Collins checked with his outside security and found that the last team of news vans and reporters had left the navy yard twenty minutes before. Jack, Will, Jason, and Henri all stood underneath the pewter skies as they examined building 114 from a distance. The 150-year-old redbrick building had its facade renovated in the eighties to make it aesthetically in line with its occupied neighbors. The owners of the property spent money on the outside to keep the navy yard development people in check, but according to Europa and Morales, refused to refurbish the inside. Europa unscrupulously uncovered the plans from the city building inspector and saw that no refurbishment of the interior was ever ordered, or at least reported. It was purely a real estate investment for the Grenada Holding Corporation and their extensive real estate portfolio.
“You say the last reporters left some time ago?” Jack asked as he took a step toward building 114 situated across from the newly flooded dry dock that separated building 114 from its sister, 117.
“According to Lance Corporal Ramirez, yes, sir,” Will answered.
Collins glanced at the rain clouds above them and acted as casual as he could.
“Well, someone with a camera seems to be lost,” he said as he walked toward the building and then stopped. The others stopped with him. Only Henri knew why. “Mr. Ryan, eleven o’clock, building one-eleven, rooftop, two men, one with a camera and one observing,” he said without turning to look at the abandoned ghost of building 111.
“Correction, three men total, two of them are armed with more than a camera,” Henri said as he reached down and acted as though he was looking at something.
“Jesus, how in the hell can you two see that far?” Will asked as he was always amazed at Jack’s prowess in spotting danger. Needless to say Henri’s ability came as no surprise at all.
“Be careful you two,” Jack said as he finally saw the third man that the Frenchman had seen. “I need answers, not dead men—well, if they’re reporters, that’s a judgment call,” Jack said with his wry humor due to his experiences with reporters.
“Right,” Jason said as he and Will left Henri and Jack and made their way to the back of the old buildings and then quickly vanished.
“Shall we?” Jack said as they made their way to building 114. Henri gestured graciously for the colonel to lead the way.
Collins felt the weight of the nine-millimeter weapon in his shoulder holster but knew as long as they were being observed he wanted no obvious intelligence for those watching. They would have to guess at their armed or unarmed status.
As they approached they saw that the building was actually in far worse shape than its neighbors. The bottom row of windows were completely lined with broken safety glass and the brick had not been sandblasted since 1984. Large and flowing rust stains scarred the facade and weeds grew between her brick-and-mortar foundation and entwined the wooden structure above. Henri didn’t feel it, but Jack took an exasperated breath when he realized they were probably barking up the wrong tree. He made his way up the crumbling concrete steps leading to the front offices that had once witnessed the launch of the USS Arizona from the very same dry dock facility fronting the five buildings on this end of the yard.
“I do not believe this is much of a going concern,” Henri said as he walked through the shattered front door with Jack in the lead. Once out of sight of any onlookers on rooftops, Jack pulled out his pistol and Henri, with raised brows, followed suit.
Collins eased over a fallen file cabinet and saw papers and old files scattered across the floor. In the far corner Farbeaux was startled by a large wharf rat that scurried across the debris on the old green-tiled floor. Jack saw a place where a secretary and several others worked that looked as if it hadn’t seen a live person since the 1960s. Jack lowered his weapon and then looked at Henri with concern as he holstered the Glock.
“Seeing as how the design of the two buildings in question are so similar, it would stand to reason they would secure anything they were trying to hide just as they did in building one-seventeen.”
“Covertly speaking, is that what you would do, Colonel?” Jack asked, knowing how Henri’s criminal mind worked.
Farbeuax also holstered his weapon and then smiled. “No, if I were to build a second doorway that I wished kept secret from my benefactor, I would have built it in Wyoming.”
“I guess they are not quite as accomplished as you,” Jack said, and then made his way over the trash of the front offices and walked out through the door marked MANUFACTURING DEPARTMENT in chipping red paint.
“No one is as accomplished as myself, my dear colonel.”
The hope Jack had been feeling a few minutes before was quickly dashed when he saw the empty space where you could fit an old World War II battle cruiser. Rats scurried hurriedly from one place to another as the weak light filtered through the dirty and painted-over broken windows.
“Colonel?” Henri said as he nodded to the darkened far corner. Jack saw the heavy elevator lift with several old wooden filing cabinets overturned and resting in front of the old gates. “It only makes sense that if one doorway is closed, go to another, in the exact same place the first one was hidden.”
Jack nodded and they both started moving the detritus from the floor in front of the lift. Henri reached out and flipped the light switch two times with no result.
