The northern third of Long Island had been given back to nature much earlier. Beginning in the nineteenth century, the bulbous northern outcropping had housed Fort Strong, an installation dedicated to the defense of Boston Harbor. The twenty-five-acre area, separated from the rest of the island by a low, narrow strip of beach and field, had been commandeered by the federal government in the 1880s, and a major construction project was begun to create an elaborate warren of cement caves and rooms in the hillside. By the 1950s, the fort was home to a Nike Missile system, a massive post–World War II air-defense project involving line-of-sight antiaircraft missiles developed by Bell Labs.

By the late 1960s, though, the threat of nuclear annihilation had eclipsed any fear of an air-to-ground attack, and Fort Strong was decommissioned. In the half-century since the fort was abandoned, the cement compound had been swallowed by vegetation. The gun blocks were still visible from the air, but from the water and from the land it was difficult to discern the outlines of the man-made fortress.

It was after two o’clock in the morning as the Citacea idled by the northern end of Long Island. She was a Viking sport-fishing rig, fifty-two feet in length with a flying bridge and a carbon fiber composite hull sharpened at the bow to cut through rough seas. She had a luxurious salon and three staterooms to keep her inhabitants swaddled in comfort when not manning the heavy rods.

The time of day for the journey was not unusual—serious sport fishermen often headed out east in the wee hours to be fishing by early morning off the outer limits of Stellwagen Bank, a kidney-shaped underwater plateau between Cape Ann and Cape Cod where the waters teemed with marine life. The time of year might raise an eyebrow, particularly in the current cold snap, but there were enough wealthy dilettantes of questionable sanity who would relish the tales to tell of big-game fishing in the most inhospitable conditions. Enough to dampen the suspicions of anyone who might take notice as the boat turned toward the northeast and headed out to sea.

The Citacea was piloted by Skip Olney, a charter captain who was forever in Cormack O’Connell’s debt. Two years before, Skip’s twenty-year-old son had been caught running ten kilograms of cocaine into Chelsea, and Cormack had interceded to keep the lad out of prison.

Cormack, Cicero, and Buddy searched Long Island’s northern shore as the boat passed by. It was a bright, clear night, and a full moon cast enough light to make out the pier and the lighthouse built into the hillside.