THE PHONE RANG, and Stone picked it up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Rawls,” a gruff voice drawled.
“Good morning.”
“You free for lunch? I’d like you to meet some people.”
“Yes.”
“Noon at the yacht club?”
“Good.”
“See you then.” Rawls hung up.
The phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Lance.”
“That was fast.”
“I checked with the London station; Kirov means trouble is coming, watch your ass.”
“A little late,” Stone replied.
“Obviously, Dick’s contact hadn’t heard about his death.”
“Is that it, trouble is coming?”
“Kirov is used as a specific warning, based on solid information. It was just too late.”
“What was the solid information?”
“The man who called was a paid source of Dick’s; you’d call him a snitch. He was at a card game last week in East Germany when he overheard two players, Russians, discussing a revenge hit on a highly placed American. The snitch is Hungarian, but he speaks Russian.”
“Then why the hell didn’t he call Dick last week, when it might have done some good?”
“He was in jail; got into an accident while driving home from the card game, drunk.”
“What was the revenge for?”
“Apparently the Agency was responsible for the breakup of a large drug ring in which the two Russians had a stake. The hit was meant to be a warning to the London station.”
“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.”
“Good-bye.” Stone hung up. Now, if he could just survive until tomorrow.