CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and they wanted him to show his press pass. They wanted him to do this so much that Brother George stuck the barrel of a Kalishnikov automatic rifle under his right eye and Sister Alexa put a .45 caliber automatic in the small of his back, while Brother Che stood across the room aiming a Smith and Wesson revolver at his skull.

"If he steps funny, we'll blow him to hamburger," Sister Alexa had said.

No one wondered why this man who said he was a reporter failed to be surprised when the hotel room door opened. No one suspected that just not talking while waiting for him was not enough silence, that tense breathing could be heard even through a door as thick as that one in the Bay State Motor Inn, West Springfield, Mass. He seemed like such an ordinary man. Thin, just under six feet tall, with high cheekbones. Only his thick wrists might have told them something. He seemed so casual in his gray slacks and black turtleneck sweater and soft, glove-leather loafers.

"Let's see it," said Brother Che as Brother George closed the door behind him.

"I have it somewhere," said Remo reaching into his right pocket. He saw Brother George's right index finger squeeze very close on the trigger, perhaps closer to firing than Brother George knew. Sweat beaded on Brother George's forehead. His lips were chapped and dry. He drew air into his lungs with short choppy breaths that seemed to just replenish the tip of his supply of oxygen, as though he dared not risk a complete exhale.

Remo produced a plastic-covered police shield issued by the New York City Police Department.

"Where's the card from the Times? This is a police card," said Brother George.

"If he showed you a special card from the Times, you should start wondering," said Brother Che. "All New York papers use cards issued by the police."

"They're a tool of the pig police," said Brother George.