“May I remind you,” Nine said, “that thirty percent of Medicare payments are spent in the last year of life, and forty percent of those dollars cover care for people in the last month. The last month! Our country is deficit rich and cash poor, and as sure as metastatic cancer, our entitlement programs will kill us.”

At that moment, the door to Bacon’s study opened softly, and the butler, Harris, shuffled in. He was one of several employees who worked at Red Cliff but were not members of the Society of One Hundred Neighbors. One of the reasons why the faces on the video system were blurred was to conceal them from those who were not part of the order.

Harris whispered in Bacon’s ear. The director nodded, then stood awkwardly, wincing from the stiffness in his deformed foot.

“My friends,” he said, “I need to excuse myself for a moment. Nine, if you could provide the group with the update you gave me earlier, we won’t have to waste any time.”

Bacon followed his butler out of his study and into a nearby room, which had been soldiers’ quarters in the original castle, but was used now as a library annex. A rugged man with a thick goatee and shaved head stood in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. His name was Ron Jessup, and he was responsible for security and surveillance at Red Cliff. Bacon had hired the mercenary for his technical abilities, but he was also an experienced sniper and an expert with most weapons.

“Our radar has picked up a boat moving up the coast from the south,” Jessup said in a calm, authoritative voice. “Collins and I looked at it together. Something small, maybe a fishing boat. About a quarter mile from here. You asked to be notified of any possible security threats, so I wanted to inform you right away.”

“You did the right thing, Ronnie,” Bacon said. “Send Collins out to have a look and keep me informed of any developments.”

Jessup left with Harris while Bacon gazed out the window at the darkening skies. Gray clouds were moving in from the west, pushed by a steady wind, strong enough to bend the tops of trees. Bacon guessed the seas would be six to seven feet high, with whitecaps. It was not the sort of ocean for pleasure cruising, and professional fishermen seldom hugged the coastline around here. Still, it could be a crabber or a lobster boat.

Chances were it was nothing else.

But Bacon was not a man who left anything to chance.

Chapter 49

CHAPTER 49

Where’s the money coming from?

—LANCASTER HILL, PERSONAL CORRESPONDENCE TO AYN RAND, 1939

Swirling fog shrouded most of the imposing cliff face.