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the letters was missing, a signal to him that all was ready, the place secure. If every letter had been working, he'd have been warned to stay away.
    He scanned the neighborhood. Seeing no one, he started down the street. The district was a slum. Broken windows ' Garbage. The tenements looked deserted., Perfect. Alone, at three o'clock in the morning, he wouldn't draw attention here. No police cars would bother patrolling this district, stopping to ask where he was going and why he was out so late. The local residents would mind their own business.
    His footsteps echoed. Unwilling to risk getting trapped in a taxi, he'd been walking for several hours, his legs stiff, shoulders aching. He'd backtracked, often going around a block, to check if he was being followed. He hadn't seen a tail. That didn't mean there wasn't one.
    But soon it wouldn't matter. He was almost home. The neon sign grew larger as he neared it. Though the night was cool, sweat trickled down his chest beneath his turtleneck sweater and the bulletproof vest he always wore for a few days after a job. His hands felt numb. He subdued the urge to hurry.
    Again, he glanced behind him. No one. He approached the hotel from the opposite side of the street, tempted to go around the block, to scout the neighborhood, to reassure himself everything was as it should be. But since no opponent could have known he was coming here, he didn't see the need for further evasive tactics. All he wanted was to rest, to clear his mind, to learn why he was being hunted.
    Eliot would care for him. He stepped from the curb to cross the street. The dingy hotel, its windows darkened, waited for him. Past the door, a rescue team would have, food and drink and comfort ready. They'd protect him.
    Though his heart raced, he walked steadily, seeing the warped cracks on the wooden door.
    But he felt uneasy. Procedure. Eliot had always said, no matter what, don't violate procedure. It's the only thing that guarantees survival. Always circle your objective. Check the territory. Make extra sure.
    Obeying the impulse, he pivoted, shifting abruptly toward the sidewalk he'd just left. If in spite of his caution he'd been followed, this final unexpected change in direction might confuse a tail and make him show himself.
    The blow jerked him sideways, its impact stunning, unanticipated, high on his left side near his heart against his bulletproof vest. He didn't know what had happened. Then he realized. He'd been shot. A silencer. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him.
    His vision blurred. He fell to the street, absorbing the jolt as he rolled to the gutter. The bullet had come from above him, from a building opposite the hotel. But the vest should have stopped it. Why was he bleeding?
    Confused, he groped to his feet, bent over, stumbling across the littered sidewalk. His chest felt on fire. He lurched down an alley, pressing himself against its wall, peering through the dark. Shadowy objects hulked before him. At the far end, he saw another street.
    But he couldn't go down there. If he'd been followed, it wouldn't have been by just one man. There'd be backup other members of the death team watching the nearby streets. When he came to the end of the alley, he'd be shot again, maybe in the head or the throat. He'd trapped himself.
    He staggered past a fire escape and the stench of overflowing garbage cans. Behind him, silhouetted by the hotel's neon sign, a man approached the alley, his footsteps echoing in the eerie quiet - The man walked with his knees bent, stooped, aiming a small automatic with the tube of a silencer projecting from its barrel.
    The Mossad, Saul thought again. The characteristic, flatfooted, seemingly awkward crouch that insured an assassin could keep his balance, even if wounded. He himself had been trained to maintain that posture.
    The assassin entered the alley, pressing himself against the dark of the wall, inching forward, blending with the night.
    He's being careful, Saul