"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.
Remo had held bars before. He placed his palms against the sign and he could feel a small electric pulse as a switch released the electric lock. He pressed forward and the door opened slowly.
The door swung shut behind him and he was in another small room. To his right, behind more bulletproof glass, was a mesh cage where three prisoners sat waiting to be released, watched by another guard. Again he heard the door thud shut behind him.
To his left, a door led to a stairway. He pushed against that door, but it did not give. He glanced back over his shoulder. The guard was talking to one of the prisoners. Remo walked over and rapped on the window. The guard looked up, nodded, then pushed a button. Remo went back, pushed open the door, and entered the stairwell. It was a narrow flight of stairs, and the risers were higher than normal. At the bottom of the stairs, a mirror was angled against the wall, and as he went up the stairs, he saw an identical mirror set in the corner of the wall at the head of the stairs. He glanced up into that mirror and then back down, off the bottom mirror and out to the desk where the guard sat. From his post, the guard could see the entire stairway. There was no way to hide there, no banisters to climb upon, no ledge to wedge oneself on.
He walked up the stairs, exercising, kicking with his bare toes against the robe, swirling it forward so that his foot could step up to the next step without tripping on the robe. He tried not to remember going up the same kind of narrow stairway to a death cell ten years earlier.
No use. The sweat came like a flow. His armpits were wet.
Ten years ago.
Life was simpler then. He was Remo Williams. Patrolman Remo Williams, Newark P.D. A good cop. Then someone had killed a drug pusher in an alley on his beat and he was convicted and sentenced to an electric chair that didn't work right.
What the hell am I doing here? At the top of the stairs, there was another door. Just as there had been in the death house in the New Jersey State Prison. Uninvited, more memories of that invaded his mind. The visit from the monk, the black pill, the metal helmet on his head and then seventy-seven zillion volts that were supposed to go through his body to kill him, but didn't.
He was in the next room now and there was an old wooden desk. Behind it sat a uniformed guard, wearing a name tag that read Wm. O'Brien. He was a mediumsized man and Remo noticed one of his arms was shorter than the other. Big knobby wrists stuck out of his blue uniform shirt. His eyes were small and washed-out blue, his nose bulbous with broken blood vessels around the sides and tip.
"I'm Father Tuck. I've come to see the prisoner Devlin."
"Why so hot, Father?" O'Brien asked.
Remo did not answer. Then, he said, "Devlin, please."
O'Brien was very slow getting up from his chair and he looked the priest over carefully, with shrewd eyes, looking past the brown robe-convincing himself that this man was no priest at all. His hands were roughened along the sides of the palms, but his fingernails were manicured and his cuticles formed perfect crescents.
The monk also exuded the aroma of expensive aftershave lotion which was definitely un-priestly, although O'Brien did not know that it was a special French brand named P.C. for post-coitus. O'Brien glanced down as he stepped from behind the desk. The monk's feet seemed to be too clean, and even his toenails had colourless nail polish on them.
Definitely not a priest. O'Brien had been casual about the inspection, but Remo had noticed it and anticipated his conclusion. Damn. Now if there was trouble, two would have to go.
O'Brien said nothing. He took Remo into a small wood-panelled conference room and politely asked him to wait. He disappeared through another door and five minutes later returned with a man in tow.
"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.
Who's behind it all?
I don't know.
The vice president? This Asiphar?
No. I don't think so.
How did you find out about it?
I work for a man in this country who has an interest in this sort of thing. That's how I know. I did some legal research for him on extradition laws.
I know your reputation as the big Mafia lawyer, getting thugs out of jail on technicalities.
Everybody's entitled to a defence.
And now you're spilling, so you get a break? Remo was disgusted with him.
Yes. I'm spilling so I get out of here and I get safe conduct some place. "And I'll tell you the truth, Father," he said, sneering the title, "I'm getting tired of telling my story to every nit the government sends through the door."
"Well, I'll be the last one," Remo said. He got up and went to the door again, peering through the keyhole.
O'Brien still sat at his desk, now reading a newspaper, his broad back rising slowly with his breathing. A radio played softly alongside O'Brien's desk.
"Okay, then," Devlin said. "How do I get out of here? Do I call a press conference or what?"
"No, that's not necessary," Remo said. "We've got it all worked out."
Remo knew what he had to do. His hand shook slightly as he pulled the wooden crucifix from a pocket in the billowing robe and showed it to Devlin. "See here," he said, pointing with his left hand. "That black pill at the bottom of the feet. When the guard comes in, kiss the cross, and nip the pill off with your teeth. When you're back in your cell, bite into it and swallow it. It'll knock you out. Our men are in the prison hospital now. When they bring you in, they'll decide you need special treatment. Put you in an ambulance and send you to a private hospital. The ambulance will never get there. Neither will you."
"Sounds too easy," Devlin said. "I don't think it'll work."
"Man, it's worked a hundred times for me," Remo said. "Think this is the first time I've done this? You're going to live for a thousand years."
He stood up. "I'm going to call the guard now," Remo said. "We've been here too long."
He went to the wooden door and pounded on it with the side of his hand. The loud thump echoed and reverberated through the small room. The door opened and O'Brien stood there.