SIXTEENNOW, SOMEONE KICKING at the door. There was not enough room in the corridor for someone to get a good run up. However, two good kicks would easily bring it down—the locks were ceremonial at best.
I looked around the room. Samuel Cheng was still out and completely oblivious to what was happening around him. There was the smashed table lying on the floor, candles sputtering on the carpet, argan oil splashed everywhere around it. A massive Nigerian man, Azi Makun or not, was passed out by the foot of the bed. There were two masseuse-c*m-hookers passed out from chloroform in the bathroom, about to wake up. And someone was kicking at the door.
It was good to be in the field again.
I went to the door, expecting the kicking to yield results any moment.
Sure enough, the next blow broke
