The Man in the Black Suit
The Identity
The
phone buzzed. Benedict waited
impatiently, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger.
“Greetings!”
a lively voice trilled.
“Rook?”
“I
arranged it, friend. It’s done.”
“.
. . and?”
“I
left a false trail; the syndicate will blame your bodyguard’s death on the same
group who targeted you. There are no
loose ends. I lost two of my three men,
but the target was terminated.”
Benedict
gave a low whistle. “Really knew what he
was doing, didn’t he?”
“He
was a professional.”
“Too
bad we had to kill him. I could’ve used
someone like that.”
When
Rook spoke next, his voice was flat.
“We
have a contract, you and I. I will continue
to be your only contractor. I work for
you, and you are chained to me. Are we
clear?”
Benedict’s
blood froze. “Yes. Very.”
Rook’s
pleasantness often made it easy to overlook what he did for a living. It was even easier to forget that he was good
at it. Benedict, however, didn’t think he’d
need another reminder.
“Well,
I’m very glad we’re on the same page.”
Rook’s voice was all smiles again.
“Your plan of pointing his death at the fake assassin was
well-constructed. Would you like to hear
what I unearthed about the man himself?”
“Yes,
of course.” Benedict tapped his glass
nervously.
“It
seems he was a hit-man based out of Toronto.
Finding info wasn’t easy, but some of my contacts knew things; I presume
he allowed information to be circulated for advertising purposes. Mostly through closed channels. He wasn’t the type you can hire without some connections. Not a terribly impressive résumé: most of his
jobs were performed for smalltime organizations. But he was making a name for cleanness and
efficiency. Just the right touch of imagination
to avoid predictability.” Rook’s voice
became animated as he pontificated the finer points of his profession.
“So
he wasn’t some street-thug for hire.”
“Far
from it! You know, there really aren’t
that many contractors left who understand the meanings of professionalism and
subtly. Anyway, this man’s star was
rising. He’d apparently decided the time
was right to break into a higher, more lucrative, level.”
“So
he was telling me the truth?”
“About
his motivations for helping you, he was.
Like you said he told you, he likely considered your situation his big
chance to get his name floating.”
“Well,”
Benedict decided, “at least it’s finished.
Expect payment through the regular channel. I don’t suppose . . . did you happen to learn
his name?”
Rook’s laughter was genuine. “You can’t name a man like that,
Anthony! He is defined by
professionalism. He becomes whatever
identity he needs to portray. You might
as well label him by the caliber of bullet he uses, or . . . or the color of
the suit that he wears!”
