Stone switched to the departure frequency and checked in, then was given direct Carmel and eleven thousand feet. Ten minutes later he was given direct destination and his final altitude, flight level 250.

“It’s so smooth,” Willa said.

“Welcome to jet travel.”

“Airliners aren’t this smooth.”

“They are when they have smooth conditions, as we do today.”

“What a great way to travel,” she said. “Where the hell are we going?”

“East by northeast. Air traffic control is being very nice to us today. Either there isn’t much traffic or they think we’re Air Force One.”

Twenty minutes from destination they were given a descent to eleven thousand feet, and, once there, were handed off to Bangor approach and given five thousand. Stone canceled his IFR plan and aimed for just south of the short runway at Islesboro.

“Bangor is in Maine, isn’t it?” Willa asked.

“Yes, and so is Penobscot Bay, below us, as is that long, skinny island right there, which is known as Islesboro.”

“I’ve never been to Maine. This is exciting.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Stone turned final for runway one, lined up his approach, dropped the landing gear, and put in full flaps. The airplane quickly slowed to its approach speed of 88 knots, and Stone set down and braked sharply. “That’s for us,” he said, nodding at the old Ford station wagon as they rolled past it.

Half an hour later they had unpacked and were enjoying a hot toddy before a cheerful fire in the study.

“Well,” Willa said, “you certainly know how to make a second date interesting.”

“Thank you.”

“How is it you chose this place?”

Stone told her the story of Dick Stone’s death and his inheritance.

“That’s sad,” she said, “but in the end, fortunate for you.”

“I can’t deny that,” he said.

“So, what’s this I hear about this big conference at your house Monday morning?”

Stone looked at her, dumbfounded. “Please tell me exactly what you’ve heard,” he said.

“That you’re somehow involved with the CIA—they’re your clients, or something, except you’re representing somebody else on this occasion.”

“And please tell me who told you that.”

“The DA himself,” she said, “when your name came up.”

“And what is the DA’s interest in me and my meeting?”

“He didn’t say, exactly, just that he hoped to get some prosecutions as a result of the meeting.”

Stone was baffled. This had to have come from Lance, but why would Lance have told a local, non-federal prosecutor, albeit the most important DA in the country, to expect prosecutions?

“Well?” Willa asked. “Is this true?”

Stone thought about the agreement he had drawn and that Lance had signed. He had neglected to insert provisions of secrecy, believing that Lance had no reason to mention it to anyone outside the Agency and that he would, routinely, keep it a secret.