IN THE LONG TRADITION of counterculture dives, where a cop walking in was about as welcome as an ACLU recruiter at a skinhead convention, the KGB set the bar at a new low. There were narrow rows of chipped pine tables with societal dropouts slouched in front of computer screens. Plus a mixed collection of riffraff sucking cigarette butts at the bar. Not much else caught my eye at first.

"You sure you're up for this?" I muttered to Molinari. "It'll be hard to explain if I got your face bashed in here."

"I was a prosecutor back in New York," Molinari said, and stepped forward. "I love this shit."

I went up to the bartender, a skinny mouse-faced guy in a muscle shirt with tattoos up and down both arms and a very long ponytail. After about fifteen seconds of being ignored, I leaned over and caught his eye. "We were just passing by and were wondering if anyone would like to support our fellow-ship mission in Chad?"

I couldn't get a half-smile out of him. He poured a beer for a black guy in an African skullcap seated two stools down.

"Okay, we're cops" - I dropped my shield - "you saw right through me."

"Sorry, we're a private club," the bartender said. "Need to see a membership card."

"Hey, just like Costco," I said, glancing at Molinari.

"Yeah, like Costco." The bartender grinned.

Molinari leaned forward, wrapping his hand over Pony-tail's as he went to draw a beer. He put a silver shield with the words DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY in the guy's face. "I want you to follow this closely. I take my phone, and in about ten seconds a team of federal agents will barge in here and rip this place down to the two-by-fours. Now as I look around, there's probably about fifteen, twenty thousand dollars in computers in here, and you know how clumsy these police goons can be when they're lugging heavy evi-dence. So we need to ask you a few questions."

Ponytail glared at him.

"What do you say, Six-pack," the black man in the African skullcap spoke up, "under the circumstances I think we can waive the membership requirement this once."

He turned and faced us, a cheerful grin beneath the skull-cap, saying in a deep British accent, "Amir Kamor. Six-pack was just expressing his desire to keep the clientele here on its usual high level. No need to make harsh threats. Please, can I invite you into my office?"

"Six-pack?" I glanced at the bartender and rolled my eyes. "That's creative."

In the rear there was a cramped private cubicle, barely larger than a desk. The walls were papered with posters and event notices - activist stuff, rallies for the poor, Free East Timor, AIDS in Africa.

I passed Amir Kamor my Homicide card and he nodded, as if impressed. "You said you have a few questions."

"Were you here last night, Mr. Kamor?" I started in. "Around ten P.M.?"

"I'm here every night, Lieutenant. You know the food and liquor business. It's a............