The Syndicate

The Man in the Black Suit

The Syndicate

In the city of Dresden, a man in a black suit made a phone call.

Anthony Benedict was fumbling with his car keys when his cell buzzed.  Making the worst mistake of his life, he answered.

“Hello?”

“Based on your attempt to have me killed, I assume you don’t intend to accept my contract.”

A gasp scraped against Benedict’s side of the phone.  “You . . . are dead . . . .”

“Have you been drinking again?  In a sober state, I assume you would be somewhat more astute.”

“How . . . .”

“Please.  Any civilian watching movies could tell you never to trust death.  Not till you see a corpse."

"I was going to contact you, I swear.  For the contract.  But I couldn't get through, and when I had my sources track you down, they said there'd been an accident . . . ."

"Stop.  Let's talk about the syndicate."

The silence was dead.

"Don't deny your affiliation.  Here's what my research has revealed: the syndicate is a collection of corrupt businessmen, of which you were a member.  All associates have a heavy interest in petroleum – whether they drill for it, refine it, export it, or sell it – and none are interested in jumping the necessary legal loops of the industry.  Individually, it would be impossible to grease the system enough to create a significant financial benefit.  Collectively, however, your combined resources were utilized to leverage the necessary officials, creating a smooth channel within the petroleum industry that allowed you to operate for a fraction of typical expenses.  Ingeniously simple: a collective business system allowing you to bribe, blackmail and kill . . . wholesale.  Everyone saved millions."

In his suite, the man in the black suit paused to blow on his tea and settle more comfortably into the sofa.  He was legitimately enjoying the conversation: the professionalism of the business concept pleased him.  In another life, he might've done very well on Wall Street.

As for Anthony Benedict, his mouth was dry.

"There were reasons for the laws you broke.  You stripped protected environments, stole from local economies, refused to pay workers, and belched pollution from your factories.  Ships dumped gallons into the ocean.  Distributors – such as yourself – brokered illegal deals.  Not that I'm condemning: the whole process was highly efficient and provided an immense edge over your law-abiding competitors, many of whom went out of business.  I appreciate irony, and it was an especially nice touch holding a meeting with several key syndicate members during an environmental charity masquerade in Dresden."

"It's impossible for you to prove any of this."

"Proof is a luxury I can forgo.  The money wasn't enough for you, was it?"

Instead of answering, Benedict slumped against his car.  He was short of breath.

"You broker deals,” the man continued, “it's your livelihood.  You dropped hints to some of the desperate companies going out of business because of your syndicate.  Butchering the golden goose: you'd milked all you wanted from the system, and now you were going to sell its secrets.  But others became suspicious.  To put them at rest, you arranged an assassination.  Your own."

"Who told you all of this?"

The man in the black suit chuckled.  "Unprofessional to the last."

"I never tried to hurt you!  I wanted to hire you!  You were supposed to fake an assassination attempt!  I couldn't use my regular man, because I think he's the one who told someone in the syndicate what I was doing.  But you killed my people before they could deliver the message."

"A shame.  I likely would've accepted the job if they'd approached professionally.  But maybe it's just as well, because that wouldn't have done anything for my resume.  I couldn't have relayed any details to future employers."

Benedict had backed away from his car.  He'd seen enough movies to know that turning a key in the ignition was a bad idea.  His heart was racing.

"I swear I was going to leave you alone after you killed my people!  But then you showed up and stopped the assassination too early, which was a big problem since it was supposed to look like another syndicate member was behind the attempt and the leaked information.  That would've taken suspicion away from me.  There was nothing I could do!"

"So you paid to have me killed."

Anthony Benedict was breathless.  In fact, he was sucking in air with greedy gulps.

"You understand," the voice on the phone said carefully, "I will not be taking revenge. That would be unprofessional."

Benedict's mind couldn't even register the simultaneous shock and immense relief that flooded him.  He was stunned.

"Besides," the voice continued, "The situation worked out very well for me.  You've catapulted my career forward.  The syndicate was grateful for the information I provided about your activities.  They have hired me to neutralize the problem, and I look forward to more contracts from them in the future.  They were impressed by my professionalism."

Benedict swore, though even such an instinctive act required a massive expenditure of waning energy.  "How the hell is it professional to tell a man you're going to kill him before you do it?"

"I was asked to substantiate the information I pieced together for the syndicate.  This phone call has been recorded in its entirety.  Now I am free to terminate you."

"Good luck," Benedict spat into the phone.  His breathless voice had the ferocity of desperation.  "Don't think I won't be ready.  You might think you're a professional, but you haven’t seen anything.  You aren’t ready for this.  I have hundreds of connections, and I'm going to use every single one of them to hunt you down and put you in a body bag.  You can't kill me!"

The man in the black suit checked his watch.  "I killed you seven minutes ago,” he said calmly.  “Your drink was poisoned.  You’re already gasping for breath.  In a few more minutes, your heart will stop.”

The traitor known as Anthony Benedict was frozen.  The phone slipped from his fingers.  He stood that way, numb, for exactly three seconds.  Then the chest pains started.

The man in the black suit relaxed into the sofa.  He sipped tea and set the cup down on a coaster.  Then he picked up the novel he’d bought at the hotel bookstore.

That’s how professionalism is: you work hard so that you can relax with nothing hanging over you.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

The man named Jack enjoyed his book.