"Sit down, Devlin," he said.

Devlin sat down easily, in a bare wooden chair facing the monk. He was a tall, thin man and the blue prison clothes fit him as if they had been tailored. His hair was black and wavy, and his skin colour told of frequent trips to the islands, perhaps membership in a very good health club."

He looked to be about thirty years old and his confident posture, the small laughter crinkles around intelligently flashing eyes, testified that he had enjoyed every minute of those thirty years. Up until now.

Remo sat silently, waiting for O'Brien to leave. Then the guard went through the doorway leading back to his desk.

"Knock, Father, when you're done," he said, and pulled the door tight behind him. Remo heard the lock snap shut

He put a finger to his lips and walked softly to the door, squatting down to peer through the keyhole. He could see O'Brien's back, again seated at his desk.

Only then did Remo sit down and address Devlin:

"All right. Let's have it," he said.

He tried to concentrate while Devlin talked, but found it difficult. All he could think of was the penitentiary and how he wanted to be out of it. Even more, perhaps, than ten years ago, when he had been saved from the electric chair by a secret governmental organization with a Presidential crime-fighting mission, so he could be trained to be its killer arm. Code name: Destroyer.

Bits and pieces of Devlin's talk broke through his reverie. The African nation of Scambia. A plan to turn it into an international refuge for criminals from all over the world. The president to be assassinated; the vice president to take his place.

Bored, because information-gathering was not his specialty. Remo tried to think of questions to ask.