It was a cold, rainy Monday morning in Washington, D.C., and FBI Agent Casey Duke had just arrived at his office. He was sipping hot coffee while looking at a long paper chart spread across his desk. His job was to monitor the Gueseppi crime family of New York. There was always something to add to the chart every Monday. Weekends were especially active times for the mobs.

Every few inches along the chart, a short line extended perpendicular to a long center line running the length of the paper. At the end of each short line was the name of a particular section of the family’s criminal activity. The names were extortion, prostitution, labor unions, gambling, loan sharking, graft, theft, narcotics, tax-free cigarettes, tax-free whiskey, money laundering, shakedowns, enforcers and miscellaneous crimes of opportunity. Opposite each of these were the names of the family specialists in that particular criminal area. A few names had asterisks beside them, showing that they were in jail or prison and the dates of their possible release were penciled in because they change regularly. The name of the law firm representing the family was noted in the lower left-hand corner of the chart. The names of the Godfather and his staff of Capos were above the lawyers’ names.

The day started routinely with activity reports to be checked and posted. He was leaning back looking at the chart when a new file was dropped on his desk by the mail clerk. He twisted his head to read the title on the sealed folder. The name Dominick Salvatori didn’t stir his memory. He opened the file and read it for a few moments and started to laugh. He remarked to a junior agent sitting across the aisle, "Well, looks like we have a brand new citizen joining the ranks of the Gueseppi crime family."

The junior agent smiled and nodded, "I'll bet anything he can't speak a word of English."

Casey kept reading. He closed the file and remarked, "We can get rid of this one in a hurry. All we have to do is drop a note to the good folks in Calsetta, Sicily, with his address. It seems that he got upset because they knocked off his old man a few years back. To get even, he screwed half of the married women in town and made a record of it, then turned all of the sordid details over to the church when he skipped the country. I don’t think he’ll be around here too long. The old timers will send a delegation over to get rid of his sorry ass."

He placed the folder on the "to be worked" stack on the corner of his desk. He would get to that one later. He smiled at the prospect of a husband from Calsetta getting to the guy first. The first thing he would probably do is relieve him of his testicles with a dull kitchen knife and then kill the bastard with the same knife. The file would close itself. Casey sipped his coffee and went back to reading the chart.

Three weeks later, a message about a mob shooting caught the attention of Casey. It would have been insignificant except for the victim. It was Dom Salvatori. According to an unnamed witness, observing the scene from a bedroom window across the street, two men had waited the better part of the night for the gangster to return home from a night of night-clubbing. As he stepped out of his car, two men appeared out of the shrubbery and shouted "Calsetta" then fired two shots each into the hapless mobster before running to a car parked nearby and speeding away. The neighbor, having observed the scene earlier, suspected that something was wrong and had already called the police. They were nearby and came immediately when the shots were fired in the quiet morning hours. The two gunmen escaped, leaving Dom barely alive. An ambulance took him to the emergency room where quick action saved his life. As the days passed, it was determined by the doctors that he would have some brain damage, otherwise, he would recover.

Two months went by and Dom Salvatori was back on the job. He had dramatically changed from a quiet, steady character to an extrovert and showoff. The metamorphosis took everyone by surprise. Casey was pleased because mobsters who talk a lot were usually an excellent information source. It was widely reported by the informants inside the mob that the quiet Sicilian’s temper had become much more violent and his actions more erratic since being shot. Usually that meant the mobster couldn't be trusted. When a Godfather recognizes that condition in a family member, younger soldiers are given a blood assignment to eliminate the problem. Because Dom was the nephew of Fredireco Palzoni, also known as Freddie the Axe, second in command of the mob family and a dangerous enemy, some doubted that it would happen as long as Freddie was alive.

Freddie was older than the Godfather, Al Gueseppi. Al became head of the family when his father was eliminated by a rival mob last year. Freddie was respectful, but secretly feared Al.

Casey waited and watched, now hoping that Dom would survive, because the gangster was getting cockier by the day, drinking heavily, and having a hard time keeping his mouth shut. The informants reported that his actions continued to cause problems for the mob. Apparently the more he was warned to shape up, the wilder he became. If he kept it up, Casey was sure it was just a matter of time when even Uncle Freddie couldn't save him.

