“A little vandalism by some locals,” Milos said. “Nothing important.”

“Good,” Slobojan said. “Some of the rumors mentioned quite a bit of damage, but I can see now that they were exaggerated. You have a beautiful house for a party. The food is superb, and this wine…” He held up his glass. “If this is your house red, I’d love to see what you keep in your cellar.”

“You know wines then?”

Slobojan shrugged. “A little. I dabble.”

In Milos’s experience, a person who downplayed his abilities as Slobojan was doing was most often a true expert.

“Then I believe I have a treat for you. Come.”

He’d led the director halfway across the living room when he heard a sound outside. He stopped and turned.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Slobojan said.

The sound grew louder as Milos hurried back to the doors. A helicopter! He was sure of it! With his intestines writhing into painful knots, he rushed outside and scanned the night sky.

“Is something wrong?” Slobojan said, coming out behind him.

“A helicopter! I hear a helicopter!”

Slobojan laughed. “Of course you do, old man. The Coast Guard runs up and down the beach all the time.”

Already the sound was fading. Milos forced a smile. “The Coast Guard. Yes, of course.”

Where the hell had the Coast Guard been Friday night when he was being bombed?

Milos relaxed. He’d thought about this all day and had come to the conclusion that he had little to fear from the so-called East Hampton Environmental Protection Committee tonight. This was a gathering of their peers. As much as they might hate him and his presence here in the center of what they considered their private preserve, they would not risk an assault on members of their own precious social circle. They’d know that if—more likely when—their identities were revealed, they would become instant outcasts, shunned by their own kind.

For tonight at least, his house was safe. But who knew after that?

That was why it was essential that he track down these bastards—especially the one who had called him on Friday night Milos would deal personally with him.

He led Slobojan back into the living room where he had the 1947 Petrus breathing in a crystal decanter, the empty bottle beside it. As Slobojan bent to read the label, Milos turned the bottle.

“First you will try. And after you tell me what you think of it, I will show you the label.”

“A blind taste test, ay?” Slobojan said. His smile looked uncertain. “OK. I guess I’m game.”

Milos half-filled one of the decanter’s matching crystal glasses and handed it to Slobojan. He watched closely as the director went through all the swirling and sniffing rituals, and wondered how he’d react when he finally tasted it. Here was a man who supposedly knew wine but had no idea if he was tasting something from France, California, or one of the dozen or so wineries right here on Long Island.