The call came. The same slightly garbled voice gave him his assignment.

They think of everything but they only write the screenplay. Me, I’ve got to turn in the star performance, worrying about the details. And I’m the one that gets the needle if I’m discovered.

He wasn’t always a paid assassin. There was a time when he was a new cop on the beat, full of idealism. Circumstances beyond his control made him turn. Greed had a little to do with it too, plus a bad marriage. And a partner that would not look the other way.

Truth was, he enjoyed some of his work; at least, he was comfortable with it. It had a lot of interesting travel plus a lot of other benefits. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t die of old age either, something that scared him to no end.

Still, he wasn’t comfortable with what he had become. The college kid gnawed on his conscience like a hangover from a bottle of bad red wine.

Some of my assignments are just downright bummers.

A package of business cards waited for him at the hotel desk, just like the voice had told him. He opened the package and admired the fine paper. He liked the feel of it in his hands. Few people used business cards anymore but lawyers still often handed them out to clients.

The first line of this one read “Brown, Cavanaugh, and Rodriguez, Attorneys at Law,” with his alias underneath, addresses, phone numbers, video-mail address, and so forth. It looked quite professional.

In fact, there was such a Chicago law office specializing in defending rich clients in criminal cases. Julio Rodriguez was not only a real person but a partner in the firm.

That law office had never defended anyone arrested by the DHS, though. That was where Frank headed.

It was almost too easy to bluff his way in to see the priest.

“Father O’Reilly, you have a visitor. Your attorney.”

The corpulent priest glanced up from his reading.

“I didn’t call for an attorney. You wouldn’t even let me make a call.”

“They didn’t have to, Robert, thanks to the war on terror.” Frank winked at him. “But we have our contacts even in DHS. So here I am, your attorney.” He handed the priest one of the business cards. “Let me just say our firm has been put on retainer by your friends. I’m sure you know who they are.”

O’Reilly frowned as he studied the card.

“How do I know you are who you say you are? Maybe this is a trick to get me to confess. They’ve been interrogating me for days.”

He seemed to be a natural paranoid.

“Which has not been pleasant, I’m sure.” Suarez waved a hand nonchalantly as if to dismiss the priest’s suspicions. “I can show you my ID card, I suppose.” He handed it through the bars. “That doesn’t say I’m a lawyer, though. However, a confession is farthest from my mind right now, unless you want to hear mine.”

The priest arched an eyebrow and then smiled.

“So what do you want to hear?”

“Your story. Details on why and when the DHS arrested you, what has happened since then. That might be enough to get a one-on-one with you in a place where they can’t listen. Not as good as habeas corpus, but nowadays we make do with what we have.”

“Fat chance,” said the guard, who looked bored with the proceedings. “We don’t even have to bring charges against him. We can hold him indefinitely.”

“Yes, but publicity is a wonderful weapon. A priest abused by DHS goons. How will that read on the newsnets?”

The guard made a sour face. Although he was in good shape, Suarez knew he could take him. That would not be elegant, though. There’s another way. Frank waved three one hundred dollar bills. Not much; just enough.

“I need a short chat with my client. In the cell. Your people can listen in all you like and watch if you so desire, but neither Father O’Reilly nor I can be comfortable talking through bars.”

“Put that away!” hissed the guard.

Frank pointed to the cameras along the corridor, all angled to show the interiors of the cells.

“The cameras can’t see us, my friend. They only see what happens inside the cells. You have my word. I know about these things.”

The guard snatched the bills and headed off down the corridor.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

“Probably not sufficient, but it will do for now. Are you in agreement, Father?”

“Sure, I’ll talk to you. Come on in.”

At the end of the corridor the guard punched in a code and the priest’s cell door slid open. When Frank was inside, the guard closed it. He disappeared through a doorway at the end of the corridor.

“So,” said Frank, sitting on the bench next to the priest, “tell me what happened.”

“I had just returned from visiting old Mrs. Swanson when DHS goons appeared.”

“Date and hour, please,” said Frank, taking a pen and legal pad from his briefcase. He purposely dropped the pen to the floor, close to the priest’s left foot. As he picked it up, a quick jab sent a clear liquid surging into O’Reilly’s calf muscle.