ingested the toxin. One of the problems was that Yuri had no way of intelligently guessing how much to use. He would just have to sprinkle some into the ice cream and hope for the best. All he knew was that he had to err on the side of using too much. If Connie just got sick, and botulism was suspected, he'd be caught red-handed with the lab in his basement.
The sound of knocking on the door made Yuri jump. Half expecting trouble, he glanced out through the venetian blinds and was relieved to see the pizza delivery boy. Yuri opened the door, paid the kid, and took the packages. The two pizzas had been in an insulated carrier and werestill hot to the touch Yuri pushed away the fast-food wrappings Connie had left earlier on the table, and put down the pizza boxes and the bag with the salad, coffee, and ice cream. He was most interested in the ice cream. He took it out of the bag and put it on the counter.
The container was slightly soft.
Unlike the pizzas, it hadn't been put in an insulated bag.
Quietly stepping out of the kitchen, Yuri moved over to Connie's door.
He pressed his ear against it. He could hear the television clearly.
He assumed Connie was still Lying on the bed.
Returning to the kitchen, he struggled to open the ice cream container without ripping it. Once he had it open, he debated how to add the toxin. He was afraid to add it in one bolus, thinking Connie might taste it and then spit it out. After considering his options, he took out a bowl and emptied most of the ice cream into it. Then he took out the vial from the dish cabinet. Holding his breath, he sprinkled some of the material onto the ice cream.
'Oh what the hell, ' he whispered. He poured the rest into the ice cream. In total, it was no more than a pinch. But if the toxin was as lethal as he expected, it was a huge dose. Probably enough to knock off everybody in Brighton Beach.
Yuri rinsed out the vial in the sink and let the water run. With a fork, he mixed the ice cream as well as he could. Then with a spoon he ladled it back into the pint container. That turned out to be more difficult than he expected, since it seemed that he had more ice cream than he'd started with. It took a bit of force to get it all in. When he was finished he resealed the container as best as he could.
Yuri washed out the bowl. Even so, he vowed never to use it again. In fact after the evening was over he intended to throw it and the fork away.
After washing his hands carefully, Yuri got out a spoon. Then he picked up both the ice cream container and the pepperoni pizza box and headed for Connie's room.
'It took long enough, ' Connie commented when Yuri opened her door.
'Where do you want it? ' Yuri asked.
'Over here on the floor, ' Connie said without taking her eyes off the TV.
Yuri bent down and put the food on the rug. He placed the spoon on top of the ice cream container and straightened up. That was when Connie glanced over to see what he'd done.
'Hey, I don't want the ice cream, ' she said.
'What do you mean? ' Yuri said with consternation.
'I mean I want you to put it in the goddamn refrigerator, ' Connie said.
'I'll eat it after my pizza. I don't want it to melt.'
'Fine, ' Yuri said with some relief. He picked up the ice cream and the spoon and backed to the door.
'Give a yell when you want it, okay? ' Connie's head flopped to the side, and she regarded Yuri beneath knotted brows.
'What's wrong with you, boy? You've never been this nice.'
'I told you, ' Yuri said. 'I feel guilty.'
'I wish you'd feel guilty more often, ' Connie said.
Yuri went back out to the kitchen. Mumbling a few choice epithe's about Connie, he put the ice cream in the freezer. His pulse was hammering in his temples. He needed a vodka. As he'd suspected, it was going to be a long night.
'Okay, everybody shut the hell up! ' Curt yelled out over the unruly group. He'd called a meeting of the People's Aryan Army, and they'd gathered in the back pool room of the White Pride bar. The owner of the bar was Jeff Connolly, an old acquaintance of Curt's. Jeff wasn't an official member of the group, although he was entirely sympathetic to the PAA's positions, namely anti-government, anti-black, antiSemitic, antihispanic, anti-immigration, anti-feminist, anti-NAFTA, anti-abortion, and anti-gay. He was more than happy to clear out the pool room whenever the PAA needed to assemble.
On Curt's insistence the organization of his group was entirely clandestine. There were no membership cards or even membership memorabilia He urged people never to use the name, although he and Steve did when they communicated to other militias via the Internet.
Otherwise, all communication was by word of mouth, person to person.
To call the meeting that night, there'd been no phone calls and no written messages. People had to seek each other out. What made it easy was that most members came to the White Pride at some time during each and every night.
Curt had recruited eight skinheads using methods he'd learned from Tim Melcher. He'd isolate a teenager at one of the many local skinhead bars and strike up a conversation. The conversation was more like an interview. Whenever Curt thought the kid was fertile ground for his views, he then started in on ideology. It was easy, because the skinheads were eager for some organization and to have a focus for their violent dispositions. Besides, from personal experience Curt knew their struggles and resentments and could therefore fan their fledgling bigotries and hatreds.
But keeping such a group under a semblance of control was not easy.
For one thing, many of those involved were stupid, like Yuri, and lacked a proper sense for security.
Offering Brad Cassidy an opportunity to join the group when he'd approached a couple of the troops directly was a case in point. They'd bought his original story.
But Curt hadn't. First of all, Curt was suspicious of anyone who wasn't from the immediate area.
Second, no one was considered for membership without being interviewed by Curt first. When Curt got to talk with him, Brad contradicted himself several times. Then, with a little prodding with a knife and the judicious use of a length of piano wire, the true story came out. He was a government spy.
The other problem was the group's appetite for violence, a trait Curt wanted to channel. At first he thought that in between legitimate missions just talk about violent acts would satisfy their urges. But it turned out that talking was not enough. Occasionally, Curt had to risk confrontation with the authorities, letting them cruise around to other parts of Brooklyn or even Manhattan to find someone to beat up.
The clothes and the tattoos bothered Curt, too. He tried to get them to tame their style of dress, arguing that they should let their actions speak for themselves. They could be more effective, he argued, if they could blend in. But it was like talking to a wall. There was something about their shaved heads, Tshirts, Nazi regalia, and black boots that appealed to them on a gut level. No amount of persuasion could alter their opimon.
'Come on, you guys, ' Steve called out. 'You heard Curt. Listen up!
' Kevin Smith and Luke Berm straightened up by the pool table.
Thumping the heels of their pool cues on the floor they stood in a ragged form of attention. Stew Manson, who was having an argument with Clark Ebersol and Nat Jenkins, turned to Curt and swayed.
He'd been drinking beer since eight and was feeling no pain. Mike Compisano, Matt Sylvester, and Carl Ryerson looked up from their rambunctious card game.
Even among this crowd, Carl stood out, with a crudely drawn swastika tattooed in the middle of his forehead.
'We've got a mission tonight, ' Curt said. 'It's going to require finesse, which I'm not sure any of you understand.' A titter sounded from a few of the troops.
'We've got to go out on the Island, ' Curt continued. 'Out to the Hamptons, to be exact, and steal a truck.'
'No need to go way the hell out there for a truck, ' Stew said. He slurred his words.
'There's plenty of trucks right here in Brooklyn.'
'We're talking about a special type of truck, ' Curt said. 'Who's good at getting into a vehicle quickly and hotwiring it? ' Most of the troops turned to Clark Ebersol. 'I guess that's me, ' Clark said. He was a slight fellow
