"MANNY, ED, he's headed toward you!"

I saw where Cavello was going. He was trying to get to a helicopter up on the point, obviouslyhis helicopter. I pushed through the crowd, shoving people out of the way. At the edge of the deck, I looked down.

Cavello was stumbling over the grassy dunes, making his way along the beach.

Then he ducked behind a tall dune, and I lost sight of him.

I shouted into the radio,"Manny, Ed, he should be on you any second now."

"I got him, Nick," Manny squawked.

"Federal agents," I heard Manny shout through the radio.

Then there were shots. Two quick ones-followed by four or five more in rapid succession.

My blood turned to ice.Oh, Jesus. I leaped over the fence, then ran down the dunes toward the beach. I lost my footing and fell to one knee. I righted myself and hurtled in the direction of the shots.

I stopped.

Two bodies were lying faceup on the beach. My heart was pumping. I ran to them, sliding in the sand, which was stained dark with blood.

Oh, dear God, no.

I knew that Manny was dead. Ed Sinclair was gurgling blood, a gunshot wound in his chest.

Dominic Cavello was fifty yards ahead, holding his wounded shoulder but getting away.

"Manny and Ed are down," I yelled into the mike."Get help here now!"

Cavello was running toward a helicopter. The cabin door was open. I took off after him.

"Cavello, stop!" I shouted."I'll shoot!"

Cavello looked back over his shoulder. He didn't stop though.

I squeezed the trigger of my gun-twice. The second bullet slammed into his thigh.

The godfather reached for his leg and buckled. But he kept going, dragging the leg, like some desperate animal that wouldn't quit. I heard a thwack, thwack, thwack -and saw the Coast Guard Apache coming into sight.

"That's it," I yelled ahead, aiming my Glock again."You're done! The next shot goes through your head."

Cavello pulled himself to an exhausted stop. He put his hands in the air and slowly turned.

He had no gun. I didn't know where he'd thrown it, maybe into the sea. He'd been close enough. A grin was etched on his face despite the bullets in his thigh and shoulder.

"Nicky Smiles," he said,"if I knew you wanted to be at my niece's wedding, all you had to do was ask. I woulda sent you an invitation. Engraved."

My head felt like it was going to explode. I'd lost two men, maybe three, over this filth. I walked up to Cavello, my Glock pointed at his chest. He met my eyes with a mocking smile."You know, that's the problem with Italian weddings, Pellisante, everybody's got a gun."

I slugged him, and Cavello fell to one knee. For a second I thought he was going to fight me, but he just stood up, shook his head, and laughed.

So I hit Cavello again, with everything I had left in me.

This time, he stayed down.

IN HIS HOUSE on Yehuda Street in Haifa, high above the sky-blue Mediterranean, Richard Nordeshenko tried the King's Indian Defense. The pawn break, Kasparov's famous attack. From there Kasparov had dismantled Tukmakov in the Russian Championship in 1981.

Across from Nordeshenko a young boy countered by matching the pawn. His father nodded, pleased with the move."And why does the pawn create such an advantage?" Nordeshenko asked.

"Because it blocks freeing up of your queenside rook," the boy answered quickly."And the advance of your pawn to a queen. Correct?"

"Correct." Nordeshenko beamed at his son."And when did the queen first acquire the powers that it holds today?"

"Around fifteen hundred," his son answered."In Europe. Up until then it merely moved two spaces, up and down. But…"

"Bravo, Pavel!"

Affectionately, he mussed his son's blond hair. For an eleven-year-old, Pavel was learning quickly.

The boy glanced silently over the board, then moved his rook. Nordeshenko saw what his son was up to. He had once been in the third tier of Glasskov's chess academy in Kiev. Still, he pretended to ignore it and pushed forward his attack on the opposite side, exposing a pawn.

"You're letting me win, Father," the boy declared, refusing to take it."Besides, you said just one game. Then you would teach me…"

"Teachyou? " Nordeshenko teased him, knowing precisely what he meant."You can teachme. "

"Not chess, Father." The boy looked up."Poker."

"Ah,poker? " Nordeshenko feigned surprise."To play poker, Pavel, you must have something to bet."

"I have something," the boy insisted."I have six dollars in coins. I've been saving up. And over a hundred soccer cards. Perfect condition."

Nordeshenko smiled. He understood what the boy was feeling. He had studied how to seize the advantage his whole life. Chess was hard. Solitary. Like playing an instrument. Scales, drills, practice. Until every eventuality became absorbed, memorized. Until you didn't have to think.

A little like learning to kill a man with your bare hands.

But poker, poker was liberating.Alive. Unlike in chess, you never played the same way twice. You broke the rules. It required an unusual combination: discipline and risk.

Suddenly, the chime of Nordeshenko's mobile phone cut in. He was expecting the call."We'll pick it up in a moment," Nordeshenko said to Pavel.

"But, Father," the boy whined, disappointed.

"In a moment," Nordeshenko said again, picking up his son by the armpits, spanking him lightly on his way."I have to take this call. Not another word."

"Okay."

Nordeshenko walked out to the terrace overlooking the sea and flipped open the phone. Only a handful of people in the world had this number. He settled into a chaise.

"This is Nordeshenko."

"I'm calling for Dominic Cavello," the caller said."He has a job for you."

"Dominic Cavello? Cavello is in jail and awaiting trial," Nordeshenko said."And I have many jobs to consider."

"Not like this one," the caller said."The Godfather has requested only you. Name your price."

New York City . Four months later.

ALL ANDIE DEGRASSE KNEW was that the large, wood-paneled room was crowded as shit-with lawyers, marshals, reporters-and that she'd never been anywhere she wanted to get the hell out of more.

But it was the same for the other fifty-odd people in the jury pool, Andie was quite sure.

Jury duty -those words were like influenza to her. Cold sore. She had been told to report at 9:00 a.m. to the federal courthouse in Foley Square. There she filled out the forms, polished her excuses, and killed an hour leafing throughParenting magazine.

Then, at about eleven thirty, her name was called by a bailiff, and she was herded into a line of other unfortunate people with unsure, disappointed faces and up to the large courtroom on the seventh floor.

She looked around, trying to size up the rest of the fidgeting, kibitzing group squeezed into the bull pen. This was definitely not where she wanted to be.

The scene was like a snapshot taken on the number 4 Lexington Avenue train. People in work uniforms-electricians, mechanics-blacks, Hispanics, a Hasid in a skullcap, each trying to convince the person on either side that he or she didn't belong there. A couple of well-to-do types in business suits were punching their BlackBerries, demonstrating in the clearest possible way that they had something far more important to do with their time.

Those were the ones Andie had to worry about, and she regarded them warily-the prospective jurors who had their time-tested, A-number-1 alibis honed and ready to go. Bosses' letters. Partners' meetings. Travel schedules, deals going down. A cruise to Bermuda that was already fully paid.