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danger. And if the assassin himself detects a probe for information coming
from
that unseen middleman, he must use his skills to protect himself.”
    I moved my head just enough to assure Olaf I was listening.
    “There are, in all the world, perhaps less than a dozen such middlemen,” he said. “They can minimize any risk to themselves, but not eliminate it entirely—those who wish to purchase the services of an assassin must have some way of making contact. Why less than a dozen? That is a dozen
left
. Their success is measured exactly as is the assassin’s…in longevity.”
    —
    “W hy do you tell me this?” I asked, my volume tuned to his—pitched as low as a whisper, but without the hiss.
    “Because you have been taught nothing but lies. You still worship the samurai, those men tied so closely to their masters that they were required to take their own lives when their master lost his. Ah, great warriors, the samurai. Like the Vikings. But all they truly have in common is their enslavement.”
    “We are free to—”
    “Serve
new
masters, yes. Ronin, then, if you like. But only the ninja is truly free. The despised ninja. The stealthy man-for-hire. Not some warrior with a ‘code,’ an assassin with none. Only the assassin has that ultimate freedom—to make his own choices, and to be his own judge.
    “I know I am finished. Finally. I have no fear of what is to come. I know there is no Valhalla awaiting my entrance. That I
would
fear, if I believed, because I have long since forfeited any such possibility. But no religion will defeat the laws whichgovern all on this earth. I am quite ready to die. And I know it will happen well before the enemy returns to this spot.”
    “But…”
    “Yes, I heard you. Why do I tell you all this? You could have left me to savages who would prolong my death for their own entertainment. You
should
have. Why you did not, I cannot know. I doubt
you
know. If I had money, it would be yours. I would tell you where it was…because you have made no attempt to learn that for yourself. But I have no money. So what I give you is everything I have left. This knowledge.”
    “
You
had all this knowledge, yet you ended up in this miserable jungle,” I answered him, “fighting as a soldier with no flag. A man for hire. Why, then?”
    “You were a
légionnaire
. So you have already heard this nonsense the French call
‘philosophique.’
Proudhon says, ‘Property is theft,’ and spawns what? Anarchy? Any man who signs on as we did knows anarchy better than some café philosopher. Or perhaps we have all achieved existentialist perfection? We know the world is absurd, and all attempts to understand it are doomed. We are what we do, so we have chosen to invent and live by our own values, rather than slavishly follow those of another.”
    His throat spasmed as he fought back a cough. But he expelled flesh from his mouth, so I knew whatever had hit his midsection had finally reached a lung.
    “There is no inherent truth in
any
philosophy. Everything is ‘flexible’; all ‘open to interpretation.’ Your great Camus, he was an existentialist, but so was Nietzsche. Camus resisted fascism when his country was invaded by Nietzsche’s ‘supermen,’ the Nazis. A contradiction? No. But what position did Camus take on the French campaign to keep Algeria in slavery?”
    I didn’t know, so I didn’t answer. And I could feel Olaf was almost gone.
    “Here is my only legacy. When you leave, take my scribeswith you. They will write the truth. And this electronic address”—he dropped his voice even lower—“it will allow you to contact one of the few middlemen still alive. You say you are selling special ice cubes from the best of refrigerators; he will then know I am gone, and that your message is genuine.
    “What I have passed on to you was passed on to me,” he said, very softly. “I listened with respect, but I failed to listen closely enough. The need for…I don’t know what to