“How’s Frasconi working out?” I asked her.

“Tony?” she said. “He’s a nice guy.”

She didn’t say anything more about him. We ordered Rolling Rocks, which suited me because it was my favorite drink that summer. She had to lean very close to talk, because of the noise. I enjoyed the proximity. But I wasn’t fooling myself. It was the decibel level making her do it, nothing else. And I wasn’t going to try anything with her. No formal reason not to. There were rules back then, I guess, but there were no regulations yet. The notion of sexual harassment was slow coming to the army. But I was already aware of the potential unfairness. Not that there was any way I could help or hurt her career. Her jacket made it plain she was going to make master sergeant and then first sergeant like night follows day. It was only a matter of time. Then came the leap up to E-9 status, sergeant major. That was hers for the taking, too. After that, she would have a problem. After sergeant major came command sergeant major, and there’s only one of those in each regiment. After that came sergeant major of the army, and there’s only one of those, period. So she would rise and then stop, whatever I said about it.

“We have a tactical problem,” she said. “Or strategic, maybe.”

“Why?”

“The pointy-head, Gorowski? We don’t think it’s blackmail in the sense that he’s got some terrible secret or anything. Looks to us more like straightforward threats against his family. Coercion, rather than blackmail.”

“How can you tell?”

“His file is clean as a whistle. He’s been background-checked to hell and back. That’s why they do it. They’re trying to avoid the possibility of blackmail.”

“Was he a Red Sox fan?”

She shook her head. “Yankees. He’s from the Bronx. Went to the High School of Science there.”

“OK,” I said. “I like him already.”

“But the book says we should bust him right now.”

“What’s he doing?”

“We’ve seen him taking papers out of the lab.”

“Are they still doing the sabot?”

She nodded. “But they could publish the sabot design in Stars and Stripes and it wouldn’t tell anybody anything. So the situation isn’t critical yet.”

“What does he do with the papers?”

“He dead-drops them in Baltimore.”

“Have you seen who picks them up?”

She shook her head.

“No dice,” she said.

“What are you thinking about the pointy-head?”

“I don’t want to bust him. I think we should get whoever it is off his back and leave him be. He’s got two baby girls.”

“What does Frasconi think?”

“He agrees.”

“Does he?”

She smiled.

“Well, he will,” she said. “But the book says different.”

“Forget the book,” I said.

“Really?”

“Direct order from me,” I said. “I’ll put it in writing, if you want. Go with your instinct. Trace the chain the whole way to the other end. If we can, we’ll keep this Gorowski guy out of trouble. That’s my usual approach, with Yankees fans. But don’t let it get away from you.”

“I won’t,” she said.

“Wrap it up before they get done with the sabot,” I said. “Or we’ll have to think of another approach.”

“OK,” she said.

Then we talked about other things, and drank a couple more beers. After an hour there was something good on the jukebox and I asked her to dance. For the second time that night she told me No dice. I thought about that phrase later. Clearly it came from crapshooters’ jargon. It must have originally meant foul, like a call, like the dice hadn’t been properly rolled. No dice! Like a baseball umpire calling a grounder over the bag. Foul ball! Then much later it became just another negative, like no way, no how, no chance. But how far back in its etymology was she mining? Had she meant a plain no, or was she calling a foul? I wasn’t sure.

I was completely soaked when I got back to the house so I went upstairs and took possession of Duke’s room and toweled off and dressed in a fresh set of his clothes. The room was at the front of the house, more or less central. The window gave me a view west all the way along the driveway. The elevation meant I could see over the wall. I saw a Lincoln Town Car in the far distance. It was heading straight for us. It was black. It had its headlights on, because of the weather. Paulie came out in his slicker and opened the gate well ahead of time so it didn’t have to slow down. It came straight through, moving fast. The windshield was wet and smeared and the wipers were beating back and forth. Paulie had been expecting it. He had been alerted by the phone call. I watched it approach until it was lost to sight below me. Then I turned away.

Duke’s room was square and plain, like most of the rooms in the house. It had dark paneling and a big Oriental carpet. There was a television set and two telephones. External and internal, I guessed. The sheets were clean and there were no personal items anywhere, except for clothes in the closet. I guessed maybe early in the morning Beck had told the maid about the personnel change. I guessed he had told her to leave the clothes for me.

I went back to the window and about five minutes later I saw Beck coming back in the Cadillac. Paulie was ready for him, too. The big car barely had to slow. Paulie swung the gate shut after it. Then he chained it and locked it. The gate was a hundred yards from me, but I could make out what he was doing. The Cadillac disappeared from view beneath me and headed around to the garage block. I headed downstairs. I figured since Beck was back it might be time for lunch. I figured maybe Paulie had chained the gate because he was heading on down to join us.

But I was wrong.

I made it to the hallway and met Beck coming out of the kitchen. His coat was spotted with rain. He was looking for me. He had a sports bag in his hand. It was the same bag he had carried the guns to Connecticut in.

“Job to do,” he said. “Right now. You need to catch the tide.”

“Where?”

He moved away. Turned his head and called over his shoulder.

“The guy in the Lincoln will tell you,” he said.

I went through the kitchen and outside. The metal detector beeped at me. I walked back into the rain and headed for the garage block. But the Lincoln was parked right there at the corner of the house. It had been turned and backed up so its trunk faced the sea. There was a guy in the driver’s seat. He was sheltering from the rain, and he was impatient. He was tapping on the wheel with his thumbs. He saw me in the mirror and the trunk popped and he opened his door and slid out fast.

He looked like somebody had dragged him out of a trailer park and shoved him in a suit. He had a long graying goatee hiding a weak chin. He had a greasy pony tail held together by a pink rubber band. The band was speckled with glitter. It was the kind of thing you see on drugstore carousels, placed low down so little girls will choose them. He had old acne scars. He had prison tattoos on his neck. He was tall and very thin, like a regular person split lengthwise into two.

“You the new Duke?” he said to me.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m the new Duke.”

“I’m Harley,” he said.

I didn’t tell him my name.

“So let’s do it,” he said.

“Do what?”

He came around and raised the trunk lid all the way.

“Garbage disposal,” he said.

There was a military-issue body bag in the trunk. Heavy black rubber, zipped all along its length. I could see by the way it was folded into the space that it held a small person. A woman, probably.

“Who is it?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

“The government bitch,” he said. “Took us long enough, but we got her in the end.”

He leaned in and grabbed his end of the bag. Clamped both corners in his hands. Waited for me. I just stood there, feeling the rain against my neck, listening to it snapping and popping against the rubber.