“He’s ready. You have clearance to use the private residence elevator.”
Stasia’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re won’t be part of the meeting?”
Berg shook his head as he finally acknowledged Bennington’s presence with a quick glance.
“I don’t believe so. Mr. Meyer requested it was only going to be yourself and him.”
Berg’s nose twitched as he again looked Frank up and down.
“Cologne at this hour, Mr. Bennington? I don’t believe this to be one of your D.C. date nights.”
Bennington had had enough, ignoring the plea coming from Stasia’s eyes that he not respond to Berg’s insult in kind.
“I figured I needed some to try and mask the stench of asshole.”
Frank leaned toward Berg and flared his nostrils as he took in a deep breath.
“Yup – there it is.”
Peter Berg’s face flushed crimson as his eyes widened in outrage, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Bennington pointed a finger at him.
“Just a little humor there, young fella. Don’t go getting the panties your momma laid out for you in a bunch, ok? Now I figure if we’re to make our meeting with Mr. Meyer on time, we better get moving. I assume you know the way, Stasia?”
Stasia nodded, looking both horrified and amused by what Frank had just said to Berg, and moving quickly down the hall as she nudged Bennington to follow her.
After turning the corner to their left and reaching the halfway point to the private residence elevator at the end of the adjoining hallway, Frank found himself mesmerized by the backside view of Stasia Wellington’s rhythmic walking motion.
“Are you staring at my ass, Mr. Bennington?”
Frank’s eyes shot upward even as he admitted his offense. The private detective also experienced a fleeting sense of déjà-vu, having had a similar moment with Dedra Donnigan during their FDA assignment together.
“Yeah, I guess I was.”
The Vatican Intelligence operative turned her head to look back at him, a sly, approving smile creeping across her face.
“Good.”
6.
After the short elevator ride to the building’s top floor, Berg led Frank and Stasia into the expansive private residence of Alexander David Meyer. The open concept great room was walled entirely by floor to ceiling windows, affording views from all sides out into the surrounding New York skyline. The furnishings were sparse – a single couch and matching chair in front of a gas fireplace situated on the north end of the room, a small kitchen area with a simple stainless fridge that hummed softly in the otherwise silent space, and two thickly framed, cream colored doors located forty feet to Bennington’s right. The floors were darkened oak, and appeared to have been taken from something much older than the building itself and then recycled within the Meyer residence.
“You have an eye for detail, Mr. Bennington. I see you noticed the floors. So many have entered this place and never once realized the unique nature of what they were standing upon, but you tend to see things others would neglect, now don’t you? This floor comes from the wood of a Veneti vessel sunk by the Romans during Caesar’s Gallic Wars. I personally saw to the excavation and restoration of the wood from the bottom of the English Channel. The cold saltwater of the North Atlantic makes for an incredible preservative. Every step taken in this room echoes a reminder of a people fighting for freedom against potential tyranny thousands of years ago.”
Frank turned and found a short, immaculately dressed white haired man standing directly behind him. If not for the hair, and the slight slouch of his shoulders, the man would have appeared younger than Bennington. And though his face indicated a warm, friendly nature, the private detective noted the hard glint of the man’s dark brown eyes – eyes that had seen, and understood all too well, the cruel potential of the human condition.
“Hello, my name is Alexander David Meyer, and I am very pleased to see you have made your way to us, Mr. Bennington, very pleased indeed.”
The billionaire’s handshake was firm, indicating a surprising amount of strength for a man beyond his 70th year of life.
“And here you are once again too, Ms. Wellington! As beautiful as ever I might add! Thank you so much for helping to bring Mr. Bennington here safely.”
Stasia’s brief nod was accompanied by a thin smile, looking slightly embarrassed at the attention being given her.
Frank noted the material of Alexander David Meyer’s dark grey suit was identical to the suit provided him, and once again, the billionaire caught the private detective in the act of that realization.
“Ah, it appears the clothing provided you is a perfect fit, Mr. Bennington. My personal tailor saw to it himself. He’s been with me…my goodness, nearly twenty years now!”
Bennington cleared his throat before asking his first question.
“I was wondering about that, Mr. Meyer. How did you come to know my measurements?”
The billionaire’s brows moved upward in amusement as he wagged a finger toward the former political operative.
“Suspicious of us already? Good, it’s your natural instinct to distrust that is likely among your most valuable assets, Mr. Bennington. As for the suit and your measurements, we simply took several recent images from your file and calculated from there. It appears our calculations proved accurate.”
Frank was about to respond but then simply shrugged his indifference.
“Well, however you did it, thank you. It’s one hell of a nice bit of clothing.”
