The Identity

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!”