In the beginning, there was the Word. And the Word was God, and the Word is God. And when the word ended then the life died. Up here in Paris in the winding small streets of Montmartre, the fat patient made his Sunday morning walk. It was the best time because the holy people were in church, and thus he had more of the streets to amble for himself. He stopped by the boulangerie to smell the sweet bread that had just been coolly from the oven. He stopped by each little café to see with his nose the delectable accouterments of the midday meal that would be served after the mass was complete. Right at this moment he's totally cool with the wind blowing from the north and became through the slits between the streets. This was no one’s idea of a grid.
And as of yet there was no crosshair upon him, but that would only be for two more minutes. You can’t fight in here it is not the war room. He was still out of range. But the Galil .22 would paint it on him though he would not know until a single bullet pierced through his skin and crackled through his bone to reach the firm silent brain underneath. And then the Galil would be disassembled and put away in its black case. And it and I would silently move ourselves from the apartment. And disappear. Even the flics that had seen them go up into the apartment would not recognize me, they only saw a thin man with a guitar case in hand.
But first the Word. And the Word was with Death, and the Word was Death. The word was his death.
The Galil poked its head out of the slender wall-to-floor window which was the common type for this era of Paris along with the Baroque features in plaster of Paris and the white drapes which covered the windows and doors. And was perfect because it provided enough cover so that my face would not be seen. It provided enough cover so that the rifle would not be noticed. I was in the shade side of the rue covered in darkness by light.
The patient stopped by another fromagerie, one of the many that dotted normal ambulation. He stopped by to sample all of the ripened smell that entranced his nostrils. Again, he did know that his time was nearly up.
In truth, his discrepancies were rather small, but it had angered one of the Godfathers. Celui qui préside au lancement d'un navire, au baptême d'une cloche. And so, the Godfather decided that this little man with his little bribes was going to be exterminated to remind all of the others that there was a law beyond the law. And the clock would toll for this patient.
This is why I was sent here to make an ultra-clean assassination. Make it in the daytime so that everyone understands that they can be taken away at any moment. Any moment at all. That was the way of everyone who lived in the top-secret mode of life.
I stared down the telescopic sight, with the crosshairs on his face. I was beginning to squeeze the trigger when a boy’s face jumped in the bullet’s way. The trigger eased back, and I again had to wait for a chance when he was not moving to smell all of the food that was going to be served.
The door to the apartment opened and closed. But I was focused on the patient. I knew that it would not be with St. Peter that his next conversation would happen. It was just his poor miserable lot to be taken for taking some money that was owed to another bandit.
I waited with his head in the crosshairs. Waiting for that moment when all would be forgiven. And the word was death.
On the front of the apartment, two sets of feet moved up the carpet, but the movement was slow, so I did not think of it again.
Then the choirs all chanted the ending of the mass. That meant that I had only one chance or he would live for another week, because this time was the best to have him out and about with no distractions. He had until the choir sang Amen when the crowds would pour forth from the many cathedrals and swamp the narrow streets with high apartments and homes.
A bead of sweat came down my forehead. The feet were on my floor, but then they stopped. This triggered a warning that perhaps the feet were for me.
Then he stopped to scent the dejeuner - which in this neighborhood of Paris was still the greatest meal of the day. And I adjusted my telescopic sight and had the crosshairs drop onto the skull.
Then there were skeleton keys at the entrance to my apartment and the tremble running down my spine was that the police had somehow managed to smell me out. Some word that I had spoken was odd. Or they had heard of the contract on the patient. Whatever it was, I had broken the word of the unspoken rule. And at once I was at peace because it was my own fault. That meant that there was only one thing to do and I sat my eyes on the telescopic sight and waited for the right moment.
At once there was an amen and the doors of the cathedrals were opening up to the outside sun.
At the same instant the door to my room, which was locked, was broken open. I could hear two men shouting for me to put the rifle down. One was a rookie because the shoes had little marks.
But I did not listen and instead saw that the crosshairs were perfectly centered and I pulled the trigger.
There was a resounding echo from the weapon.
At that point, the rookie squeezed his trigger because he was impatient and alarmed.
The patient’s head rocked back under the weight of the bullet. And just at the same instant, I could feel the twinge on the back of my head.
And the word was with death and the word was death.