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strange man in his dark pilot’s Windcheater looked like a highly skilled housebreaker.
    Which was one way to describe the Soldier.
    Pressed down close to the loamy, steaming ground, he ran as quickly and silently as his heavy backpack would allow.
    He trampled through formal gardens on the East Park side of the Strauss property. Past a red-barn-siding garage with its own private gas pump. Across a mushy bog that rose up to his shoetops. Over an unexpected brook and into what looked like an old world fruit and vegetable garden.
    The Soldier stopped and crouched low at a vine-covered gazebo that had seemed to be a small cottage from the brook.
    “There’s a single man out here,” he spoke into his transmitter.
    Watching the man—who had come out of the party for a smoke—the Soldier unstrapped his heavy pack and waited until the man from the party finally wandered back inside.
    Now the Soldier could begin.
    Inside the bag was a curious assortment of supplies. Knotted rags. Different lengths of copper pipe. An American-made Colt Python with four clips. Fuse. A full two-and-a-half-gallon Exxon gasoline can.
    Right in the heart of Westchester County, New York, the Soldier couldn’t help thinking as he set to work.
    In America.

CHAPTER 6
    David and Heather climbed out of the dusty, rusted Gray Ghost. Arm in arm, they walked toward the imposing forty-one-room manor house where David had grown up.
    “Where’s the Sousa band and welcoming committee you promised?” Heather whispered in David’s ear.
    “Inside.” David tapped his knuckle against the house shingles. “The other side of these great, half-timbered walls. With bells on their toes, I’ll bet.”
    Inside the grand Tudor house, the two of them were semiprepared to meet the mainstays of David’s immediate family: Strausses, Cohens, Hales, Loebs, Lehmans, Kleins.
    So many relatives. Also David’s older brother, Nick, who would be appearing on NBC-TV.
    On the fifty-second Academy Awards—which was the ostensible reason for the party.
    Just thinking about “Nick the Quick” brought a smile to David’s lips. Nick was what their grandmother Elena called a
tummler
, a big, lovable clown—who maybe was going to turn into a successful “alrightnik” out in Hollywood.
    The closer he got to the big house, though, the more serious second thoughts David had about the tricky evening ahead.
    For one thing, some of the people inside had actually boycotted his and Heather’s wedding two years before.
    Some of them still hadn’t met Heather Duff Strauss.
    “Hello. Oh, hi there, Mrs. S.”
    Heather was looking as pale as the Gray Ghost as she and David stood on the stone front porch.
    “Just practicing my act,” she assured David, both of them looking up at the great glazed bay windows.
    “Okay, let’s do it.” Heather took a deep breath. “Twang your magic plunker, Froggie. Bang the brass knocker, Davo. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
    David couldn’t help smiling at his wife. Just then, though, the big wooden front door seemed to open by itself.
    “Aahh-ha,” said a flaming red mouth and fluttery blue eyes—David’s great-aunt Frieda. “Everybody! Everybody! David and his girlfriend are here … Oops!”
    “Oops is right, Aunt Frieda.” David held Heather’s arm tightly. “Frieda, this is my wife of two years, Heather. Heather, welcome to the North Pole.”
    Not unexpectedly, the exact tone of voice of the large catered party was difficult to pin down and isolate.
    “It’s part very sophisticated cocktail party.” Heather looked around at chiffon Empire gowns and tuxes; at Queen Anne side chairs; Cromwellian tables and cabinets; expensive art on every available wall space.
    “And it’s part New York delicatessen service-crew reunion,” David smiled. “Knishes. Sour pickles. The herring in cream sauce.”
    “Also, it’s part Irish wake, I think.”
    “And part Indian suttee … and part United Jewish Appeal breakfast. Remind me to take