Much to his surprise, Casey received an intelligence report that there had been a change of assignment for the crippled mobster. For the past several weeks rumors were increasing on the street that his bizarre acting would get him eliminated when, for some unknown reason, Al Gueseppi decided to move him to a higher level of responsibility.

The move was a plum assignment, and tantamount to retirement from daily activity on the street. His new responsibility was to oversee collections from the gamblers who attended mob controlled crap games and horse-track bookie operations. To receive such a promotion was usually a reward. Casey and the entire crime section were puzzled that the "mad Sicilian", as he was called on the street, was even alive, say nothing about promoted . The question was, what had Dom done to deserve such an honor. They were sure they knew his every move. He hadn't done anything of significance lately.

Casey was stumped. Maybe Uncle Freddie had more power in the family than they realized. That was an angle worth checking.

One of the largest horse-room bettors was Dr. Bernard Zoll, Ph.D., a quiet, unassuming fellow who worked as a scientist in the laboratory at Hargrove College in New York. Bernie Zoll had a passionate love for all forms of gambling, especially horses. He gambled every day with the same bookie. The book was one assigned to Dom. Zoll’s losses were getting serious when his name was brought to Dom’s attention.

Kelly Smith had run the mob book from his magazine stand for fifteen years. For eight of those years he had received a phone call every morning between nine and nine-thirty from Bernie Zoll. They would settle up each Saturday, only for several Saturdays now, Bernie hadn’t paid his tab.

The call came to the book on schedule today. "Kelly--Bernie here. Lay a hundred on Elvira to win in the third at Pemleco."

"Bernie, we gotta' talk," Kelly whined, "you got to come in before I can lay any more bets. They cut you off downtown yesterday. They want to see the money."

"Damnit, I'm working, I haven’t got time to come down there to talk. We're right in the middle of something that is the hottest product in the universe."

"What kind of product?" Kelly asked innocently, smelling a payoff.

"It's super secret. All I can say is that it’s for the government."

"You owe nearly twelve grand now, Bernie. I can't let you get any deeper until you pay up. How you gonna' do that on your salary?"

The voice on the phone got very quiet, and Kelly could tell that he had cupped his hand around the mouthpiece by the hollow sound. "You tell whoever owns that book that I've got something here worth millions. If they want to talk, I'll be glad to meet someplace. If they cut me off, you tell them they can go to hell because I’m making a good faith effort. What I've got will make their paltry gambling debt look like pocket change."

"I'll tell em what you said, but I got a feeling they're gonna’ say for you to peddle your stuff someplace else and pay your debt. The only thing they care about is money."

Bernie laughed, "You tell them that I can deliver a million-dollar product, but-- there are terms. They’ve got to give me a chance to catch up. That means I get a line of credit to get back even. You tell them and I'll call you back tomorrow. In the meantime, what about the horse?"

"This is the last time, Bernie, unless I get clearance from downtown. They got a new tough guy in there now and he calls the shots."

"I understand, Kelly. I'll call you in the morning. My horse is eight to one. Put the winnings on my tab." He laughed with the last remark.

Kelly answered, "If your luck runs like it has lately, that nag will still be running in the morning."

In the early afternoon of the same day, a young FBI agent walked into Kelly Smith’s magazine store and casually picked up a True Crime magazine, taking the one from the back of the stack. He paid Kelly without any comment and walked out. In the car, he removed a hand written note that had been taped to the last page and glanced at it. Five names were listed with a dollar figure beside each name. Bernie Zoll was listed as number three. The young man drove to his office and faxed the material to Casey on a secured fax machine with a message that this was the list of the heaviest losers from the Kelly Smith Book. Casey added the names to his list of potential witnesses. They could be persuaded to talk if their families were not made aware of their loses.---

Ed Note:  This is a giant of a story.  The size and scope demanded that the author call on his international experience in military intelligence and businass to meet the challenge.  The sub-plots that surface during the chase reveals that there is a sinister element in the world that is always working to the detriment of humanity.