Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “He mentioned another group to me last night – the Illuminati. Does such an organization actually exist?”

  Stasia leaned her head against the inside of the room’s door, listening to see if anyone was outside. Then she turned back to face Frank.

  “Yes, they exist. Consider them the T3 Group’s primary opposition.”

  “Mr. Meyer said they want me dead.”

  Stasia smiled, though her eyes only communicated cold determination.

  “I’m certain he was right about that. Your work fighting against the FDA during your last assignment garnered a lot of attention, but I’m here to help make sure you stay safe, Frank. That was Mr. Meyer’s most recent communication to me. You and I are to work together until further notice.”

  Bennington stood up and moved toward the closet where he picked out one of the other suit and tie combinations provided him.

  “I guess that means we should get to it then, but I’m not sure what working together actually means at the moment. Mr. Meyer said he wanted us to find out what Malthus was up to and try and stop him. He thinks that will buy him more time.”

  Stasia’s head tilted to the left as her mouth curled downward.

  “Time for what?”

  “I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me. Something about the future, of keeping a part of the country around so that it could remember itself later so that others could rebuild what was lost.”

  Frank watched as Stasia silently considered what he told her of his meeting with Alexander David Meyer. He was again struck by her strength and beauty, while also noting the confusion and uncertainty she felt regarding what they should do next.

  “The clubhouse – we should go there. It’ll be safer, away from Berg and his direct influence.”

  It was now Bennington’s turn to appear confused.

  “What the hell is the clubhouse?”

  Stasia’s head again rested against the door as she tried to make certain no-one was in the hallway.

  “The T3 Group has locations all over the world. We simply call them clubhouses since only full members are allowed inside. The New York location is three blocks from here. Once there we’ll have more time to decide how to deal with Malthus.”

  “Is Berg a member?”

  Stasia grinned.

  “No, he’s not. I heard it was offered to him some time ago, but he apparently declined.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Stasia paused while reaching down to open the door.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’ve always tried to avoid Berg as much as possible around here, so the fact he can’t enter the New York clubhouse is fine by me.”

  Bennington made himself a mental note to investigate Peter Berg more while at the same time watching Stasia as she pulled open the door.

  “I’ll be back here in ten minutes, Frank. We should get moving ASAP.”

  Frank grunted his response, knowing ten minutes would give him very little time to get himself cleaned up and changed.

  Stasia then disappeared into the hallway as the door closed behind her.

  In the secured confines of his own personal office within the Meyer Building, Peter Berg watched as Frank Bennington scrambled to dress himself as quickly as possible. Berg had heard every word of the conversation between Stasia and Bennington.

  Alexander David Meyer had departed New York two hours earlier to whatever destination he had been preparing for himself and his family. Even Berg was not given that information. What he was given though, were the keys to Alexander Meyer’s financial empire, in effect making Peter Berg one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in New York, and likely, all the world.

  So what shall I do with Ms. Wellington and Mr. Bennington?

  The two might prove too unpredictable for Berg’s comfort. Bennington in particular seemed inherently stubborn and self-important. Berg felt he needed to maintain absolute control over every aspect of Mr. Meyer’s business obligations because those were now his own obligations.

  Berg’s fingers tapped lightly atop the dark stained wood of his Victorian-era work desk as he watched Bennington placing a dark blue tie around his neck.

  It can’t appear to be my own doing. Mr. Meyer likely has others watching me, spies watching spies. Give them up then, let others take care of these loose ends for me.

  Berg called a number given to him several years earlier, the result of a brief meeting that took place soon after the 2008 presidential election. He was sitting alone at his usual table inside his favorite Manhattan restaurant enjoying a meal of calamari and pasta when a peculiar man made clear to him that his unique talents were being terribly undervalued. Change was coming, and Peter Berg was told he would be required to choose sides, or be lost forever in the coming chaos, but if he chose wisely, power and riches would be his.

  Berg remained convinced he chose wisely.

  On the third ring, the call was answered.

  “Hello again, Peter, how might I help you?”

  “I know you want Bennington. He’s leaving the building in ten minutes. He’s with Stasia. They intend to make their way to the clubhouse.”

  The voice paused for a moment, and then continued, its sound wrapping itself tightly around Berg’s mind.

  “Do you wish them terminated prior to reaching the clubhouse, Peter?”

  Berg winced at the term. He didn’t want to know the details of what might happen to Stasia or Frank Bennington.

  “I’m just letting you know where they will be.”

  A gurgling chuckle licked the interior of Berg’s ear.

  “You need to say it, Peter. That’s how this works. You have to tell me what you want.”

