“My God!” Steve commented as he surveyed the neighborhood. “I’ve lived in Brooklyn my whole life and I’ve never seen this cluster of little houses. It looks like someplace in the Carolinas.”

“Seems they would have been knocked down by now and some high-rises put up,” Curt said. “Keep your eye out for Oceanview Lane. It’s one of these little alleyways.”

“There it is,” Steve said. He pointed through the windshield at a small hand-painted sign tacked to a telephone pole.

Curt turned into the lane and slowed appreciably. It was narrow and cluttered with trash cans and dead leaves.

The two firemen were still in their uniforms. They’d driven to Brighton Beach as soon as they got off work at five P.M. The trip had taken just over an hour. Night was falling rapidly with the overcast sky, and the lane was dark except where it was illuminated with Curt’s headlights. There were no street-lamps.

“Do you see any house numbers?” Curt asked.

Steve laughed. “This place is a slum. I don’t see any signs.”

“There’s thirteen,” Curt said. He pointed to a trash can with the address painted on the rim. “Fifteen should be the next one.”

Curt pulled up to a closed garage door and killed the engine, and the two men climbed out of the truck. For a moment they studied the house. Crammed in among the others, it was mildly dilapidated and sorely in need of paint.

“It doesn’t look too stable,” Steve said. “One little nudge and the whole thing might tip over.”

“Can you imagine how fast this would go up in flames,” Curt said.

Steve turned to glance at his friend. “Is that some kind of suggestion?”

Curt shrugged. “Just something to keep in mind. Come on, let’s pay our Russky friend a visit.”

They opened a gate in the chain-link fence that ran along the front of the house. The walkway beyond was cracked concrete just visible through a blanket of dead leaves. The tiny patch of lawn was overgrown with weeds.

Curt searched for a doorbell, but there wasn’t one. He opened the torn screen door and was about to knock when a large crash sounded from within. The two firefighters looked at each other.

“What the hell was that?” Steve asked.

“Beats me,” Curt answered. He was again about to knock when there was another crash. This time it was followed by the sound of broken glass. They also heard Yuri curse loudly in Russian.

“Sounds like our Commie friend is wrecking his house,” Steve said.

“It better not have anything to do with the lab,” Curt said. He rapped loudly on the door. He wanted to make sure Yuri heard him.

After waiting several minutes and hearing nothing from inside the house, Curt knocked again. This time there were footfalls, and the door was snatched open.