The billionaire smiled up at Bennington while at the same time staring into Frank’s eyes with an intensity that bordered on being uncomfortable. The discomfort finally passed when Alexander Meyer’s eyes moved back toward Stasia.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Bennington for a moment in private, Ms. Wellington. You are welcome to wait out here with Mr. Berg if you like, or return to your room.”
Stasia glanced at Peter Berg’s dour expression and then nodded.
“I’ll wait out here.”
Alexander Meyer looked at Berg and then pointed to the kitchen.
“Please make Ms. Wellington comfortable, Mr. Berg. Stasia, we have both food and drink here, or if there is something we don’t have, it can be delivered. Now as for you, Mr. Bennington, please follow me into my study.”
Bennington followed the billionaire toward one of the two cream colored doors the detective had noted when he first arrived inside the residence. Alexander Meyer placed his thumb on an identification pad next to the door that was furthest right. The pad was identical to the one Stasia had used to gain access to the building after landing the helicopter on the rooftop. A soft click sounded and the door swung inward.
“After you, Mr. Bennington.”
As soon as he moved just inside the door, motion sensing lights illuminated the billionaire’s twenty by twenty private study. There were no windows, much of the off-white walls covered in photographs of Alexander David Meyer with various members of the rich and powerful over the last forty years. A small wooden desk and matching chair sat at the back of the room, its surface illuminated by a single, multi-colored Tiffany lamp residing atop the desk’s upper left corner. On the wall behind the desk was what appeared to be a collection of family photos, including a black and white wedding photo of a much younger Alexander Meyer and a beautiful, noble looking black haired woman.
On the wall opposite the desk was found a massive eight by eight video screen in front of which were two dark, leather bound chairs and an ornate, black metallic framed, glass coffee table.
“Very few have been inside this room, Mr. Bennington. I don’t say that to boast, but to merely emphasize the importance of our meeting.”
The billionaire extended a hand toward the chair on the right while seating himself in the other chair.
“Please sit down.”
The private detective sat and then waited, curious to hear why someone as apparently powerful and connected as Alexa
nder David Meyer, was so interested in having a washed up D.C. political hack like himself working for the T3 Group.
“Would you like a drink?”
Though grateful for the offer, the question caught Bennington off guard, leaving him wary of appearing too willing to accept, well aware of his reputation as a hard drinking hedonist with a penchant for self destructive behavior.
Alexander Meyer took a small black device from one of the inner pockets of his jacket and pushed a button, then watched as a section of the floor directly underneath the flat screen rose up to reveal a well stocked mini bar.
“I am not opposed to libations, Mr. Bennington. In fact, I often have a drink or two in the evening. I find it helps to calm my mind and allows me at least a few hours of sleep. Now if I recall your file correctly, you favor whiskey, yes?”
Frank nodded as he silently wondered what other personal details were contained in the file the T3 Group had on him.
“Yeah, whiskey is fine thank you.”
The billionaire poured each of them a glass, passed one to Bennington and then returned to his own chair to the left of the private detective.
Frank took a sip and then nodded his approval.
“Very nice, what is it?”
“That, Mr. Bennington, is a single malt originally distilled in 1926 and bottled five decades later. Extremely rare, and as you already noted, very-very good.”
Bennington took another sip and then swirled the remaining amber liquid contents in his glass.
“And I imagine, very-very expensive as well. I’ve known quite a few wealthy people over the years, Mr. Meyer, but not your kind of wealth.”
Alexander David Meyer’s eyes briefly betrayed some inner sadness before returning to their normal quiet confidence.
“Money allows one means, but it cannot return the dead, and is too often responsible for the dying. Now looking past the fact of my wealth, I offer you the opportunity to ask me questions. I know you must have many given your recently completed assignment involving the priest, the cancer research, and the tragic death of Ms. Donnigan. It was your work within that assignment that caught my attention, Mr. Bennington, and makes me certain you could prove a very valuable asset to the T3 Group.”
Frank paused for a moment, considering the myriad of T3 related questions he would like answered.
“What do you know about Gabriel?
Bennington was pleased to see the billionaire blink several times, caught off guard.
He knows plenty, but was surprised I came right out and asked.
“How do you mean, Mr. Bennington?”
Alexander Meyer responded to the question with a question, a ploy Frank knew politicians used often during debates and interviews to allow them more time to formulate a response.
“It’s a simple question, Mr. Meyer. Gabriel was connected to Father Barnes, who in turn was connected to Stasia. I’m now connected to all three, and have been brought here to your office in New York because you wanted me here. Through all my years working in D.C., I came to understand that things rarely simply happened, but were made to happen. So I’ll ask you again – what do you know about Gabriel?”