“Afraid of the dark?” Jack quipped as he slid the old-fashioned wooden gate up and then the steel screen aside as he stepped into the lift.
“No, I’m afraid of what’s hiding in that darkness, Colonel. That is how I’ve managed to stay alive for so long in a business that does not encourage active and peaceful retirement.”
Jack pulled out his gun again and waited for Henri. “I see your point.”
“Well, no power, let’s hope this thing still has gravity brakes.”
Jack reached out and lowered the wooden gate and then slid the steel doors closed. He found the elevator’s annunciator handle and then pushed it forward. Henri ducked when a loud clanking sound was heard and then the sound of a hundred pigeons below alighting as the noise drove them to flight somewhere in the abyss below. The lift started to gravity-descend to the basement area. Both men flinched when the elevator became bathed in white, clean light from the fluorescent tubes lining the elevator shaft. Collins was suddenly feeling better about their odds.
“The building has its own power source. This one should be as dark as building one-seventeen,” Henri said as he eyed the passing concrete of the reinforced shaft. “The explosion from the attack severed all of the conduit lines coming in under the river.”
“This is considerably deeper than the first,” Collins said as he watched the hundreds of feet of reinforced concrete slide by as they continued down.
Finally the huge car started to slow. Jack knew that the lift was governed by something other than gravity as the car sensed it was close to the bottom of the long shaft. Henri looked at Jack and he nodded at the Frenchman as he pulled open the gate and then slid the wooden doors up. He scanned the area in front of them and saw an exact duplicate of the viewing gallery that now lay smashed in building 117. The only difference between the two was the plush design and creature comforts. Two wet bars sat at each end of the gallery and would serve the twenty seats that sat arrayed over the gallery’s clamshell floor below them. Henri smiled and then looked at Jack and holstered his own Glock.
Collins examined the gallery that looked as if it came out of a gothic novel where doctors sat observing a world-famous surgeon strut his knowledge below them upon the surgical stage. But who was it that occupied those chairs to watch the world of the impossible as it unfolded in front of them? Jack saw the plastic cover on one of the observation seats, which was different from the first in building 117. This button was situated on the arm of an ornate chair as if whoever sat there was in total control and wanted the others in the gallery to know it. Jack sensed power there. Whoever they were dealing with was smart and resourceful. As he approached the gallery the dim mood lighting came on and the soft hum of power generation was somewhere below their feet. Jack stopped and looked at Henri, who pointed at the walls and the glass-enclosed sensors there.
“You tripped the motion detectors.” The Frenchman raised a brow as he studied the sensors after standing on a chair. “Not only did we switch on the power”—he tore the darkened glass fixture from the wall and tossed it to Collins—“we have alerted whoever is responsible for this. It’s also a silent alarm.”
Jack shook his head and then placed the sensor in the chair. He quickly raised the plastic cover on the arm of the chair and with one last concerned breath he hit the switch.
The lights dimmed and the silent world around them was shattered by an alarm that blared like a diving submarine. They both cringed at the loudness of the machinery hidden somewhere in the depths of the building. It was obvious someone had lied to the building planners, inspectors, and navy yard development corporation—this was most definitely renovated far beyond anything in the ancient shipyard.
“Please stand away from section twenty-three,” a mechanical voice sounded from the speakers overhead. The announcement made both Henri and Jack momentarily believe they had been joined by the very men who had built the facility. “Please stand away from section twenty-three.”
Suddenly the floor below them started turning like a record on a player. Jack smiled as he knew exactly what he was seeing. The floor turned and they heard another motor kick in somewhere and then the floor started to separate and begin to corkscrew into the depths of building 114.
“All technical staff please initiate shielding procedures. Set condition Blue, nuclear safeguards are now in effect.”
“Oh,” Henri said as he and Jack exchanged worried looks. Jack stood at the glass and saw the spotlights as they illuminated the descending floor below the thick viewing window. As they became exposed, the walls were lined in white plastic much like the Event Group complex interior. Collins knew that plastic was the best electrical grounding you could get out of most building materials. The walls were also lined in blue-colored fluorescents, which illuminated as they became exposed. What worried him were the nuclear triangular warning symbols that lined the shaft as it went lower into the bowels of Brooklyn.
“My God,” Henri exclaimed when he saw what was buried underneath building 114.
Jack smiled for the first time in what seemed like days as he took in the scene. He removed the secured cell from his jacket and then punched in only one number.
