“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.

17

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