  Peter Berg closed his eyes while taking a long, slow breath. When his eyes re-opened, he gave the voice what it wanted.

  “Yes, I want them terminated.”

  “Thank you, Peter. We’ll be in touch.”

  Berg watched the footage from the carefully hidden camera in Frank Bennington’s room. The newest member of the T3 Group had just finished putting on his shoes and was making his way to the door.

  Goodbye, Mr. Bennington, and good riddance…

  11.

  Malthus eyed the entrance to the Meyer building. If Peter Berg was correct, Bennington and Stasia should be emerging onto the street within minutes on their way to the T3 Group’s New York clubhouse.

  “There will be two targets coming out of that building very soon - a gentleman in his 60’s accompanied by a tall woman some twenty years younger than him. The woman will likely be armed, and the man may be as well. You are free to kill the woman, but we need the older man alive.”

  The two armed Illuminati operatives nodded their understanding to Malthus. Each of them was a former member of the French Foreign Legion with extensive experience serving in and around Africa’s Ivory Coast, hired guns more than willing and capable of killing anywhere in the world for the right price. The taller and older of the two men was Algerian-born Walid Zidane. Nearing fifty years of age, with a growing paunch and full, silver streaked beard, what Walid had lost in physical prowess he made up for in his unfeeling approach to dealing out death when required. He enjoyed war, and was grateful for a world that continued to offer plenty of it.

  The second Illuminati operative was of average height and build and ten years younger than Walid. Rwandan-born Jean-Paul Bikindi was the son of a white Frenchman and native Rwandan woman. His father was killed following an attack on a humanitarian convoy outside a small village in the Northern Province, leaving his mother to raise him alone. A year later she too was killed during a raid on their hometown by rebel forces, but not before young Jean-Paul was forced to watch several soldiers sodomize his mother for hours before finally shooting her in the back of the head. He then spent the next three years as a slave, and then a soldier for the very men who had destroyed his family. Losing himself completely in the madness and atrocities of the Rwandan civil war, Jean-Paul personally killed hundreds of his own pe
ople until eventually, as the bloodshed in Rwanda lessened, his talents took him to the Congo where he was approached by Walid and asked to join the Foreign Legion. A few months later found both men fighting side by side in the Ivory Coast region, offering their services to the highest bidder and garnering reputations for being both ruthless and highly efficient.

  Those reputations then caught the attention of Malthus, who brought the mercenaries into the service of the Illuminati with promises of more money and more opportunities to kill.

  Both Jean-Paul and Walid continued to watch the Meyer building entrance, waiting for any sign of Frank Bennington and Stasia as Malthus disappeared into the shadows behind them.

  “Frank, we have company.”

  Stasia, assisted by a pair of military-grade binoculars, noted the two men standing across the street. She handed Bennington the binoculars and told him to look for himself.

  “Are you talking about the tall, heavy-set Middle Eastern looking guy, and the younger, darker skinned guy next to him?”

  Stasia nodded as she took the binoculars back.

  “Those are the ones. I don’t see Malthus, but I know he’s somewhere out there too.”

  Bennington considered the timing of the Illuminati operatives already waiting outside for them.

  “How’d they figure out we were getting ready to leave the building?”

  Stasia’s eyes glanced at Frank knowingly, and then resumed looking through the binoculars.

  “My guess would be Berg.”

  Frank’s eyes widened.

  “Ah, so that’s why you had me creeping around with you into this vacant office space a floor below Mr. Meyer’s residence. You think Berg’s been monitoring us?”

  Stasia continued to watch the two men outside while answering Bennington.

  “I think it’s possible, yes.”

  Frank folded his arms across his chest and looked around the small vacant room Stasia had led him into.

  “Ok, what do we do now? I don’t think walking out the front door is such a good idea, so I guess I’ll defer to your reputation for kicking ass and taking names and hope you have an idea or two on how we get ourselves out of here. What about the chopper on the roof?”

  Stasia lowered the binoculars and shook her head.

  “Already gone, likely used by Mr. Meyer for his own departure. We do have options though, Frank. I have no intention of letting a couple Illuminati thugs keep us from making our way to the T3 clubhouse.”

  Bennington’s eyes followed Stasia as she moved to the opposite end of the room, leaned down, and then pulled up a section of the light blue carpeting from the floor.

  “I always have contingency plans, Mr. Bennington – always.”

  Frank watched with a mixture of amusement and admiration as Stasia removed a section of the sub floor and withdrew a simple black duffel bag.

  “Are you armed, Frank?”

  Bennington shook his head.

