The Tourist

The Man in the Black Suit

The Tourist

 

Never purchase food from your venue of lodging.  A rule of tradecraft.  Most motels – especially those that assist you in remaining under the radar – have laughably inefficient security systems.  If they have any at all.

The man named Jameson had returned Dr. Henning’s rented car, and now he was a tourist making use of the DVB: Dresden’s public transportation system.  The tourist had taken a tram to the commercial area by the river Elbe.  He’d purchased lunch at a sandwich shop, and was now sitting on a bench overlooking the gorgeous waterway, gawking at the sights and colors of the city.

            “Gawking” was how he came to affirm that two men were watching him intently.  The tourist’s eyes were sweeping his surroundings, taking in the shop fronts and the Baroque spires of the looming Cathedral Hofkirche, where the heart of King August the strong was kept.  Large portions of the Church’s masonry had been destroyed during Dresden’s firebombing, but the East German government had paid for extensive reconstruction in the eighties.  Now it was a massive tourist trap.  And some of those tourists drew followers of their own.

Even when the tourist’s eyes picked out the figures he was looking for, they didn’t cease sweeping the streets.  He gave no inclination that he’d noticed the watchers.  They weren’t going to try anything in a public place.  But the tourist needed them to try something.

            Tossing his sandwich bag in a trash bin, he wandered away from the river, browsing the window displays of nearby shops.  These men had somehow known where he was staying.  There’d only been one follower at first, and eventually he’d switched off with a second.  A classic, professional technique.  But their actions were too similar, their presence too persistent, and their acting too bad for the tourist to be fooled.  His gawking persona enabled him to throw broad glances at his surroundings, effectively keeping tabs on the followers.  They’d joined up, which likely meant they were waiting for their chance to make a move.  The tourist intended to give them one.  He needed information.

            Wandering into an alley between two shops, he created an opportunity so perfect that the thugs wouldn’t be able to resist.
 

            There was a simple problem, however.  They did resist.  They were no longer following.



The Contract

The Man in the Black Suit

The Contract

Jameson chided himself for the loss of control.  Revealing frustration was unprofessional.

"My reasons for turning down the initial contract are irrelevant.  But I will explain my motivation in coming to you.

"My profession isn't far removed from others.  Connections and bylines are essential in any business.  Big names get big jobs, because their reputations are bankable.  Costumers, you understand, generally pay for the brand over the service."

"Well, your customer courtesy leaves something to be desired."

Aprill had lost the last shreds of professionalism.  Jameson shrugged off her comment.

"I've been working small jobs.  Enough for a living, but I could expand.  High profile cases such as your situation are a good basis on which to construct a reputation."

The distant wailing of police sirens touched their ears.  Jameson stood.

“I will be leaving now.  Provide a reason that your bodyguard wasn’t able to give the police his statement.  The contract I intend to carry out for you involves more than just immobilizing that assassin.  If you hire me, I will track down the persons responsible for this attempt, and I will neutralize them in such a way that no one will ever touch you again, and my services will become instantly associated with quality and professionalism.  After that, I will be able to choose the jobs I desire rather than scrabbling for whatever work I can find.  I’ve been waiting for an opportunity such as this.”

He handed a slip of paper to Benedict, then left the room.

Benedict looked at the paper and massaged his forehead tiredly.  “It’s a mess,” he muttered.

“What’d he give you?”  Aprill demanded.

“A way to contact him.”

“Well?  Are you going to do it?”

A desperate idea suddenly crept into Benedict’s mind.  He was a rat running circles in a maze he’d assumed to be escapeless.  But the rat had just discovered one last alley, and he was scurrying down it for all he was worth, hoping it was an exit he was headed towards and not another dead end.

Benedict dialed his mobile, ignoring Aprill.  He waited, anxiously.

“Rook?  Hi.  Yes, a man just tried to take my life, and . . . yes, yes, I’m fine . . . I need you to find out what you can about the man who saved me.  No, you heard me right.  No, not my attacker; the man who stopped the assassin.  He said his name was Jameson.  You can probably find some visuals on the security cameras.  Find out what you can about him.  Yes, that’s right.  And Rook?  I need to know where he’s staying in Dresden.”

"God Woke," by Stan Lee

This poem is the work of Stan Lee, creator of Marvel comics.  He has allowed it to be distributed freely over the internet; I do not claim any rights to its text or ideas.  

This poem grieves me.  Because the God who Stan Lee seems to observe is not the God who I know.  He's not the conversant God, not the loving God, not the God who does indeed answer prayer as He reveals His presence in human lives.  Certainly not the God who sacrificed His own Son for a flawed humanity, but gives humanity the choice whether to love Him back and accept His gift.  It makes me sad that Mr. Lee's experiences have led him to the conclusion of these ideas.  But most of all, it grieves me that not everyone has experienced the relationship of crushing grace without which I cannot imagine living.

