the key.'
'Cut the Hollywood pretensions,' I said, looking around the study. All four walls were lined with bookshelves. The books were thick, leatherbound volumes. Though the room had no windows or lamps, light came from somewhere, soft and low. The sound of crashing waves reached in from outside.
I shut the door slowly behind me.
In the center of the room sat a high-backed chair on a fading rug, facing away from me. I stepped over to it.
'Tell me, Mr. Ammo,' asked a voice from the chair, 'how did an assassin ever come to be such a seeker after truth?'
I leaned on the back of the chair for a moment. 'An assassin is one who doesn't accept myths, most notably the myth of power. He sees through the eyes of a hunter who is as mighty as his prey, yet is apart from the game being played. He participates in the events of history, turning them to his ends, yet he remains an objective viewer. That is, if he wants to stay in business. He sees clearly that any deified `leader' is as evil as any small-time hood-and a lot less honest.'
I stepped around to the front of the chair to gaze into the eyes of a weary old man.
Neither lean nor fat, tall nor short, dark nor light. He looked like the commonest of the common men. Absolutely average. Except for His eyes. They bespoke the ennui of absolute power corrupted absolutely.
I felt myself drawn toward those eyes. Drawn downward. Sinking. Falling.
I shook it off.
He continued to look deeply into me. 'A proud man.' He nodded. 'I made pride a sin.'
'Having a good opinion of oneself should never be a crime.'
'No man a villain in his own eyes, correct, Mr. Ammo?' He folded His hands, nodding lightly. 'Why do you want to kill Me? Did you hate your father?'
'No,' I answered truthfully. 'Don't look to psychological roots in my actions. Look to my chosen values.'
'You probably hated him,' He continued. 'Leaders are father figures.'
'Proper fathers don't rule the lives of their children by force. My father never did. He never taxed me or tithed me or imprisoned me and said he was doing me a favor. He never made me feel guilty for being born his son.'
'He never showed you anything to worship. He mocked your sense of wonder.'
'It survived.' I found a pack of Marlboros in the left pocket of my jacket. Not my brand, but they'd do. Matches were in the vest pocket.
'What about your mother?'
'I didn't know You were a Freudian.' I lit up and waved the first puff of smoke around. 'Why don't we talk about
Mother.'
He pounded on the leather arm of the chair with a tightly balled fist. 'I never had a Mother. Understand? Never! I am
I am self-created! I am the Alpha and the Omega.'
I shrugged mildly. 'I don't know,' I said. 'If I can descend from an infinite number of ancestors going back down the evolutionary trail, I don't see why there can't be an infinite regress of gods and goddesses evolving through time. Perhaps when I see You, I'm looking at the next curve of the ascending helix of my own evolution-'
'Evolution.' He almost spat the word out. 'How I fought it. Change. I don't know why I bother. I tried saving things.' He stared up at me with an imploring gaze. 'I tried to make amends, but...' His hand made a futile gesture, like a dying bird.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I know. Christ died for our sins and all that.'
