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here. Why did you cut a hole in the fence?”
    “I didn’t
cut
any fucking hole, pal. I
found
a fucking hole. And by the way, Carl, fuck you.”
    Harry, and everyone around him, realized that he was not sounding like a bird-watcher any longer.
    He was about to flash his Fed creds, stand these bastards at attention, and tell them to give him a ride back to his camper. His second thought, however, was not to make a Federal case of this. Why let them know he was a Federal agent sent here to snoop? Walsh would have a total shit fit. Harry said, “I’m outta here.” He took a step toward the forest.
    All of a sudden, rifles were raised and pistols came out of their holsters. The three dogs growled and pulled at their leashes.
    “Stop, or I’ll let the dogs loose.”
    Harry took a deep breath and stopped.
    Carl said, “There are two ways to do this. Easy or hard.”
    “Let’s do hard.”
    Carl glanced around at the other nine security guards, then at the dogs, then at Harry. He spoke in a conciliatory tone. “Sir, we are under strict instructions to bring any trespassers to the lodge, call the sheriff, and have the individual transported by a law enforcement person off the property. We will not press charges, but you will be advised by the sheriff that if you trespass again, you are subject to arrest. You may not, under the law or under our insurance policy, exit the land by yourself on foot, and we will not drive you off the land. Only the sheriff may do that. It’s for your own safety.”
    Harry thought about that. Though the assignment was belly-up, he could pull out a little win by seeing the inside of the lodge, and maybe getting a little info there, and a little 411 from the local sheriff. He said to Carl, “Okay, sport, let’s go.”
    Carl motioned for Harry to turn and walk toward the Jeeps. Harry assumed they’d put him in one of the vehicles, but they didn’t, so maybe their insurance policy was real strict.
    The Jeeps did stay with him, however, as he was directed to the road and up the hill toward the lodge, accompanied by the whole contingent.
    As he walked, he considered these ten armed security guards with the dogs, the gatehouse, the chain-link fence, the razor wire, the floodlights and call boxes, and what were most likely motion and sound detectors. This was not your everyday hunting and fishing club. He was suddenly pissed off at Walsh, who’d barely briefed him, and more pissed at himself for not smelling trouble.
    He knew he shouldn’t be frightened, but some instinct, sharpened by twenty years of police work and five years of anti-terrorist work, told him that there was an element of danger here.
    To confirm this, he said to Carl, who was walking behind him, “Hey, why don’t you use your cell phone to call the sheriff now? Save some time.”
    Carl didn’t respond.
    Harry reached into his pocket. “You can use my cell phone.”
    Carl snapped, “Keep your hands where I can see them, and shut your fucking mouth.”
    A cold chill ran down Harry Muller’s spine.

CHAPTER FOUR
    H arry Muller sat across a desk from a tall, thin, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Bain Madox, president and owner of the Custer Hill Club. This, explained Mr. Madox, was not his day job, only a hobby. Bain Madox was also president and owner of Global Oil Corporation (GOCO for short), which Harry had heard of, and which also explained two of the photographs on the wall—one of an oil tanker and another of a burning oil field in some desert or another.
    Madox noticed Harry’s interest in the photographs and said, “Kuwait. The Gulf War.” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”
    Harry didn’t reply.
    Mr. Madox was wearing a blue blazer and a loud plaid shirt. Harry Muller was wearing his thermal long johns. He’d been subjected to a humiliating strip search by Carl and two other security guards, who had cattle prods and promised to use them if he