The Masquerade

The Man in the Black Suit

The Masquerade

Blake passed through the metal detectors, smiling as he approached the man checking names against a list of invitees.  Although Blake disliked using the entrance pass supplied by his “employers,” it was relatively low risk.  The chances of them having a plant within the staff at the masquerade were minimal.  If they’d had a plant, they would’ve used that person to carry out their objective.

      Blake handed his pass to the staff-member.  The man read the name on it and ran his finger down his clipboard.

      “Ah, here we are.”  He flashed Blake a smile.  “Enjoy the dancing, Dr. Henning.”

      The man named Dr. Henning grinned back.  “Thanks, buddy.  I intend to.”  He moved further into the room.

      From his jacket, Dr. Henning drew his mask and donned it.  It was a white, smiling thespian mask, the mask of comedy.

      Couples glided across the floor.  The women and men were clad to dazzle, stunning dresses and sharp suits.  Diverse masks concealed diverse expressions, fake smiles for some or blank faces for those who realized that wearing their customary masks were no longer necessary in favor of more synthetic ones.

      The man named Dr. Henning observed for a while from the side.  Then he drifted among the dancers.  The masks increased the difficulty of identifying those he’d flagged on his mental list, but working methodically around the room, he began spotting them.

      Eventually he took a partner.  She wore a ruffled purple dress and black veil.  Dr. Henning, who frequented high-society gatherings, was the perfect companion, cracking jokes in an easygoing drawl as he led her through the dances.  She never had a notion that she was being strategically maneuvered.

      Eventually, Henning’s partner requested a rest and he led her to the side, where they chatted with an imitation fairytale queen and a man in a gladiator mask.  Dr. Henning, ever the perfect gentleman, procured drinks and hors d’oeuvres for the four of them.  He left his own untouched.

      Taking his leave, the man named Henning moved upstairs to the series of balconies overlooking the ballroom.  There was no longer a bulge in his breast pocket.

      At the top of the stairway was an ebony chest for donations, into which Henning slipped a blank, untraceable check.  Appearances are three fourths of approach. 

      A man was leaning against the balustrade, slurping from his drink as he watched the dancers.  Dr. Henning joined him at his side.

      “Benedict?  Anthony Benedict?”

      The fellow turned to him with sleepy, inebriated eyes.  “Yes?”

      Dr. Henning grinned widely and extended a hand.  Then, when Benedict enquiringly took it, Henning’s expression and persona dropped drastically.  He became colorless and professional.

      “My name is Jameson.  A man is about to kill you.”