"You've got five minutes, Father," the guard said. The key clicked again in the lock.

The monk nodded. Remo motioned to the empty space beside him on the cot.

"Thank you," the monk said. Holding the crucifix like a test tube he was afraid to spill, he sat down. His face was hard and lined. His blue eyes seemed to be judging Remo for a punch instead of salvation. Droplets of perspiration on bis upper lip caught the light from the bulb.

"Do you want to be saved, my son?" he asked. It was rather loud for such a personal question.

"Sure," Remo said. "Who doesn't?"

"Good. Do you know how to examine your conscience, make an act of contrition?"

"Vaguely, Father. I..."

"I know, my son. God will help you."

"Yeah," Remo said without enthusiasm. If he got this over fast, maybe there'd be time for another cigarette.

"What are your sins?"

"I really don't know."

"We can start with violation of the Lord's commandment not to kill.".

"I've not killed."

"How many men?"

"Including Vietnam?"

"No, Vietnam doesn't count."

"That wasn't killing, huh?"

"In war, killing is not a mortal sin."

"How about peace, when the State says you did, but you didn't? How about that?"

"Are you talking about your conviction?"

"Yes." Remo stared at his knees. This might go on all night.

"Well, in that case..."

"All right, Father. I confess it. I killed the man," Remo lied. His trousers, fresh gray twill, hadn't even had a chance to get worn at the knees.

Remo noticed that the monk's cowl was perfectly clean, spotlessly new too. Was that a smile on his face?

"Coveted anyone's property?"

"No."

"Stolen?"

"No."

"Impure actions?"

"Sex?"

"Yes."

"Sure. In thought and deed."

"How many times?"