Kerry Smith looked at his watch. “It’s been an hour and a half since the shooting,” he said. “He’s out of D.C. by now. And we can’t even prove it’s Fay.”

“The lack of evidence is part of his MO now,” Kinney said. “Not that that’s going to do us any good in court.”

“Suppose we caught him right now, Bob? Would we have enough to even hold him?”

“I don’t want to think about that at the moment,” Kinney said. “I just want to stop the guy from killing anybody else.”

“I suppose we could charge him with some sort of fraud in the faking of his death. We could hold him on that, couldn’t we?”

“I haven’t seen any evidence that he’s defrauded anybody,” Kinney said. “He doesn’t appear to have gained from faking his death.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s get to the airport. You packed your warm clothes?”

“Yes, sir.”

WILL WAS AT his desk when an aide came into the Oval Office. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said, “but we’ve just had word from Walter Reed that Speaker Efton has died from his wounds.”

“Ask the chief telephone operator to find Mrs. Efton and get her on the phone. She’s probably at the hospital by now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And order the flags on all federal buildings to be flown at half-staff.”

“Yes, sir.”

Now he had another grim funeral to look forward to.

54

BOB KINNEY’S airplane landed at Rockland Airport in the late afternoon. He was met by an FBI agent driving a gray Explorer, and he and Kerry Smith were driven to a boatyard in Camden, a few miles north of Rockland, on the western shore of Penobscot Bay, where a shed had been rented as a rallying point for Kinney’s team.

A potbellied stove warmed the shed, with the aid of a large gas heater blowing hot air around. Masts from a couple of dozen yachts were stored in racks along the walls, and the only furniture was a large picnic table and some folding chairs. An easel held a large-scale map of Penobscot Bay. Everyone gathered around.

“All right,” Kinney said, “we’ve got to take this guy here, because if we don’t, we might never find him again.”

“Maybe some state trooper will take him on his drive up here,” an agent said.

“I don’t think he’s dumb enough to drive an RV from Washington to Maine,” Kinney replied. “He has to have heard the news reports that we’ve alerted the state police along I-95. Anybody want to take responsibility for that leak?”

Silence prevailed.

“I didn’t think so.” Kinney pointed at the map. “You’ve all had an opportunity to look at this while you were waiting for me. The house is here, on North Islesboro, directly on the water. There’s no cove, no anchorage, just a rocky beach. The airstrip is here, south of the house. We will not be using that, so get it out of your minds. This island is a sparsely populated place, especially in winter, where there are fewer than a hundred people in residence. If anybody sees anything, it’ll be all over the island in a flash. The only person who knows of our interest in Mr. Lawrence Keane is the postmaster, and it’s been stressed to him that he is a federal employee and is sworn to secrecy.

“Tonight, we’re going to put a team ashore about half a mile north of the cottage, where the beach is near the road. The team will go in civvies, and backpacks, warmly dressed, and try to be indistinguishable from hikers. We will not send any vehicle over on the ferry, since note might be taken of it. We will not use a Coast Guard cutter to get our people ashore for the same reason. We’ve chartered a lobster boat for that purpose, and the team will go ashore in a rubber boat and stow it in the woods.

“Something I want to stress to those of you on tonight’s team. This is a recce, not a capture mission. We don’t even know if he’s there. That’s one of the reasons for the recce. Please keep in mind that Theodore Fay is probably the most technically accomplished fugitive you will ever encounter. You must expect a super-duper alarm system, and I don’t want you to try to defeat it. I don’t even want you to approach the house until you’ve electronically swept the area around it. We don’t want to set off alarms.

“The sole reason for this mission is to establish whether Fay is in residence. Look and listen, find out what you need to effect a swift and decisive entrance, don’t trip any alarms. Any questions?”

“Suppose Fay is in residence and we have an opportunity to take him?”

“You will not do so, until I have cleared it, personally, by cell phone. We will not use radios, because Fay could very well have a scanner. You’ll be given a list of cell phone numbers for your commanders. Try to sound like a normal person when you call. Avoid jargon or any reference to the names Fay or Keane. Code name for Fay will be ”Buddy‘; I will be “Jack’; Agent Smith will be ”Barney‘; your swat team leader will be “Charlie.”“

“How do we leave the island?” somebody asked. “If we effect a capture or a kill, a chopper will land at the Islesboro strip, for a quick evacuation, and vehicles will take the ferry over with evidence-gathering equipment. Once you’re in the house, take extreme care not to disturb any part of it. Do what you have to do and get out clean.”

“If he’s not there, how long do we wait?”

“As long as I think is advisable. If Fay isn’t there, the recce team becomes a surveillance team. You’ll find a place to camp and wait him out, with two men watching the house at all times.”

“Something I’ve never understood,” somebody said. “Where did Fay get the money to buy all this stuff-the RV, the Mercedes, the house on Islesboro?”

“A combination of sources: He held patents on a number of small inventions that paid regular royalties, he saved his money, and he has a pension. He moved just over a million dollars in cash out of the country when he faked his death. Any other questions?”

Silence.

“All right, the lobster boat leaves at eleven p.m. It’s a good hour and a half out to and around Islesboro and to the area of the cottage. First, we’ll make a pass or two up and down the shore to see if there are any signs of life at the cottage, then we’ll put the team ashore. In the meantime, get some dinner and some rest.”

JUST AFTER midnight, Kinney stood in the big cockpit of the lobster boat and slowly swept the eastern coastline of North Islesboro with night binoculars. He found the cottage, and his pulse quickened: There were lights on. Then, as he watched, the lights went off, one at a time.

“He’s there, and he’s going to bed,” Smith said to Kinney.

“He may have the lights on a timer; let the team know.”

Smith went below and spoke for a moment to the half-dozen men huddled in the cramped forepeak, then came back on deck. “They’re briefed,” he said.

“We’ll put them ashore as soon as we’re around that point,” Kinney said, indicating a finger of land illuminated by starlight. “God, I hope this is an end to it.”

“So do I,” Smith said. “One way or another.”