He was in a reception room and the eyes of a half-dozen black women, waiting for visiting hours, went to his face. He wondered if he should lower the cowl that shrouded his face. He left it up. He approached the thick bulletproof glass, enclosing the guard's desk and leaned against the glass. It was solid under his hands and he gauged its thickness at precisely one inch. It would take a powerful weapon to penetrate that glass, even at close range.

Without looking up, the guard flicked a lever, again double-locking the front door. If Remo had to get out in a hurry, he would go through the glass, and through the door behind the guard. Remo rapped on the glass with the heel of his hand, getting the feel of its weight, and the guard moved his head, motioning to Remo to pick up the telephone that stood on a small shelf in front of him.

Remo picked it up and tried to keep his voice calm. "I'm Father Tuck," he said, restraining a smirk. "I have an appointment with the prisoner Devlin."

"Just a minute, Father," the guard said, setting down the telephone with infuriating slowness. Casually, he began looking down a typewritten list of names, until he came to one that Remo, upside down, could read:

"DEVLIN, BERNARD. FATHER TUCK."

The guard turned the sheet of paper over and picked up the telephone again.

"Okay, Father," he said. "That door over there." With his head, he nodded toward another door in the corner of the room.

"Thank you, my son," Remo said.

He followed the guard's directions to another metal door. It was ceiling high and six-feet wide. A painted sign on it said "push," but the sign was fresh and unscarred, while the bars above it were worn, where thousands of people had placed their hands to push.