As I watched through my binoculars, a group of men came out of the passenger cabin and onto the stern deck where they disembarked rrorn the open stern directly onto the parking lot. I counted ten men, all dressed in some sort of blue uniform, and either they were the Department of Agriculture band, sent out to greet me, or they were the night security guards who'd been relieved by the guards who'd taken the seven a.m. ferry to Plum. The ten guards all wore pistol belts, though I didn't see any holsters attached.

Next off the ferry was a big guy in a blue blazer and tie, chatting with the ten guards as if he knew them, and I guessed he could be Paul Stevens, the security chief.

Then came four guys in spiffy suits, and I had to think this was a little unusual. I mean, I doubt if these four dudes had spent the night on the island, so I had to figure they'd gone over on the seven a.m. ferry. But that would give them only a few minutes' turnaround time on the island. Therefore, they'd gone over earlier, either on a special ferry run or on another boat, or a helicopter.

And last but not least, waltzing off the boat, wearing casual attire, were Mr. George Foster and Mr. Ted Nash, which did not completely surprise me. Well, there you are-early to bed, early to rise, makes a man sneaky and full of lies. Those SOBs… I had expected they'd pull a fast one on me.

As I watched, Nash, Foster, and the four suits were in deep conversation, and the guy with the blue blazer stood respectfully to the side. I could tell by the body language that Ted Nash was The Man. The other four guys were probably up from D.C., and who knew who the hell sent them? This was all hard to figure, what with the FBI, CIA, Department of Agriculture, and no doubt the Army and Defense Department, and whoever else had their asses hanging out. As far as I was concerned, they were all the Feds and they, in turn, thought of me-if at all-as an annoying hemorrhoid.

Anyway, I put the binocs down and picked up the weekly newspaper and the empty coffee cup in case I had to play hide-the-face. So, here were all these bright boys pulling this early-bird crap on me, and they didn't even bother to look around to see if they were under surveillance. They had total disdain for lowly coppers and that pissed me off.

The blue blazer guy spoke to the ten guards, dismissed them, and they went to their respective cars, got in, and drove off past me. Mr. Blue Blazer then went back onto the stern deck and disappeared into the ferry.

Then the four suits took their leave of Nash and Foster, got into a black Chevy Caprice and came toward me. The Caprice slowed down opposite me, almost stopped, then went on, out the chain-link gates I'd entered.

At this point, I saw that Nash and Foster had noticed my vehicle, so I put it into gear and drove toward the ferry as if I'd just arrived. I parked away from the pier and sipped at the empty coffee cup and read about the return of the bluefish, ignoring Messrs. Nash and Foster, who stood near the ferry.

At about ten to eight, an old station wagon pulled up beside me, and Max got out wearing jeans, a windbreaker, and a fishing cap pulled down low on his forehead. I lowered my window and asked him, "Is that a disguise, or did you get dressed in the dark?"

He frowned. "Nash and Foster suggested I shouldn't be seen going to Plum."

"I heard you on the radio this morning."

"How'd I sound?"

"Totally unconvincing. Boats, planes, and cars have been leaving Long Island all morning. Total panic along the entire East Coast."

"Shove it."

"Right." I shut off the ignition and waited for my Jeep to tell me something, but I guess I hadn't screwed up this time. I took my keys out of the ignition, and a female voice said, "Votre fenêtre est ouverte." Now why would a nice American car say that? Well, because when I tried to shut off the stupid voice thing, I somehow got it to speak French-these cars are exported to Quebec, which explained the metric thing, too. "Votre fenêtre est ouverte."

"Mangez merde," I replied in my best graduate school French and got out of the car.

Max asked me, "You got somebody in there?"

"No."

"Somebody's talking-"

"Ignore it."

I -was going to tell Max that I saw Nash and Foster get off the ferry from Plum, but since Max hadn't thought to get his butt here early, or ask me to do it, then he didn't deserve to know what I knew.

Cars started arriving and the experienced Plum Island commuters hit the pier with split-second timing as the ferry horn blasted.

Ted Nash called out to Max and me, "Hey, all aboard!"

I looked around for Beth Penrose while making little misogynist remarks about women being late.

Max said, "There she is."

And there she was, walking away from a black Ford, probably her unmarked PD, that had been parked before even I arrived. Could it be that there were people in the world as bright as I? Not likely. I think I planted the idea in her head of arriving early.

Max and I walked across the misty parking lot toward the pier as the ferry horn sounded again. Detective Penrose joined Mr. Nash and Mr. Foster, and they were chatting near the ferry as we approached. Nash looked up and made an impatient gesture for us to hurry. I've killed people for less.

As Max and I got to the pier, Nash, without so much as a "good morning," looked at my shorts and said, "Aren't you a little cold, John?"

I mean, fuck you, Ted. He had that patronizing tone of voice that superiors adopt with inferiors, and this guy had to be set straight. I replied, apropos of his stupid rose-colored golf slacks, "Do those come with panty shields?"

George Foster laughed, and Ted Nash turned the color of his pants. Max pretended he didn't hear the exchange, and Beth rolled her eyes.

Mr. Foster said, belatedly, "Good morning. Ready to board?"

The five of us turned toward the ferry, and coming across the stern deck toward us was the gentleman with the blue blazer. He said, "Good morning. I'm Paul Stevens, security chief of Plum Island." He sounded like he had a computer-generated voice.

Mr. Red Pants said, "I'm Ted Nash with the Department of Agriculture."

What a load of crap. Not only had these three clowns just come from Plum Island together, but Nash was still putting out the agriculture manure.

Stevens had a clipboard in his hand-he looked like one of those whistle and clipboard types: short blond hair, icy blue eyes, Mr. Can-Do, ex-jock, fit and trim, ready to organize a sporting event or assign people to boxcars, whatever needed doing.

Beth, by the way, was wearing what she'd had on the day before, and I deduced she'd had no idea she'd be staying overnight out here when she caught the squeal, as we say, which may be appropriate in this case… You know, animal disease center, swine fever, pork-chop-shaped island…

Mr. Stevens, glancing at his clipboard, said to Max, "And you're George Foster?"

"No, I'm Chief Maxwell."

"Right," said Mr. Stevens. "Welcome."

I said to Stevens, "I'm Beth Penrose."

He said to me, "No, you're John Corey."

"Right. Can I get aboard now?"

"No, sir. Not until we're all checked in." He looked at Beth and said, "Good morning, Detective Penrose," then at George Foster and said, "Good morning-Mr. Foster of the FBI. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Welcome aboard. Please follow me."

We boarded The Plum Runner, and within a minute, we'd cast off and were on our way to Plum Island, or as the tabloids sometimes called it, Mystery Island, or somewhat less responsibly, Plague Island.

We followed Mr. Stevens into the big, comfortable, wood-paneled cabin where about thirty men and women sat on upholstered airplane-type seats, talking, reading, or nodding off. There seemed to be seating for maybe a hundred people, and I guessed that the next trip transported the majority of the people who worked on Plum.