"You're going to wait a minute and listen to what I have to say."

"I've listened to enough."

"I'm trying to help you."

"No more!"

They glared into each other's eyes, Thorn shaking with rage.

"To think I've actually been listening to this! Believing this!"

"Thorn . . ."

"For all I know, that old man is just some 'fakir' peddling his knives!"

"What are you talking about?!"

Thorn held up the package in his trembling hands.

"These are knives! Weapons! He wants me to stab him! He expects me to murder that child!"

"It's not a child!"

"It is a child!"

"For God's sake, what more proof . . ."

"What kind of a man do you think I am?!"

"Just cool off."

"No!" Thorn shouted. "I won't do it! I won't have any part of it! Murder a child? What kind of a man do you think I am?"

In an explosion of anger he whirled, hurling the package of knives far beyond him where it hit a wall and bounced into an alley. Jennings paused for an instant, looking hard into Thorn's raging eyes.

"Maybe you won't," he growled, "but I will."

He turned and Thorn stopped him.

"Jennings."

"Sir."

"I never want to see you again. I disassociate myself from all of it."

With his lip curled, Jennings moved quickly into the alley, searching for the package of knives. The ground

was filled with litter, the air ringing with jackhammers and heavy machinery as he kicked rubble aside, spotting the small package at the base of a garbage pail ahead. Hurrying to it, he quickly bent over, failing to see the arm of a huge crane as it swung high overhead, pausing for just an instant before letting loose the huge pane of glass held tightly in its grip. It sliced downward with the finality of a guillotine, catching Jennings just above the collar, neatly severing his head from his body before exploding into a million flying pieces.

Thorn heard the impact, then the sounds of screaming, as pedestrians ran from all directions toward the alley where Jennings had disappeared. Following them, he pushed through the crowd to where the body lay. It was decapitated, blood pumping outward in a weak, pulsating movement as though the heart were beating still. A woman standing on a veranda overhead pointed downward and screamed. The head was in a garbage pail, staring upward to the sky.

Forcing himself to move, Thorn walked stiffly forward, picking up the package of knives that lay in the rubble just beyond Jennings' lifeless hand. With glazed eyes, he moved out of the alley, finding his way back to the hotel.

Chapter Twelve

The return flight to London had taken eight hours; Thorn sat in dazed silence, his mind refusing to function. The fires that had once sparked thought—speculation, imagination, doubt—had now been extinguished. There was no more fear, no more grief, no more confusion; only the mindless knowledge of what had to be done.