"That's Newark, New Jersey," MacCleary questioned. "Not Newark, Ohio?"

"Yes sir."

"Good job."

"Thank you, sir," the Marine had said and closed his eyes without bothering to reach for the helmet as a shade.

That had been the last time MacCleary had seen those lids shut. It was a long time ago. And it had been a long time since MacCleary had been with the CIA.

Williams slept just as peacefully under drugs. MacCleary nodded to the dark-haired man. "Okay, switch off the lights."

The sudden blackness was just as blinding as the brightness.

"Expensive son of a bitch, wasn't he?" MacCleary asked. "You did a good job."

"Thanks."

"Got a cigarette?"

"Don't you ever carry them?"

"Not when I'm with you," MacCleary said.

The two men laughed. And Remo Williams emitted a low groan.

"We got a winner," the dark-haired man said again.

"Yeah," MacCleary said. "His pain's just beginning." The two men laughed again. Then MacCleary sat quietly smoking, watching the cigarette glow orange red every time he inhaled.

In a few minutes, the ambulance turned off the simple two-lane road onto the New Jersey Turnpike, a masterpiece of highway engineering and driving boredom. Several years before, it had had the best safety record in the United States, but the growing control of the road, its staff and the state police by politicians had turned it into one of the most dangerous high-speed highways in the world.

The ambulance roared on into the night. MacCleary bummed five more cigarettes before the driver slowed down and tapped on the window behind him,

"Yes?" MacCleary asked.

"Only a few more miles to Folcroft."

"Okay, keep going," MacCleary said. A lot of big shots were waiting for this package to arrive at Folcroft.

The journey was one hundred minutes old when the ambulance rolled off the paved road and its wheels began kicking up gravel.