Several weeks later over iced shots of vodka Curt, Yuri, and Steve had shaken hands on the commencement of what they called Operation Wolverine. Yuri hadn’t known what a wolverine was, so Curt explained it was a small, extremely vicious, cunning animal. At the time Curt had winked at Steve, because Wolverine really referred to a group of youths in a survivalist movie classic called Red Dawn. It was Curt and Steve’s favorite movie. In it the Wolverines had held off the entire invading Russian Army.

Yuri had wanted to call the plan Operation Revenge, but he gave in to Curt and Steve when they were adamant about the name Wolverine. Curt had explained that the name would have immediate significance to the far-right underground.

After they’d polished off their vodka, they were all excited.

Their relationship was, in Curt’s words, a marriage made in Heaven.

“I have a feeling this is going to be the spark that ignites the conflagration,” Curt had said. “Something huge like this happening here in New York is bound to start the general revolt. It’s going to make what happened in Oklahoma City seem like a childish prank.”

Whether Operation Revenge started a general uprising or not Yuri didn’t care. He just wanted to severely slap the U.S. across its smug face. Any glory he might achieve he’d gladly donate to the Zhirinovsky movement and the return of the Soviet Empire.

A sudden knock on Yuri’s fender shocked him from his reverie. He turned to see a meter maid.

“You got to move along, cabbie,” the woman said. “This here’s for loading.”

“Sorry,” Yuri said. He put his idling car in gear and drove off. But he didn’t go far. He merely rounded the block and returned to the same spot. The meter maid was in the far distance heading away.

Yuri put his blinkers on to make it look as if he was waiting for a fare and climbed from his car. No one had gone in or out of the Corinthian Rug Company for the half hour he’d been watching. He ran across the street. With his hands around his face he leaned against the glass office door and looked inside. The place was empty. There were no lights on. He tried the door. It was locked.

Yuri walked a few steps to the west and went into a neighboring shop. He’d seen a number of people going in and out while he’d been sitting in his cab. It was a store for stamp collectors. Inside it was as quiet as a tomb after some bells attached to the door had ceased their tinkling. The proprietor appeared from an inner area with tiny reading glasses teetering on the end of a bulbous nose. On his bald head was a yarmulke that Yuri thought must have been stuck on with glue.

“I got a call to pick up a Mr. Papparis at the Corinthian Rug Company,” Yuri explained. “That’s my cab outside. Unfortunately the rug office is closed. Do you know Mr. Pap-paris?”