  “You are now – catch.”

  Stasia tossed a small handgun toward Frank.

  “I take it you still remember how to use one of those?”

  Frank detested guns, but knew that sometimes, situations required their use.

  “Yeah, I remember. What about you?”

  Stasia stood up holding her own handgun while slinging the backpack behind her.

  “Don’t worry about me, just try and keep up.”

  Bennington followed Stasia out into the empty hallway.

  “We’re going to pay Berg a little visit.”

  Frank’s right hand closed around Stasia’s left forearm.

  “Wait, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Why not let him continue thinking we trust him?”

  Stasia paused, her eyes indicating equal parts annoyance and curiosity regarding Bennington’s suggestion.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s simple, we find our way to the clubhouse while avoiding those clowns waiting for us outside, and keep Berg guessing as to whether or not we trust him. That way he might give up information, or tip his hand in a way he wouldn’t do otherwise. Basically, if he really is an enemy, we keep him close.”

  Stasia removed Frank’s hand from her arm while her eyes searched both ends of the hallway to make certain no-one was coming.

  “Maybe I don’t want to keep Berg close. I’ve never understood why Mr. Meyer kept him around and gave him so much power within the company.”

  The former political operative shrugged.

  “Maybe he was doing the same thing I’m suggesting we do – keeping his enemies close, watching them while they thought they were watching him.”

  “I don’t know, Frank, I prefer dealing with whatever is right in front of me. All this cloak and dagger bullshit gives me a headache, but if that’s your choice, I’ll back it – for now.”

  Bennington stepped fully into the hallway and closed the door behind him, pleased to have the former Vatican Intelligence Service operative on his side.

  “So do you know a way out of the building other than through the front door?”

  Stasia was already on the move, motioning for Frank to follow.

  “This way, we’re going to take the stairs to the basement level.”

  Bennington was already struggling to keep up with the considerably younger and far more athletic Stasia, her long, well muscled legs moving her down the hallway at a considerable pace.

  “Stairs, huh? Well that sounds just great...”

  12.

  Peter Berg looked down at the ringing phone in his top floor office of the Meyer building.

  Malthus was calling him again. Berg felt the man was becoming a nuisance.

  Doesn’t he realize how busy I am? I’m running a financial empire now!

  “Yes, Malthus, what is it?”

  Malthus’s tone made clear his disappointment.

  “I’m still waiting for them, Peter Berg. Are you certain they’ve left? I don’t appreciate spending my morning standing on the sidewalk.”

  Berg rolled his eyes while holding the phone to his ear.

  “Let me call down to the front desk, see if security has checked them out yet.”

  “I would have thought you’d have done that already.”

  Berg’s jaw clenched as he fought the urge to hang up on the always arrogant and demanding Malthus.

  “Give me five minutes to check. I’ll call you right back.”

  Berg hung up and then quickly called down to the front desk.

  “Yes Mr. Berg, what can I do for you, sir?”

  Delroy Hines worked the front desk and oversaw security for Alexander David Meyer. A tall, lean, African American man with a nearly unlined face despite his sixty-seven years, Delroy had been the face and voice for everyone entering or leaving the Meyer Building for nearly thirty years.

  “Have you recently seen Ms. Wellington leaving with an older gentleman this morning, Delroy?”

  Delroy’s deep voice replied instantly.

  “No, Mr. Berg can’t say that I have.”

  Peter Berg glanced at his watch. It was nearly 7:00. Both Stasia and Bennington should have exited the building already.

  “If you see them, please let me know right away.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Berg.”

  Berg hung up the phone and walked to the large window of his office that allowed him an unobstructed view of the street below. Another New York workday was fully energized as throngs of people scrambled back and forth along the sidewalks like frantic worker bees in some massive, concrete hive.

  Where the hell are they?

  While Peter Berg asked himself that question, Frank Bennington’s breathing became increasingly labored as he struggled to follow Stasia’s rapid descent down the steps leading to the basement.

  “You’re not going to die on me are you, Frank?”

  Bennington grimaced as he forced his legs to continue moving.

  “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

  “Hang in there, just a
few more floors to go.”

  Silently, Stasia was far more concerned with Bennington’s well being than she indicated. She could hear his breathing transforming into a rasping whistle that indicated he was nearing his physical limits.

  Moments later both she and Frank stood outside a white metal door where the private detective leaned over with a hand on each of his knees, forcing himself to take deep, measured breaths as Stasia prepared to see if anyone awaited them on the other side of the door. Before opening the door, she paused to allow Bennington’s breathing to normalize, while also noting the sheets of sweat washing over his face.