the Hampton crowd.

One such hardy soul was Albert Einstein, who summered here at a place called Nassau Point in 1939; and since there wasn’t much to do, he probably had a lot of time to think. So one day, at the urging of other physicists, he wrote a letter to Franklin Roosevelt-now called the Nassau Point Letter-in which he strongly advised the president to get moving on the atomic bomb before the Nazis built one of their own. The rest, as they say, is history.

Regarding microclimates and the warming weather, I said to Kate, “Let’s go for a skinny-dip.”

She glanced at me and replied, “It’s October, John.”

“We should take advantage of global warming before everyone else does. In ten years, this place will have palm trees instead of vineyards, and thousands of people will be coming here in October to soak up the sun.”

“Then let’s come back in ten years for a swim.”

I continued east on Route 25, an old colonial-era road, formerly known as King’s Highway when the British were in charge here before the Revolution. Along the road, in the bluffs to the north, I could see old white clapboard houses and recently built summer houses of cedar and glass. I never really wanted to be rich, but now and then I think about starting a new revolution so I can appropriate some stockbroker’s summer house on the water. I mean, I’d give it back after a few years, and everyone would benefit from the experience.

We were close to Orient Point now, and up ahead was the terminal for the ferry to New London, Connecticut, and beyond that, the restricted area where the government ferry went to the top secret Animal Disease Center on Plum Island.

This, of course, made me think back to that summer when I was recuperating from my gunshot wounds out here, and I got involved with a bizarre double homicide when I was supposed to be watching my bullet holes closing up. I also got involved with a lady named Emma Whitestone, whom I still think about too often.

Subsequent to the case, I also became involved with a lady named Beth Penrose, who was the county homicide detective assigned to that case-Beth preceded Kate, or perhaps they overlapped a bit-so the Plum Island case and the name Beth Penrose didn’t come up too often when Kate and I were talking about old cases.

Also while working that case, I first met Mr. Ted Nash of the Central Intelligence Agency, and this meeting was to have a profound influence on my life, and as it turned out, on his as well. His life ended before mine, so he doesn’t think about me much anymore, though I still think about him now and then.

And, in another weird twist of fate, Ted Nash knew Kate before I did, and I really think they had something going before I came along.

Therefore, I sometimes have this fantasy that Nash actually survived the World Trade Center, and that he and I meet again. Then, the fantasy continues with a verbal confrontation that I win, of course, followed by a physical confrontation-no guns-in which I throw him off a cliff, or a skyscraper, or sometimes I just snap his neck and watch him twitch.

Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

I came out of my happy reverie and replied, “About what a beautiful place this world is.”

She asked, “What did you say your name was?”

“Be nice. I’m trying to get in the mood of… whatever.”

“Good.” She suggested, “Let’s go back to the B and B and make love.”

I made an immediate two-wheeled U-turn on the deserted road and hit the accelerator.

“Slow down.”

I eased off on the gas pedal. As the old expression goes, “Women need a reason to have sex; men need only a place.” So, in that spirit, I hung a quick left at a sign that said: ORIENT BEACH STATE PARK.

“Where are you going?”

“A romantic spot.”

“John, let’s go back to the B and-”

“This is closer.”

“Come on, John. I don’t like to do it outdoors.”

I didn’t care where I did it as long as I did it. And my pocket rocket had clearly pointed to this road.

I continued on the dark, narrow road that ran through bulrushes and sea grass along a narrow peninsula. The land widened, and I saw an opening in the vegetation to the left and turned onto a path that went down to the water. I put the Jeep in four-wheel drive, continuing through some boggy ground until we reached a small sand beach on Gardiner’s Bay.