“Dick Stone was from your mother’s side of the family?”

“Yes, he was her brother’s son.”

“How did he die?”

“He was murdered, along with his wife and daughter.”

Adele looked shocked. “Was this in connection with his work?”

“No, it was a family matter. Say, can I show you the bedroom?”

She laughed and kissed him. “I’d love to see it,” she said.

He led her upstairs, and they helped each other undress, then plunged under the eiderdown duvet and clung to each other for warmth.

“I’m glad we’re not in Palm Beach,” she said, throwing a leg over his.

“I’m glad, too,” Stone said, then he turned his attention entirely to her needs.

After lunch the following day, Stone left the house alone and drove out to the airfield. There had been a little snow in the night, and he wanted to see if he was going to have an icing problem with the airplane.

The sun was well up, though, and what snow there may have been on the airframe had melted. Stone was about to get back into the old Ford when suddenly there was a helicopter over the runway. It was black, and he noticed that there was no registration number on the fuselage.

The chopper settled slowly, then a rear door opened and someone beckoned for him to approach. Stone walked over to the helicopter, and Lance Cabot leaned forward from a rear seat and offered his hand. Stone shook it, then other hands grabbed him and hoisted him aboard the aircraft. The door slammed, and the chopper rose straight up, then banked and turned south.

“What the hell is this?” Stone shouted over the noise of the rotor.

Lance pointed at his ear and mouthed, “Can’t hear you,” then he motioned for Stone to sit back in his seat, and another man buckled his seat belt.

They flew south for ten minutes across Penobscot Bay, then the helicopter descended and set down on a small island. The engines were cut, and the rotor spun down, then Lance and his two aides, along with Stone, got out and walked toward a large house fifty yards away.

“What is this place?” Stone asked. “And what the hell am I doing here?”

“I thought we’d have a chat,” Lance said as they climbed the steps to the front porch. They shed their coats in the entrance hall and Lance led Stone to a paneled library overlooking a rocky beach. He poured them both a brandy, and they sat down.

“Whose place is this?” Stone asked, grateful for the warmth of the brandy.

“It’s a rental, sort of,” Lance replied. “Belongs to an alumnus of the Agency. We use it for various tasks in the off-season. Right now there’s a Chinese agent upstairs in one of the bedrooms, being turned, I should expect.”

“Is this where you called me from?”

“Yes. As we flew in yesterday, I saw Jim Hackett’s little Mustang at the Islesboro field, so I knew you were here.”