The billionaire slowly placed his drink upon the coffee table and then turned to stare at Bennington until finally, a smile moved across the older man’s face, seemingly pleased by Frank’s response.
“I know it was Gabriel who contacted me directly and then instructed that I bring you to New York. He warned your life was in danger and that I was obligated to try and save you given your participation in the just completed FDA assignment. I already knew of this Gabriel, but that was the first time I actually spoke to him. In fact, I still don’t know how he happened to have my direct contact information!”
Bennington seized upon the opening Alexander Meyer’s response provided.
“You say you knew of Gabriel already. Please tell me what you knew.”
The billionaire’s right eyebrow rose slightly as he reached down to take another contemplative sip from his whiskey glass.
“It would appear you are as fascinated by this Gabriel as I am, Mr. Bennington. Clearly he made a powerful impression upon you.”
Frank finished the remainder of his whiskey and then nodded.
“Yes he did, but with all due respect, you’re still avoiding my question, Mr. Meyer.”
Alexander Meyer stood while holding up his right hand to indicate he wanted Bennington to remain seated.
“You’re right, I apologize.”
Without asking if he wanted more, the billionaire refilled the private detective’s glass and then sat back down in his own chair while pointing toward the flat screen that dominated the wall in front of them.
“Perhaps I can show you one of the primary reasons for my own fascination for Gabriel. I find a picture can often communicate far more than words.”
The screen came to life, its soft blue glow washing over both men. After a few brief seconds, Bennington found himself staring at an illuminated black and white photograph. The image showed a young couple standing happily in front of the Eifel Tower. The date of the photo was labeled in white in the lower right hand corner – April 12th, 1939.
“Those are my parents on vacation in Paris approximately a year before Hitler’s tanks began rolling through France. It is also, not coincidentally, less than a year before my own birth.”
Bennington took another drink from his glass while his eyes remained looking up at the photograph, uncertain as to why the billionaire was taking the time to show it to him.
“It’s a very nice photo, Mr. Meyer. Your parents look quite happy.”
Alexander Meyer was momentarily lost in the image of his mother and father as they both stood together amidst a time long ago dead. When he spoke again, it was in a barely audible whisper.
“Look just beyond my parents, Mr. Bennington. Do you see the man behind them, the one smoking the cigarette and seeming to stare directly into the camera?”
Frank’s eyes squinted as he struggled to more clearly see the figure the billionaire was pointing to. Yes, there was a man, tall, thin, with long, dark hair combed back against his scalp and a lean, hawkish face. Even though the photo was not color, the image indicated the man’s skin to be unnaturally white – almost translucent.
That’s impossible. 1939? That’s seventy-five years ago!
Bennington’s mouth hung open as he rose from his chair to look more closely at the image. It was him, or someone who looked very much like him. The reality of the image collided with the impossibility of it.
Maybe this is some bizarre test. The billionaire is messing with me to see how easily I take the bait.
Frank turned his head to look down at Alexander Meyer who then answered the detective’s unspoken confusion and disbelief in the same hushed tone as before.
“Is that the man you came to know recently as Gabriel, and does he not look exactly the same now as he did in this photograph taken in 1939?”
Bennington looked again at the photograph and then quickly turned back to Alexander Meyer, his head shaking rapidly from side to side.
“That can’t be – it’s impossible!”
The billionaire held out his hands in front of him as his shoulders gave a slight shrug.
“Yes it is and yet…here we are.”
Frank’s eyes were once again drawn back to the seeming image of Gabriel, a chill running down the private detective’s spine as his nose detected the all too familiar scent of burnt tobacco that always preceded Gabriel’s arrival. Behind him, the voice of Alexander Meyer mingled with the smell of cigarette smoke.
“Now you know something of why I find Gabriel so interesting, Mr. Bennington. As much as the laws of physics and common sense would prevent such a thing from being so, I believe he has been watching me for a very-very long time…”
7.
As Frank Bennington continued to stare into the photographed face of Gabriel, Alexander Meyer made his way to the other side of the room w
here a portion of the wall slid open to reveal access to a small terrace.
“Please join me on the balcony, Mr. Bennington. I’m in the mood for a cigar. We can continue our conversation outside.”
The private detective gave Gabriel’s image one last look and then moved to catch up to the billionaire.
The night air bit into Frank’s skin, surprising him as he instinctively reached out to grab a hand rail to support himself. Alexander Meyer had already lit his cigar and was puffing on it slowly, his head momentarily hidden within a swirl of rich smelling tobacco smoke. The seemingly unending multitude of New York’s lights spread out from below both men’s feet as the sounds of traffic made its way up to them.
Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series... Page 57