“Boss, it looks like we may be in business. Start Dr. Morales and Europa on finding that second signal we can lock on to.” Jack shut the phone down and then looked at Henri.
Farbeaux watched as the world of tomorrow’s science came into its full glory. Glass, steel, and white ceramic glass gleamed in the controlled atmosphere of the laboratory. Row upon row of consoles sat silently waiting for orders that would send a traveler through to a past that had long vanished.
Then Collins and Farbeaux lost their approving smiles almost as quickly as they had appeared.
“Shit,” Jack mumbled as the lights came to full illumination below.
“May I suggest you inform Commander Ryan and Captain Mendenhall the situation has become much more serious?”
Collins reached for his cell phone as his eyes scanned the console stations below. Each station had a white lab–coated technician sitting at it. For his part Henri looked around and his weapon was no longer held without killing intent.
The gleaming white skeletons stared at consoles that had been the last thing any of the twenty-six technicians would ever see again.
Only the gleaming surfaces of the duplicate Wellsian Doorway that sat before them in all of its gleaming glory had been witness to their sudden and brutal execution.
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
Julien felt his bladder release in a flood of wetness that he could not hide. Thus far the five men had not laid a hand on him, but their mere presence made him wish he were safely in the company of Madam Mendelsohn. He twisted the plastic tie that bound his hands behind him and felt the slicing pain as the sharp edges cut into his wrists. The five brutes watching him had nothing to say to his protests over his treatment. He knew he should never have trusted the men Madam Mendelsohn had expunged from her business and her life.
He heard a door open behind him and the five men stepped away from the man in the wooden chair. He looked around but his view was limited. He saw beer kegs and other items associated with a drinking establishment. He twisted but could not see who entered the room. He heard a chair as it was moved behind him and wondered if he was about to receive a blind-sided blow he wouldn’t soon recover from. He was far more worried when he saw who had the chair.
The man known as Mr. Jones, or more precisely, the man Julien knew as Alexi Doshnikov, turned the old wooden chair backward and then sat down. He smiled as he looked at the frightened Julien and then placed his crossed arms over the back of the chair and smiled. The Russian reached out and patted his right leg as he calmly and slowly lit a large cigar.
“Why am I here? I told you everything you wanted to know.”
The small Russian kept his smile and then removed the cigar. He slowly blew smoke into the frightened man’s face. His smile grew and then he looked up and gestured for one of his henchmen and he was handed a bottle of spring water.
“You must try this water, it’s from the Ukraine. Artisan.” He clenched the cigar in his teeth and then uncapped the green bottle and held it to Julien’s lips and he drank. “Yes, that’s good stuff, isn’t it?” He pulled the bottle away, spilling a little on Julien’s shirt. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said as he handed the bottle back to the bodyguard. He used a silk handkerchief to wipe the water from the shirt. “I do have one more inquiry for you, my friend,” he said as he removed the kerchief and then tossed the just-lit cigar away. Doshnikov leaned over and pulled up the man’s left shirt sleeve. He saw the numbers on the forearm and smiled. He lowered the shirt sleeve and then fixed the former bodyguard with his most disarming smile.
“I don’t know anything else,” Julien said as he watched the Russian start to place the handkerchief back into his coat and then thought better of it and threw it on the floor in mock disgust.
“I can see by your numerical artwork on your arm that you have been through some hard times. I do not wish to add to those … distant memories.” He held a hand out and then one of his men placed a photo into it. The Russian held the picture up so Julien could see. “Which one of these five men can operate the machine you have dubbed the Wellsian Doorway?”
Julien looked at the picture and then at the Russian. “The chairman placed the responsibility for the doorway into the hands of that man.” He nodded at the photo, making the Russian lose patience.
“There are four men, which one?”
“The younger man, Jodle.”
“Aw, this makes sense. I find that man most disagreeable, but one who would protect a valuable asset with fevered purpose. I know the type. I have been surrounded by them my entire professional career.”
“Most do find him dissagreable,” Julien said with a faltering smile, hoping the comment would assuage the Russian. He felt better when the forced smile was returned, he just hoped it was more genuine than his own.
“Yes, you understand completely.” He turned to the five other men lining the basement of the Russian’s nightclub and handed the picture back. “You see, I told you these people are far more cooperative than any of you would believe.” He patted Julien’s leg once more and then stood up and twirled the chair around and moved it aside. He buttoned his sport coat and smiled down at Julien. “And you have actually witnessed this machine in working order?”
