"You know, Ham," Peck said, "you're moving very fast in this organization."

"I am?"

"You certainly are. We have a process for recruiting new members that normally takes a year or more, depending on the man. But you came to us whole, ready to go; it was like a miracle. Your army service and experience made you perfect for us, and your personal beliefs already matched ours. I want to tell you that John is absolutely delighted with you. I've never seen him so happy with a new man."

"Well, that makes me feel good," Ham said.

"I don't mind telling you that it took me a good three years to be trusted by my superiors the way John trusts you."

"I don't know anything about the structure of the organization," Ham said. "Is John the top man?"

"As much as anyone is," Peck replied. "We have a leadership made up of a council, and I guess you could say that John is the de facto head of the council."

"He's a very impressive man," Ham said.

"That's why the council trusts him. John is a brilliant planner, but a cautious one. He knows how quickly a bungled operation can bring this whole thing down on our heads, and he's intolerant of error. I can tell you that he's been planning our next operation for the better part of a year."

"What sorts of operations have you been doing in the past?" Ham asked.

"You don't want to know that just yet," Peck replied. "Too much information is not a good thing when you're new to the group. I can tell you that the operations are roughly divided into three categories: training, infiltration and what you might call fund-raising. All these are aimed at supporting operational work; you can't bring off a successful operation without all those things lined up and working."

"How do you raise funds, from the members?"

Peck smiled. "Let's just say we go to outside sources. Take a left here."

Ham turned left at a fork in the road and shortly they came to a long, narrow strip of grass. "You could fly an airplane into here," he said.

"And we do," Peck replied, nodding toward a large metal building beside the strip that had been painted in camouflage colors. "John's airplane is in there, and we get occasional other visitors, too. But the really nice thing about the strip for you is that it gives you four thousand feet clear for shooting. Stop right here." Peck got out of the truck, went into the hangar through a small door and came back with a roll of paper under his arm, "Drive down to the other end of the strip," he said.

Ham did as he was told, then he helped Peck tack targets to the trees. They were of different sizes and shapes, some were silhouettes of men.

Ham drove back to the other end of the landing strip and parked the truck. Peck took the big leather case from the truckbed and opened it. Inside were the Barrett's rifle, an aluminum tripod, some cleaning equipment and half a dozen ammunition dips.

"Let's do some loading," Peck said. He opened the ammunition box, grabbed a handful of cartridges, set them on the truck's tailgate and began loading clips.

Ham helped him. "Six-cartridge clips," he said.

"If you haven't hit what you're shooting at by the time you've fired half a dozen times, you'll have attracted enough attention to yourself that it's time to run, anyway," Peck explained. "I suggest one clip in the weapon and one in your pocket, when you're working."

They finished loading the clips. Peck set up the tripod, and screwed it into a receptacle on the rifle. "It's not exactly a handheld weapon," he said. "Not for the kind of accuracy we're looking for. When you don't have a tripod, you have to find some way to brace the thing." He handed Ham a pair of foam earplugs, put some in his own ears, then stepped back and indicated that Ham was to proceed.

Ham worked the action a couple of times to be sure it was smooth, then he shoved a clip into the rifle and worked a cartridge into the chamber. He stepped up to the weapon, sighted down the barrel, then stepped back and raised the tripod a couple of inches.

"That's right, you're tall," Peck said.

"Just getting comfortable." Ham sighted again, then flipped off the safety. He took aim at a full-length target of a man, sighted on the middle of the chest and fired, making a big noise. A moment later, the.50 caliber bullet struck the target dead in the crotch, exploding a big chunk out of the tree it was attached to.

"Right on line, but low," Peck said, looking through a small pair of binoculars he had produced from a pocket.

Ham made a small adjustment in the sight. "Nice that there's no wind on the strip, since we've got trees on both sides," he said.

"You can't hit anything with this weapon if there's wind," Peck said. "We wouldn't ask you to shoot under those circumstances."

Ham gripped the big rifle again. He fired, and the middle of the target's chest disappeared.

"Right on," Peck said, checking through his binoculars. "Try for a head shot."

Ham fired again and took off the target's left ear. "My fault," he said. "I pulled too quick." He tried again and blew off the target's head.

"That's terrific shooting," Peck said.

"I'm ready to go to work," Ham replied. "I'll do whatever I can to help. When do I start?"

Peck smiled. "How about next week?"

Ham fired through the morning at targets of varying sizes, hitting everything with monotonous regularity.

"Tell me, Ham," Peck said, "how do you sight this thing in if you're in a place that's new to you?"

"Will we know the distance ahead of time?"

"Approximately."

"If somebody can pace it off, then I can preset the elevation; windage is another thing. I'll just have to guess, and I can't guarantee you a kill on the first shot."

Peck nodded gravely. "That's about what I thought."

"Would this be in a public place?"

Peck nodded again.

"You planning to use explosive shells?"

"Probably."

"Then I'd suggest firing a nonexplosive round the first time, followed by an explosive one. Won't take more than a couple of seconds to adjust the sights."

Peck nodded thoughtfully, then he looked at his watch. "Let's get some lunch," he said.

They got back into the truck, and Ham headed back toward Peck's house, but halfway there, he was directed to make a right turn, toward the lake.

"Let's drop your gear off at the bunkhouse," Peck said.

"Okay."

They arrived at a low, clapboard building, and Ham got his duffel from the back of the truck. It was much like a military barracks, one big room with a small office and heads at one end. There were two dozen bunks, and a dozen of them had gear piled on them.

"Pick a bunk," Peck said.

Ham chose the bunk nearest the heads. "Looks like you've got some new arrivals," he said, nodding toward the luggage on the other bunks.

Peck nodded. "By the way, have you got a cell phone?"

"Yep. In my duffel."

"Let me have it."

Ham retrieved the phone and handed it to Peck, who slipped it into a pocket. They got back into the truck, and Ham resisted the urge to ask why Peck wanted his cell phone. Peck answered his question anyway.

"We've been locked down since nine o'clock this morning," Peck said. "Nobody leaves for any reason, not even to buy groceries, without John's permission. Nobody makes a phone call; nobody sends smoke signals; nobody uses a reflecting mirror. Nobody travels or communicates, unless he wants to catch a bullet."

"Okay," Ham said, because he couldn't say anything else. "When do we jump off?"

"Next week. You'll be told when you need to know."

Today was Wednesday, Ham reflected, and these people were planning something very public the following week, and he had no way to communicate with Holly or Harry.