At the corner of Second Avenue Doi began to be uncomfortably aware of pressure from his bladder. By the time he was halfway between Second and First, it had become urgent.

Doi paused in front of a boarded-up brownstone slated for renovation and looked around. The block appeared to be deserted. He stepped down the two steps into the doorway, unzipped his fly and began to urinate against the door frame. The relief was immediate and he grunted his satisfaction.

Approaching unnoticed, the figure in black struck without warning, his knife slipping with practiced accuracy between the consul's ribs. Doi grunted again, in shock and pain, and turned. He held up his arms in a vain attempt to shield himself, but the knife continued its deadly work.

Excited by the brittle sound of the blade's ripping through the fabric of the suit and the juicier noise of its penetrating deep into Doi's flesh, the killer drove the knife into his victim again and again.

Panting slightly, he finally stopped and let Doi's limp body crumple into the puddle at the base of the door, where his light gray suit turned dark by degrees from blood and urine.

The assassin squatted down, fumbled inside Doi's jacket and removed a wallet. Then, with a quick look over his shoulder, he walked off down the block, quiet except for a lone taxi cab speeding past to make the light.