"God woke"
He stretched and yawned and looked around
Haunted by a thought unfound
A vagrant thought that would not die
He rose and scanned the endless sky
He probed the is, he traced the was
He sought the yet to be
And then he found the planet Earth, the half remembered planet Earth
Steeped in pain and tragedy
And all at once he knew
He saw the world that he had wrought to suit his master plan
And then he saw the changes brought by the heedless hand of man
Man, so frail, so small
Yet lord of all
Striving, thriving
Hustling, bustling
Sowing, growing, ever going
Ever learning, never knowing
Less than righteous, less than just
And in the end condemned to dust
He heard the man-sounds everywhere
The shots, the clangs, the roars, the bangs
The clatter, clammer, guns and hammer
And then he found to his despair
The haunting hollow sound of prayer
A billion bodies ever bending
A billion voices never ending
“Give me…”, “Get me…”
“Grant me…”, “Let me…”
“Love me”, “Free me”
“Hear me”, “See me”
While he pondered, watched and waited
Endlessly they supplicated
Chanting, ranting
Moaning, groaning
Sighing, crying
Cheating, lying
But towards what goal? What grand direction?
This pious tide of genuflection
To please their lord, to please their god
He raised his head and laughed, laughed hard
At man, the enigma, calling for aid
Ever demanding, ever afraid
Man, the enigma, bewailing his fate
Yet plagued by inaction till ever too late
Paradoxical man, so fearful of death
Yet squandering life and lavishing breath
Wasting his hours, diluting his days
Accomplishing nothing while he prays and he prays
Hypocritical man, pompous and preening
Mouthing his rote
Just from the throat
Words without feeling
Sound without meaning
Such arrogance, such grand conceit
To think one’s self somehow elite
To demand each prayer be heard with care
While painfully, vainfully all unaware
One’s omnipotent, infinite, absolute lord
Is bored
God frowned
How dare they believe that The Way and The Light
Can be constantly badgered from morning till night?
By what senseless standard? By what senseless rule?
Do they treat their creator as if he’s their tool
While proclaiming his glory, do they think him a fool?
Who else but a fool with a cosmos to savour
Would be bound just to Earth granting boon, granting favour
Who else but a fool with a cosmos unfolding
Would linger with man ever praising and scolding
Who else but a fool with a cosmos to stray in
Would conceive him an ant-hill and like a prisoner stay in
Who else but a fool would create mortal men
And then be expected to tend them, mend them,
Cry for them, die for them over and over and over again
God sighed
I gave them minds as I recall, it was so long ago
I gave them minds that they might use to choose, to think, to know
For the hapless weak, must needs be wise, if they would prove their worth
And then I gave them paradise, the fertile verdant Earth
At first I found the plan was sound and somewhat entertaining
But once begun, the deed now done, my interest started waning
The seed thus sown
The twig now grown
I left them there
Alone
Alone, among the planets and the stars
And the endless fathomless all
Alone, bathed by light and clothed by dark
Midst the vague and the vast and the small
Alone
Alone as I have ever been, as I shall ever be
Why do they not accept it? How else can they be free?
Why do they not accept it? Why do they search for me?
Why?
When their own little lives are so barren and brief
When all of their pleasures are tarnished by grief
In the space of a heartbeat their present is past
They cling to each moment, but no moment can last
When the end comes so quickly and they soon are forgot
Why do they search for that which is not?
Like unto children lost in the night
They search for a God to guide them
Like unto children huddled in fright
They must have their God beside them
But what sort of children, from cradle to grave
Would grant him obiance and yet make him their slave?
They have conjured a heaven and there he must stay
Ever responsive, be it night, be it day
He must love and forgive them and comply when they pray
Ever attentive, never to stray
And like unto children in their childish zeal
They worship their dream thinking fantasy real
God pondered
He, The Be All, The End All, The Will and The Way
The Power, The Glory, The Night and The Day
The Word and The Law, The Fount and The Plan
Lord God Almighty, was baffled by man
He was puzzled by the paradox
By the irony there in
If only he could show them
But where would he begin?
How to make them understand, how to make them see
How to make them recognize their own insanity
They live for gain and they strive in vain
To circumvent their death
But all the gold and wealth untold
Won’t buy an extra breath
They bestow acclaim and they shower fame
On those who rise to power
But those who care, who love and share
Are forgot within the hour
They’re prone to fight, to use their might
For whatever flag they cherish
But those who cry “To arms” don’t die
Their young are sent to perish
Yes, all unsung, they kill their young
Who fall and die and then they cry
But why?
A different house of worship? A different colour skin?
A piece of land that’s coveted and the drums of war begin
Only death can triumph, there’s no place left to hide
And still the madmen ply their trade claiming God is on their side
Of all who live, who crawl and creep
Who take and give, who wake and sleep
Who run, who stand, who dot the land from shore to shore
Man, only man, none but man, wages war
Only man, eternally killing
Only man, infernally willing
To concede himself grace
To bury his race
Only man, earnestly praying to his god as he’s slaying and piously saying
As the battles increase
He does what he must for his motives are just
The mayhem, the carnage, the slaughter won’t cease
But no need to worry, God’s in his corner, he’s killing for peace
Man
His greed, his hate, his crime, his war
The Lord, our God, could bear no more
He looked his last at man so small
So lately risen, so soon to fall
He looked his last and had to know
Whose fault this anguish, this mortal woe?
Had man failed maker? Or maker, man?
Who was the planner? And whose the plan?
He looked his last then turned aside
He knew the answer, that’s why God cried