Rawls pushed a slip of paper across the table. “Send checks in those amounts to those addresses for the yacht and golf club memberships,” he said. “You’re in.”

“Already?” Stone asked, astonished. It usually took a while to get into any club.

“You had good backers, and like I told you, your cousin, Dick, was highly regarded around here,” Rawls replied. “You met the three requisite members at lunch here yesterday. The committee met last night, and it got done.”

“Thank you, Ed. I’m sure I’ll enjoy using both. Who am I meeting today?”

“See the two guys standing on the dock?”

Stone turned and saw two elderly men standing outside, one sweeping the horizon, the other looking toward shore. “What are they doing?”

“Just checking. They would never go into any building without checking, especially in light of recent events.”

The screen door to the club was bumped open by an electric invalid scooter, and its rider moved it quickly toward their table.

“Stone, this is Don Brown,” Rawls said. The other two men came in and sat down. “And this is Harley Davis and Mack Morris.”

Stone shook hands all around. “Gentlemen, glad to meet you.”

“We’re a kind of club of old boys,” Rawls said. “We call ourselves the Old Farts.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Stone said.

The three men looked wary and exchanged glances. “How’s that?” Mack Morris asked.

“I told you, he knows Lance Cabot,” Rawls said. “In fact, Stone is one of Lance’s contract people. And he’s Dick Stone’s first cousin.”

Everybody nodded, seemingly satisfied with Stone’s credentials. They all ordered sandwiches and iced tea and chatted desultorily about golf and boats for a while, then Rawls called the meeting to order, after a fashion.

“My sources are telling me somebody ordered a hit on Dick,” he said, without preamble. Everybody became very still.

“We know why?” Davis asked.

“Haven’t gotten that far yet,” Rawls replied.

Stone spoke up. “My information is a revenge killing, in return for the Agency’s busting up a drug ring in East Germany.”

“Your information?” Don Brown asked, with laconic incredulity.

Stone shrugged.

“Details?” Brown asked.

“I answered Dick’s office phone, and somebody used a code word, Kirov, which turned out to be a warning.”

“Okay,” Brown said.

“Problem is, the caller may have thought I was Dick.”

“So,” Harley Davis said, “if they think Dick is still alive, somebody may make another house call.”

Stone nodded. “So I’m told.”

“Are you armed, Stone?” Rawls asked.

“I will be tomorrow.”

“That may not be soon enough. I’ve got a shotgun in the car you can borrow until you’re equipped.”

“Thanks.”

Their sandwiches arrived, and everybody ate in silence for a while.

“For what it’s worth, Ed,” Stone said, “Lance didn’t think any of this had spilled over on you.”