“Yes, it is an exact model of the first doorway. It works, I know.”
The Russian smiled wider as he rubbed at his gleaming black beard. He knew the large man was telling the truth because he had seen something few ever saw—he saw the tattoo. This time he patted the man on his shoulder as he made eye contact with one of his men.
“I admire you, my friend, to overcome so much and to be so forthcoming in regard to my inquiries. I salute your past, and I have planned for you a brighter and far less frightening future.” With one last smile the man known as Mr. Jones, aka Alexi Doshnikov, left the basement as he whistled an old Russian folk song.
Julien watched him go and was expecting his bonds to be cut. That was why he wasn’t expecting the send-off that he did finally receive. The plastic bag fell over his head and face and was pulled tight.
The last thing Julien ever saw was the light dimming as the world slipped away in the distorted and obscured view of the plastic bag.
At thirty-one years of age, one of the youngest survivors of a cursed event that claimed the lives of over six million members of his race, had finally succumbed to time and the new brutality of the modern world.
BROOKLYN NAVY YARD
Will eased the picked lock from the back of the old building and pushed the door open. He stopped and listened for movement and heard none. His eyes went to the front and he saw Jason Ryan as he advanced into the darkened warehouse. In the diffused light entering the renovated building from the outside, both could see the hundreds of pallets of plastic-covered, newly made boxes. They were flat and the area must have housed over a million of them.
Jason used the muzzle of the Glock to indicate a stairwell. Will saw one also on his end. Both men made their way to the stairs opposite each other and eased themselves into the darkness. Mendenhall reached the top and saw the trapdoor. The broken lock was a clear indication that the men on the roof more than likely didn’t lease or own the property. Will used his elbow to ease the trapdoor up, hoping a loud squeak didn’t follow its opening. His eyes quickly fell upon the two men standing at the false facade of the building and they were not even attempting to hide their presence. The colonel and Farbeaux must have disappeared into building 114 and that was the reason they were so casual and indifferent.
Before Mendenhall could react, the door was pulled from his hand and the muzzle of a small automatic weapon was pressed against the top of his head.
“Tell me, little groundhog, do you see your shadow?” the voice said with a thick Russian accent.
“God, I hate smug assholes with witty little sayings,” Will mumbled as he was roughly pulled out of the trapdoor space by the collar. He straightened and saw the stockless version of the world-renowned AK-47 leveled at his chest with two unnaturally large and bearded men smiling at him.
“Oh, look, little groundhog has a roommate,” said the second man as he nodded toward the far end of the green-painted roof. Will frowned as he saw Ryan, who was also being pushed out of that side. He was then poked in the liver and pushed toward the two men taking pictures with a telephoto lens. “You may stop that, Victor, we may have another source of information—well, two actually,” the man said as he nodded at the weapon-wielding man and Will was pushed toward the skylight where he met Ryan. “These two don’t seem to be very good at their jobs,” the man finished and the other seven men who had appeared on the roof laughed. The man examined the intruders’ two Glocks, and eyed closely the strange cell phones. He pocketed the phones and handed another man the weapons.
“This is embarrassing,” Jason said as he counted his way to the conclusion that they stood no chance at fighting their way out of this one. He looked down and over the side of the building and saw that there were no witnesses on this side of the navy yard. He felt his hope dwindle further when he saw Flushing Avenue on the other side. No, the only way was to jump over the side and fall into the busy street, dodging a fifteen-foot-high fence in the process, only to die in the street below instead of on the roof.
“Well, you’ll have to excuse us, we’ve had a hard few months,” Mendenhall said as his eyes fell on the fifteen-foot elongated skylight. His eyes went from there to Jason, who also spied the escape route. He closed his eyes and shook his head as he tried to remember just where the warehoused pallets had been stacked.
“Call down and have the van brought around.” The man in charge gestured to Will and Jason. “We have some questions to ask. You don’t mind coming with us, do you?”
“Actually, we’d rather not,” Will said with his hands raised as he stepped forward at the same moment Jason did, and then they both high-stepped into midair and gravity did the rest.
The eight Russians were so stunned they actually laughed for a moment at the stupidity of the two Americans. They briefly exchanged looks and then stepped to the broken glass and looked down in time to see Ryan and Mendenhall scrambling from the palletized boxes far below, hopping from one stack to the next lowest. The small man with the horrid face tattoo stopped, looked up, and shot the men the finger. With a wide smile he saluted and jumped to follow the black man, but not before finding out that he had hurt his backside when he jumped. He cursed and limped after the black man yelling and asking a running Mendenhall, “How come you never hurt yourself?” The Russians broke for the trapdoors on both ends.
