with a neatly trimmed beard and tinted, gold-rimmed, aviator-style

glasses. He was wearing a pair of gray slacks, embroidered velvet

slippers, and a black silk dressing gown. The moment he saw him,

Fugisawa knew. A thrill went through him.

“You would be Mr. Michael Cornwall?” he said.

Modred looked at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “I

think you already know who I am, Lieutenant.”

Fugisawa tensed. “Do I?”

He reached up casually and made a motion as if to adjust his

trousers. And suddenly, he found himself looking into the barrel of

a big, black semiautomatic Colt 10-mm with a silencer attached. He

froze.

“Be so kind as to remove it with two fingers, Lieutenant, and

then hand it to my friend.”

Fugisawa moistened his lips. “Don’t be foolish. You don’t think I

came without backup, do you?”

Modred smiled. “Why don’t you call them, then?”

Fugisawa’s lips tightened into a grimace, then he slowly took out

his 9-mm and handed it to Billy.

“Be sure to get the one in his ankle holster, Billy, ” Modred said.

Billy bent down, pulled up Fugisawa’s trouser leg, and removed a

small. 32 semiautomatic from its nylon holster.

“You have a good eye, ” said Fugisawa wryly. “I didn’t think it

showed.”

Billy patted him down quickly, then said, “E’s clean now.”

Modred put the gun away. “Sit down, Lieutenant. May I offer you

some tea or coffee?”

“I could use something a little stronger.”

“Scotch?”

“Please. Straight up.”

As Fugisawa sat down at the table, Modred walked over to the

bar and poured two drinks. “Ask the others to join us, Billy, won’t

you?”