Eight men gathered around the dining table in a Rockland hotel suite, a few miles from Islesboro — Dmitri Asimov’s inner circle.

Asimov rose from his place at the head of the table and rapped on the mahogany for attention. “I have news,” he said, “of a sort.”

“What does that mean?” someone asked.

“The second team returned two men short, and mission incomplete.”

“They were our best men.”

“No,” said Asimov, “the two in our first team were our best men.”

“How did this happen?”

“We sent the first two to take out Peter,” he said, “but the marksman, Rawls, stopped them.”

“So, we take out Rawls and go again with Greco.”

“The second team was sent to take out Rawls,” Asimov said. “It turns out that Rawls had more firepower at his disposal than we were prepared for. Our problem is that this is more of a military problem than a simple assassination. We need someone with a military background.”

“The Sarge,” someone said.

“Yes!”

“I’ll get in touch and get him up here.”

The phone rang, and the Sarge, who had actually been a captain before he was kicked out of the Marine Corps for trying and failing to murder his commanding officer, picked up the phone. “This is the sergeant.”

“You know who this is?” a velvety voice said.

“I believe I do.”

“I need you, and some more men, too.”

“How many men and where?”

“There’s a jet waiting for you at Teterboro Airport.”

“How many does it seat?”

“Eight, but I don’t think you’ll need that many.”

“How many targets?”

“Three, possibly more.”

“Sounds like you need a little recce before the heads start to roll. Where are you?”

“Rockland, Maine.”

“Is that where the targets are?”

“No, they’re on a nearby island, Islesboro.”

“So, we’re talking about at least one boat. How about available weapons?”

“Bring what you need. Ammo, too.”

“What else? An armored personnel carrier? A bazooka?”

“Equipment for night work.”

“When do you need this done?”

“Last Thursday.”

“Okay, let’s hold it right there. This has all the makings of a first-class fuckup. I’ll come up there and see what’s involved, then I’ll round up what I need.”

“This needs doing right away.”

“Then you’re talking to the wrong man. I don’t do right away. I just do it right. You want a referral? I know half a dozen people who can serve up a cock-up on demand, but then there’ll be bodies everywhere.”

“Oh, all right. Be at Teterboro, Atlantic Aviation, at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll go over everything after you get here, then you can order what you need.”

“See you later.” Sarge hung up.

Chapter 55

Asimov squinted into the morning sky and picked up a black dot, which swiftly became an aircraft on final approach. It set down and taxied to the ramp. The airstairs door opened and a large man descended, followed by a smaller man.

Asimov shook the larger man’s hand and said, “Hello, Sarge.”

“Hello, Dimitri. My friend here is the Corporal.”

Asimov shook hands with the smaller man, then the three of them got into an elderly Lincoln town car.

“Okay,” Sarge said, “let’s hear it.”

“First, we get the ferry; we’ve got twelve minutes.” The Lincoln shot forward.

The gates were just starting to close when they drove aboard.

“Is this the only way out here?” Sarge asked.

“For the public, yes. You may have whatever transport you need when the time comes. Right now, this is the best way to look things over, without attracting attention. There’s a ferry back in an hour and a half we can catch. That should be enough time.”

They drove through the village. “Stay out of the store,” Asimov said. “The island grapevine starts there, and you don’t want to be on that radar.”

“Gotcha,” Sarge replied.

Asimov handed him a large-scale map of the island, then they drove on, until they stopped at a point where a driveway was interrupted by a large log.

“What the fuck?” Sarge said.

“This is where Rawls lives.”

“Rawls?”

“He’s their sharpshooter.”

“Dimitri, let’s move our asses out of here. I can already see four cameras. Drive a little farther and stop where you can.”

Asimov followed his instructions.

“Now, Dimitri, what is Rawls’s first name.”

“Ed.”

Sarge grimaced. “If you’d told me that on your first call, you’d have saved me a trip up here and yourself a lot of money.”

“Why? What do you know about Rawls?”

“That he’s the best shot and the smartest asshole the CIA ever produced. How many of yours has he killed already?”

Asimov looked uncomfortable. “Four.”

“Okay, let’s go back to the ferry.”

“Don’t you want to see the rest of the island?”

“No, whatever we do — if we do anything — starts and ends at Rawls’s house. I don’t want to be seen by anybody else on this island. Just park the car and go over the map with me.”

Asimov did so, and Sarge made small marks on the map.

“This guy, Barrington, sounds familiar,” Sarge said.

“He’s an uptown lawyer, and his best friend is the police commissioner, Dino Bacchetti.”

The ferry docked, and they got aboard for the return trip.

“Stay in the car, and keep the windows up,” Sarge said. “Then let’s go back to your hotel and talk there over a drink.