In the last two years, three lawyers in this county have been shot. So far the scorecard is one wounded and two dead. Deterrence is a problem since the sentencing guidelines for shooting a lawyer in this state call for ten minutes of probation to reload while they frame the certificate of merit to be awarded to the shooter by the local prosecutor.

I don’t do divorces, the most dangerous area of law, because I don’t like surprises. Why should I allow some angry husband to pop into my office without warning or even the courtesy of an appointment, and shoot me while I’m behind my desk? If the maggot wants to defend his honor, then give me a pistol and tell him to turn and take five steps so I can shoot the crazed bastard before he gets there.

In criminal law you usually know what you’re dealing with. It’s normally your own client who will jump you, and he’s often confined, for good reason. If he’s not, you probably want to keep your eye on him. You have to figure he wasn’t arrested for good housekeeping.

Of course, you can always draw the odd client, the mental three-headed hydra who opens as Mr. Rogers and shows up a week later playing Darth Vader without the mask, and his friends who insist on testifying the minute Satan releases them from the ninth circle of hell and they can get to your office to prepare their perjury. It happens.

So it’s easy to see how a spirited disagreement can quickly escalate beyond the normal civility of single-fingered hand gestures and four-letter name-calling. The one time I had to pull the gun, I was happy to have it. When somebody leans across my desk with a needle-sharp shank angry over the result in his case and questions the need for my continued existence, it’s comforting to be able to mediate by citing the case of Mr. Springfield pointed at his groin from the kneehole of my desk.

I punch the button on the side of the pistol and check the clip-seven rounds, eight if I want to load a live one in the chamber. The.45 ACP jacketed hollow point is a short, stubby little bullet with enough wallop to make an elephant’s eyes water. It’s designed to spread on impact. So if you have to shoot, you want to hit your target in the mass of the upper body where all the energy will be absorbed. You never want to shoot an idiot in the head where the bullet will pass through the vacuum and kill somebody behind him.

I slam the clip home, pull the slide back, and let it go, chambering the first round, then lower the hammer with my thumb and click on the safety. The pistol fits into a leather fanny pack with Velcroed webbing that I snap around the weapon to hold it in place. Then I zip up the pack and strap the belt around my waist.

Anyone itching for a permit to pack might want to carry a four-pound diving weight in their back pocket for a few days. It’s a good prescription for a cure. The dead weight of the pistol and three loaded clips makes my behind feel as if it’s lost the battle with gravity. No wonder cops all seem to be shrinking. With the load of gizmos on their belts, it’s a wonder they can stand up.

I head toward the stairs and down to my car in the garage.

It was nine o’clock. Thorn was packing his bags, getting ready to pull out of Havana the following morning, headed for his next port of call, when the phone next to the bed rang. Unless it was the front desk, it was trouble. Only two people on his crew knew where he was, and both of them had been told not to call unless it was an emergency.

He dropped the folded shirt into the bag and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

“Cheeef, is Victor here. We got problem.”

Thorn immediately recognized the voice. Victor Soyev was his procurement man. The Russian was a former army ordnance sergeant who’d found himself without a chair when the music stopped in the Soviet Union. Like many other Russians with an instinct for business, Soyev quickly learned that change can be good. His talent lay in the murky world of international arms trade and its shipping sideline, what Soyev called “special handling” but most normal nations viewed as smuggling.

“Victor, we may be on an open line here.” At times Soyev could be an idiot. It provoked Thorn, but then it probably didn’t matter. The two men had never met, only voices on the phone. Soyev knew Thorn only as Mr. Bell, one of his many aliases, and neither man particularly trusted the other. It was a symbiotic relationship only because it produced money for both.

“Understood. It’s an open line,” said the Russian. “But it was necessary I talk to you.” Thorn was telling him to keep it cryptic in case the Cubans or anybody else was listening in. “Our shipment got diverted.”

“When?”

“Last night. I just found out. Apparently some engine problem. They had to put down in the land of smiles.”

Soyev was telling him that the giant IL-76, a massive four-engine cargo plane carrying one of the critical items, had apparently been forced down in Thailand.

“Did they fix the problem?” said Thorn.

“No. Seems they got more serious problem now. Open cargo door,” said Soyev. “I am told that it cannot be fixed. I’m sure you see something about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

Open cargo door could mean only one thing. Thai customs had discovered what was on the plane. They had seized the entire load. The wire services and the press were already on it.

Thorn looked out the window and thought for a moment. “Which, ah…” He collected his thoughts. “Which of the passengers was onboard?” he said.

Soyev didn’t know what to say. He understood the question, but he was afraid to use the code words over an open line. He might as well telegraph Washington. Thorn thought it was cute. It was his plan, and he was in charge, so there was nothing Soyev could do to stop him from using the terms. But what the hell was the use of code names if you couldn’t use them? He also talked about “breaching the monastery,” though Soyev had no idea what it meant.

“Tell me,” said Thorn. “Which of them had the boarding pass, the big guy or the little kid?”

“Big guy,” said Soyev. Thorn had solved the problem for him.

“I see,” said Thorn. If it had to be, this was better than the alternative.

“The kid will take a later flight,” said Soyev.

“Make sure he goes first class,” said Thorn.

“You bet. I will take him by the hand and make sure he gets a good seat. By the way, I’m still here,” he said.

Oh shit, thought Thorn. Soyev was calling from North Korea. Might as well just hang a neon sign in the sky.

“I’m gonna have to go,” said Thorn. “Can’t talk any longer.”

“The man has a brother.” Soyev spoke before Thorn could hang up.

“Really?” The North Koreans had made not one, but two of the devices.

“Yes.”

“Do you know if the brother might like to visit?” Thorn was asking if it was for sale.

“I think so.”

“Then we would love to have him,” said Thorn. “I think we can make the same accommodations.” Thorn was going to need more money. They had already paid for the device. Now they would have to pay again. He would have to get on the phone, to the link with its elaborate voice synthesizer, and leave a message. No problem. They would call the oil sheiks and dial up a few more million. After all, what’s money when you have all that oil?

“Good,” said Soyev. “I let you know tomorrow if he can come.”

“Good. You have my schedule?”

“Yes.”

“Call me,” said Thorn.

“You bet.” Soyev hung up.

If the Russian had his schedule, then he knew where to call him tomorrow, either on his stateside cell or at the hotel in downtown Manhattan.

Liquida moved quickly across the grass in the backyard until he stood beneath the window where he had seen the light go out a few minutes earlier. She was the last to turn her light out after arriving home. The room upstairs had to be her bedroom. And now the house was dark. He crept along the side past a coiled-up hose and a small bench. He kept his feet on the brick pavers.