“This doesn’t make any sense,” Stone said. “They would send a hit man from Eastern Europe to a small island in Penobscot Bay just to send a message to London?”

“I know it’s a stretch, but crime is worldwide these days; the whole thing could have been arranged with a single phone call or e-mail. Anyway, we know the result.”

“I’m having lunch with Ed Rawls and some friends of his,” Stone said. “Is there any reason to think these same people would have an interest in Rawls?”

“None that I know of. You can tell him about this; it might set his mind at ease. By the way, are you armed?”

“No.”

“Does Dick have any guns in the house?”

“Well, he had the Keltec, but the state police have still got that. Why do I need to be armed?”

“I’m not certain that you do, but I have some concerns.”

“Please tell me about your concerns.”

“When the man called and you answered, he said, ”Is this Stone?,“ and you replied, ”Yes,“ because that’s your name, too. So he thought he was talking to Dick, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“This source is classed as unreliable, so he may be working both sides of the street. He may have called to make sure Dick was dead.”

“Come on, Lance. Whoever killed Dick knows that he’s dead.”

“Try and follow me: The shooter would have reported back to whoever sent him that Dick was dead, and it may very well be that the person who sent the shooter also killed him, for security reasons. The phone call could have simply been a check to see if the shooter was lying.”

“I suppose that makes a perverted kind of sense,” Stone said.

“These people would not casually kill a senior officer of the CIA; it would have been carefully planned, with cutouts at every level, to protect those who ordered the killing. Shooting the shooter is a very good cutout. If caught, he might give up the people who hired him to save his own neck.”

“Well, yes, I’ve had some experience with that.”

“Anyway, when you spoke to the guy this morning, that may have indicated to these people that the shooter lied about having completed the hit and that Dick is still alive and well. And you, of course, are also named Stone, and you are living in Dick’s house.”

Stone sighed. “Are you doing anything about this?”

“People from the London station are looking for Dick’s snitch as we speak. When they find him, they’ll work their way up the food chain until they find the people who gave the order for the hit.”

“And what, do you estimate, are the chances of their reaching the top of the food chain?”

“I think good; the Agency does not take lightly the murder of their officers and especially the murder of an officer’s family in the United States. I’ll keep you posted on developments. In the meantime, buy a shotgun and watch your ass.” Lance hung up.

Stone called his secretary, Joan. “Hi.”

“Good morning.”

“I’d like you to send me some things, overnight.”

“Shoot.”

“Go up to my dressing room, find my golf shoes-they’re the ones with the plastic spikes…”

“No kidding?”

“… and also a pair of brown alligator moccasins and a pair of boat shoes.”

“They’re the ones with the nonslip soles, I guess.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Also, go into the safe in my dressing room-you have the combination-and send me that little.45 that Terry Tussey made for me, the one with the pearl handle. Send the holster next to it-make sure it fits, that it’s the right one-and the heavy gun belt that’s hanging on my belt rack. Also, send three magazines and the double-magazine holder that’s with the holster, and send me a box of.45 caliber ammo, the Federal Hydrashock. Got all that?”

“Is it the shoulder holster you want or the belt holster?”

“The belt holster… Oh, what the hell, send both.”

Joan read back the list to him. “Anything else?”

“Oh, send me a couple of thousand in cash, too, just put it in an envelope and stick it in a shoe.”

“The usual denominations?”

“Plenty of smaller bills.”

“Will do. I’ll send along some mail, too.”

“Goodbye.” Stone hung up. Now, if he could just survive until tomorrow.

Chapter 17

RAWLS WAS ALREADY SEATED at a comer table when Stone arrived at the little yacht club. They shook hands, and Stone sat down.

Rawls pushed a slip of paper across the table. “Send checks in those amounts to those addresses for the yacht and golf club memberships,” he said. “You’re in.”

“Already?” Stone asked, astonished. It usually took a while to get into any club.

“You had good backers, and like I told you, your cousin, Dick, was highly regarded around here,” Rawls replied. “You met the three requisite members at lunch here yesterday. The committee met last night, and it got done.”

“Thank you, Ed. I’m sure I’ll enjoy using both. Who am I meeting today?”

“See the two guys standing on the dock?”

Stone turned and saw two elderly men standing outside, one sweeping the horizon, the other looking toward shore. “What are they doing?”

“Just checking. They would never go into any building without checking, especially in light of recent events.”

The screen door to the club was bumped open by an electric invalid scooter, and its rider moved it quickly toward their table.

“Stone, this is Don Brown,” Rawls said. The other two men came in and sat down. “And this is Harley Davis and Mack Morris.”

Stone shook hands all around. “Gentlemen, glad to meet you.”

“We’re a kind of club of old boys,” Rawls said. “We call ourselves the Old Farts.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Stone said.

The three men looked wary and exchanged glances. “How’s that?” Mack Morris asked.

“I told you, he knows Lance Cabot,” Rawls said. “In fact, Stone is one of Lance’s contract people. And he’s Dick Stone’s first cousin.”

Everybody nodded, seemingly satisfied with Stone’s credentials. They all ordered sandwiches and iced tea and chatted desultorily about golf and boats for a while, then Rawls called the meeting to order, after a fashion.

“My sources are telling me somebody ordered a hit on Dick,” he said, without preamble. Everybody became very still.

“We know why?” Davis asked.

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Rawls replied.

Stone spoke up. “My information is a revenge killing, in return for the Agency’s busting up a drug ring in East Germany.”

“Your information?” Don Brown asked, with laconic incredulity.

Stone shrugged.

“Details?” Brown asked.

“I answered Dick’s office phone, and somebody used a code word, Kirov, which turned out to be a warning.”

“Okay,” Brown said.

“Problem is, the caller may have thought I was Dick.”

“So,” Harley Davis said, “if they think Dick is still alive, somebody may make another house call.”

Stone nodded. “So I’m told.”

“Are you armed, Stone?” Rawls asked.

“I will be tomorrow.”

“That may not be soon enough. I’ve got a shotgun in the car you can borrow until you’re equipped.”

“Thanks.”

Their sandwiches arrived, and everybody ate in silence for a while.

“For what it’s worth, Ed,” Stone said, “Lance didn’t think any of this had spilled over on you.”

“It’s nice that Lance thinks that,” Rawls said, “but he don’t know everything.”

“Who knows everything?” Mack Morris observed.

There were affirmative grunts around the table. Then Rawls’s three cohorts began to grill Stone.

“How come you’re Dick’s first cousin and we never heard of you?” Harley Davis asked.

“There was a rift in the family,” Stone said. “I spent a summer up here when I was eighteen, and that was about the only contact we had with the Boston branch. I had a great aunt who lived in New York. She was the only one who was friendly.”

“What was the cause of the rift?” Don Brown asked.