Before, the Russian leader, who was still standing and watching his men scramble after the two escapees, didn’t realize anything amiss. The cell phones they had taken from the two Americans that he had placed in his coat pocket became a reason for major concern as both cell phones simultaneously, and on orders from Europa 1,700 miles away, issued a destruct order to the phones after she had received alternate DNA prints on the Event Group–issued cell phone marvels. The internal charge was not enough to cause an explosion, but plenty large enough to burn through the memory card and the processor. Both phones immediately started to melt inside the man’s pocket. He hurriedly ripped the two phones free and tossed them onto the roof of the building. He hissed as melted plastic stuck to his hand. The brute in charge of the surveillance detail angrily looked at the man who had the camera around his neck.
“Get that to Mr. Jones,” he said in angered Russian. Then he jabbed a finger into the chest of one of the larger killers. “Get the ground team and bring them back!” the leader called out.
The cell phones had melted to an unrecognizable glob of black plastic and the man angrily kicked at their smoldering remains.
* * *
Will smashed through the front doors with a limping Jason close behind. They both felt naked without their pistols as they frantically looked around for an easy escape route back to the main drive of the shipyard.
“Look, that van!” Jason said as he and Will broke for the white-panel van sitting in the small drive beside building 111.
They were fifteen feet from the van when its sliding door opened and three more men spilled out of the interior and each had a large handgun.
“Jesus, what is this, the Kremlin parking lot?” Will said as he skidded to a stop.
“Through the fence,” Ryan yelled when his eyes fell on a break in the chain-link. He pushed Will forward toward the bushes that covered most of the fence. Both men vanished just as four of the eight Russians broke through the front and back doors of the building and gave chase.
Jason was almost struck by a passing car that honked and swerved out of the way at the last second as they crashed through the fence and bushes. Will let go of Jason’s collar and they both saw that backtracking to the safety of where their people were was impossible from this side of the fence.
“In there, we have to get to a phone,” Jason yelled as he started running, favoring his bruised ass. Will saw the sign above the doorway of the small and nondescript building.
“Brooklyn Social Club,” Will read as he ran after Jason.
The three men and the bearded brute from the roof broke through the bushes and the fence in time to see the two men scramble into the small establishment on a smaller side street off of Flushing Avenue. The four men split up with two going to the front and the other two to the back of the small, nondescript white building.
Jason and Will had trouble adjusting their eyes to the darkness of the room. They saw several round tables with older men sitting at them. Some were playing cards, others just sitting and speaking in low tones. Jason, out of breath, turned and saw the bartender standing and staring at the two harried men. The bartender concentrated his glare on the smaller man with the sickening tattoo on the right side of his face.
“This is a private club, gentlemen.” The emphasis had been placed on the last word.
“We need your phone.”
The eyes went to the larger black man. “You don’t hear so good?” the bartender asked in his Brooklyn accent.
Several men at a nearby table were younger than the older ones they had first seen inside. The older men in the darkness in the back of the room continued to play cards without much notice to the visitors. The younger men in running suits and others in nice sport coats took another view entirely of the interruption to their day.
Will swallowed when he realized just what sort of club they had stepped into.
“Boy, you just have a sixth sense for getting us into this stuff, don’t you?” he said to Jason out of the side of his mouth just as the front and rear doors opened and their pursuers joined them.
The younger men at the farthest tables tensed but remained seated when the four dark-haired men came in. Some of these young Turks looked to the back and the others at the front of the club. All eyes watched the confrontation without comment, with the exception of the burly little bartender.
“As I told these two, this is a private club.”
The man leading the well-dressed charge into the club turned at the front door and smiled at the bartender. He was also out of breath.
“We have no wish to intrude,” he said as he dismissed the bartender and approached Mendenhall and Ryan, who stood their ground defiantly. “We just came in to help you with your vermin situation. We shall remove them and be on our way.”
All the men, twenty plus of them, with the exception of the nine old men who continued to smoke cigars and play cards, along with another two who sat in the far corner playing checkers, exchanged looks at the funny accent of the bearded man in the black silk suit and shiny shirt. The gold chains around his neck were fully exposed to show off their glory.
“You do that outside,” the bartender said as his right hand vanished beneath the counter.
