The four of them entered the car, with the man taking a position far enough to Blackthorn's right not to make contact. He was five-foot-ten and wore no cologne or other scent. Blackthorn's mind's eye conjured an image of dark hair and dark eyes that were constantly focused on him.

On the third floor, the doors glided open to let the large couple out. Blackthorn waited until the last instant and followed, even though his room was 419—a floor above. The doors closed completely and didn't reopen. Eschewing his cane, Blackthorn followed the couple to where their room was and then passed them and found the staircase at the end of the hall. Perhaps he had misread the man and the situation, he was thinking. His instincts weren't always perfect.

Trying to envision where his room might be located, he entered the corridor of the fourth floor and felt the numbers on the first two rooms—430 . . . 428. He took his electronic key from his pocket and crossed the hall. 425 . . . 423 . . . 421.

"One more," the man's voice said quietly and calmly, in a pronounced southern drawl. "Four-nineteen, that's what the registration girl said. Four-nineteen. Move naturally or you're dead. You know I'll do that, don't you."

"I do."

The soul of the man was as cold as death.

Blackthorn felt the muzzle of a gun press into his side. He felt stunned that he hadn't detected the man in some way when he opened the stairway door. It was as if he were made of ice.

"Slip the key in the lock, open the door, and go on in. Quickly now."

The man's smooth speech belied his power. Blackthorn sensed that unless he took action, he was not going to live through this encounter.

He set his briefcase down, widened his stance, and began nervously attempting to insert the key in its slot. The man was a professional; he felt certain of that. Not a professional thief—a professional killer.

"Please, please," Blackthorn whimpered as he positioned the key. "I don't have much money, but you can just take what I have. And . . . and my watch. Take my watch."

"The door, open it!"

Blackthorn knew that in the cluttered hotel room he would be totally at the gunman's mercy. Whatever he did had to be now, right here, in the corridor. He had taken years of martial arts—karate for a time, then aikido, the way of spiritual harmony. He had the skill to reverse the situation against most men, but this one, this man of ice, was different.