“The truth? You’re a monster. You should have died in Mesa Grande. I wish to God you had.”

“It’s remarkable—how much you know and how little. How powerful you can be, and how powerless.” He shook his head. “The man kills the child of another and cannot even protect his own … .”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The embassy bombing in Caligo—did it shake your world? I thought it might when I suggested it, five years ago. You’ll have to forgive me: the idea of your having a child just didn’t sit well with me. A Paul Junior—no, I couldn’t see it. Always easy to arrange these things through the local talent—those wild-eyed insurrectionists dreaming of Allah and the virgins of Paradise. I’m afraid I’m the only one who could appreciate the delicious irony that it was all brought about by a fertilizer bomb. But really, what kind of a father would you have made, a baby-killer like you?”

Janson felt as if he had been turned to stone.

A heavy sigh. “And it’s time for me to be going. I have great plans for the world, you know. Truth is, I’m getting bored with conflict resolution. Conflict promotion is the new order of the day. Human beings like battle and bloodshed. Let man be man, I say.”

“Not your prerogative.” Janson struggled to get the words out.

He smiled. “Carpe diem—seize the day. Carpe mundum—seize the world.”

“They made you a god,” Janson said, recalling the president’s words, “when they didn’t own the heavens.”

“The heavens are beyond even my ken. Still, I’ll be happy to keep an open mind. Why don’t you file a report about the hereafter when you get there? I’ll look forward to your MemCon in re Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.” He was expressionless as he leveled the pistol two feet away from Janson’s forehead. “Bon voyage,” he said as his finger curled around the trigger.

Then Janson felt something warm spray against his face. Blinking, he saw that it came from an exit wound at Demarest’s forehead. Undeflected by window glass, the sniper’s shot was as precise as if it had been fired point-blank.

Janson reached out and cupped Demarest’s face, holding him erect. “Xin loi,” he lied. Sorry about that.

For a moment, Demarest’s expression was perfectly blank: he could have been in deepest meditation; he could have been asleep.

Janson let go, and Demarest crumpled to the ground with the utter relaxation of life surrendered.