“Gentlemen, I am Captain William Mendenhall, United States Army; this is Commander Jason Ryan, U.S. Navy. We really need to use that phone,” Mendenhall said as he looked from the men sitting at the tables and then back to the bartender.
“Now, now, does this man look as if he’s in the U.S. Navy? Has the navy’s standards fallen so low as to recruit men such as this?” the Russian said in perfect English as he slowly advanced on the two men in the middle of the room. The men at the tables remained silent as they took in the situation. “We will not bother you further,” the man said, slightly turning his head toward the beefy bartender as he gestured for his three men to take the two outside. “Come, we have much to discuss.” He tried to take Mendenhall’s arm and the captain pulled away.
“Don’t touch me, Russian.”
This caught the attention of the men in the room. Even the older men stopped playing cards and looked up at what was happening. Several of their eyes went to the older men playing checkers. Even they had stopped and were watching the scene unfold.
“Come, come, let’s not make a scene. We have a few questions and then you can return to your commander, whoever he is.”
“Thought you said these men wasn’t in the army or the navy?” the bartender asked.
“Friend, please mind your own affairs, before something bad happens to you,” the Russian said as his three men encircled Ryan and Mendenhall.
“Something bad?” the bartender asked with a wry smile etching his face.
“Do you have a hard time understanding English, my friend, or do you only understand that lost tongue of Mama Mia Italiano?” The man laughed and looked at his men as they joined him.
Before the Russians knew what was happening every younger man had risen and had produced handguns before the Eastern Bloc mob could even blink and drop their silly grins. The bartender charged the sawed-off twelve-gauge pump shotgun and leveled it at the bearded leader. The bartender looked to his right at the table where the old men sat playing cards, and then finally to the two gentlemen who sat and watched from their interrupted checker playing. All sets of eyes were on the Russians, who had suddenly started to deflate. An old man in a green sweater and old fedora placed his checkers down on the board and then slowly nodded at the bartender.
“As you can see, Russian, we speak both languages rather well. And while we have no love for some of our more aggressive federal authorities, never think that relates to boys in uniform, ever.” The bartender pointed the barrel of the shotgun directly at the Russian’s head. Will and Jason had to admire the fact that the bearded man never blinked; instead he looked bemused. “You two better make for the door before these boys and us have a serious disagreement.” The bartender nodded toward the front of the building.
“You don’t know what you’re involving yourselves in,” the leader said as his men wondered if they stood a chance if they resisted the Italian’s orders.
“We know exactly what it is we’re involved in, Russian,” the bartender said as if the word was a bad-tasting cheese. “For years we’ve noticed. You boys go about things in a not very professional manner.” The shotgun became the main focus of the Russian’s attention. “Now you two get to runnin’, these boys are going to sit and have a drink while we explain a few rules we have in this particular area of town.”
Will and Jason exchanged looks and with a nod at the men in running suits and sport coats, they ran through the front door and vanished.
“Now, what will you gentlemen have—vodka?” he asked as the young bucks of the Gambino crime family gathered the handguns of the arrogant new kids on the block, who were finding out that old grudges never really vanished with certain families.
The bearded man looked at the men disarming them and smiled—if only briefly.
“Yes, vodka will do.” He gestured for his men to sit.
The bartender’s eyes flicked to the old men at the table who had resumed playing cards. One of then looked up and raised his gray-colored brows. The man took a dusty bottle from the bar and came around with glasses and approached the angered Russians. He placed the glasses down with the bottle of vodka.
“On the house.”
The bearded man looked up as a small shot glass of clear liquid was placed in front of him. He raised his glass in toast and turned to the old men at the card table and then finally at the two men playing checkers in the far corner. The oldest man was recognizable as Paul Gazza, the head of the Gambino crime family. The man posed no threat to the power of the Russians, at least according to Russian sources.
“To old times,” he said with a sad smile, and then drank and slammed the glass down.
The men looked up and their silence made the Russians feel uncomfortable. The old man in the hat nodded his head as if in agreement as he smiled at his friend across the table and jumped several red checkers over black ones.
“Ah, checkmate!” he said with a laugh.
“You’re playing checkers, old man, not chess. There is no checkmate in checkers,” the Russian said with a bemused smile.
The old man in the moth-eaten fedora looked up and his smile vanished as his eyes narrowed. “There is always a checkmate, no matter what game you play.”
The Russian mobsters never knew what hit them as several silenced weapons thudded in the darkness of the social club on a small side street just off of Flushing Avenue.
The card game, among other more dangerous games in New York, continued within the Brooklyn underworld as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.