On July 2 at about 6:30 p.m., feeling way shady and surreptitious, I ducked into the Grand Central Station food court and scanned the scene. Mobsters had been instructed, via e-mail, to locate a person carrying the New York Review of Books to receive further instructions. As I'd arrived a bit ahead of the appointed 6:45 meeting time, I claimed a seat and perused my New York Times, only to be interrupted by at least six other early birds who sidled up to me and asked, out of the corner of their mouths, if I was with the mob. At the appointed time I stood, folded my paper and began searching -- joining the hordes of shifty-looking lurkers also discreetly trying to locate the New York Review of Books person (and, incidentally, avoid the armed National Guardsmen). I finally found him by simply following the stream of people leading to a guy hunched in a corner, passing out strips of paper printed with directions. At 7:02, we gathered in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt; at 7:07 about 200 people ascended the stairs to the mezzanine. At 7:12 -- the moment of truth -- we applauded for 15 seconds. And then the mob dispersed as quickly and quietly as it arrived.

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