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

by D. W. Ulsterman

  The Illuminati member’s mouth stretched across his face in a grimacing smile as he nodded his head once and then disappeared into the darkness of the building’s interior as the heavy doors closed shut behind him.

  Bennington was stunned to discover the T3 Group’s primary enemy to be residing within a short walk from their own clubhouse.

  “Why didn’t they just come over here with guns drawn and do to us whatever they intended to do in the alley a few minutes earlier?”

  Stasia shook her head as her eyes remained fixated on the dark Illuminati building.

  “There are rules, Frank. This clubhouse, that location of theirs, it’s considered hallowed ground – off limits. Don’t ask me who made up these rules, because I don’t know. What I do know is that there are few safer places in this world than inside a T3 clubhouse. From law enforcement to those Illuminati assholes over there, they all leave us alone – always.”

  “Well, I did once work in the White House you know, so I doubt this clubhouse will impress me much.”

  Stasia once again looked up at the lens above the T3 clubhouse door.

  “Let me put it to you this way. You’re being allowed access into a T3 facility that the President of the United States would not. Now you might see some people inside here, people you’d never imagine…just respect their space, Frank.”

  The private detective was now entirely intrigued over the prospect of who he might find inside the clubhouse.

  “These people, they’re members of the T3 Group?”

  Stasia’s eyes shimmered with her amusement over Frank’s childlike curiosity.

  “That’s right, Frank, just like you – members only. Now when we get inside, keep close and stay quiet. I’ll show you around, introduce you to the guardian, and from there, you’ll have time to explore on your own. By tomorrow we should have an idea of where we’ll be going from here.”

  Bennington’s mouth opened to respond, but then clamped shut as the entrance door opened into the clubhouse, the smell of sandalwood washing over both he and Stasia as they moved across the threshold.

  They were greeted inside of a small sitting room by an older, round faced, diminutive man with kind brown eyes and a head devoid of all hair who briefly bowed once to Bennington and then once again to Stasia.

  “Frank, this is Guardian Nagato.”

  Guardian Nagato was a seventy-four year old Japanese man who looked to be nearly two decades younger. His small, wiry-lean body moved gracefully as he took a step back and then began communicating with thin-fingered, rapidly moving hands.

  “Yes, Guardian, this is Frank Bennington of Washington D.C., the one who recently worked the FDA assignment. As you know, he comes to us by the personal invitation of Alexander David Meyer.”

  The T3 guardian nodded back to Stasia and then moved to stand directly in front of Frank where he presented yet another, deeper bow.

  “He is honored by your presence, Frank.”

  Bennington attempted his own bow, his face wincing in pain halfway down.

  Looking concerned, Nagato moved alongside Frank and then pointed to the private detective’s lower back.

  “Yeah, it’s been killing me lately. I’m not really built for all this running around and saving the world business.”

  Nagato made another series of hand motions and then waited for Stasia to interpret.

  “He asks if it’s ok that he attempts to lessen your discomfort.”

  Frank scowled back at Stasia.

  “Uh, that depends on what he means by attempt.”

  The clubhouse guardian chuckled silently, humored by Bennington’s uncertainty while signing back to Stasia.

  “It will only take a moment, and he promises not to hurt you.”

  Frank found the possibility of such a small man actually being able to hurt him unlikely, and the still present pain in his lower back urged him to accept the offer of possible relief.

  “Sure, give it a shot.”

  Nagato nodded, pleased to be given the chance to help someone in need. He again pointed to Frank’s lower back and then to his left hand, gesturing to take Frank’s hand into his own.

  Bennington watched silently as Nagato proceeded to knead the palm of his left hand with his thumbs to the point where just a hint of discomfort could be felt. This process continued for nearly a minute before the smaller man released Frank’s hand and then pointed to the private investigator’s right ankle.

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  Nagato leaned down and pushed Frank’s right pant leg upward to allow his hands access to the inside of the ankle. His thumbs once again pressed deeply into the flesh, expertly locating the intended pressure point. A half minute later and the guardian stood up, his eyes questioning Bennington regarding the current condition of his lower back.

  “You know, it feels a lot better! Huh!”

  Frank turned his shoulders to the right and left, and then bent down several times before straightening back up.

  “Actually, I feel great!”

  Nagato motioned for his newly arrived guests to follow him into the adjoining room. Colorful, intricately woven Oriental carpets covered the dark wood floors, complimented by hand made furnishings that also hinted at a Far East influence. The air remained thick with the scent of sandalwood.

  The second room was far larger than the first, its walls covered in off-white wallpaper adorned with depictions of multi-colored flowers and shrubs. A large chandelier made entirely of deer antlers hung from the center of the twelve foot ceiling.

  Nagato signed briefly to Stasia and then disappeared down a hallway.

  “He has some work to do. I’ll show you to your room and then give you the grand tour a little later.”

  Bennington followed Stasia down the same dimly lit hallway Nagato had just taken. She paused at the bottom of a narrow stairway leading up to the second floor.

  “Private rooms are up these stairs. Your room is the 3rd door on the right. Place your thumb pad on the print screener to unlock it.”

  Frank was about to ask how they had his prints on file but then concluded the question was mute as he again realized the T3 Group appeared to know far more about him than he did them.

  “Where will you be?”

  Stasia pointed further down the hallway.

  “Need to debrief with the guardian, tell him about the confrontation in the alley in case any loose ends need to be tied up with the local authorities in case someone reported shots fired or something.”

  Bennington looked up the stairs.

  “Ok, guess I’ll see you a little later. Third door on the right, huh?”

  Stasia was already moving past Frank to the opposite end of the hallway but then quickly turned to call back to him.

  “You got it, third door on the right. It’s the only one up there you’ll be able to get into.”

  With Stasia gone, the first floor of the T3 Group clubhouse seemed oddly silent for something that represented an organization involved in a longstanding global battle over information and influence against the Illuminati.

  Frank Bennington was once again alone, looking around an empty room in a strange place and across the street from the very people who likely wanted him dead.

  It was turning out to be one hell of a day.

  15.

  “What happened?”

  Walid forced himself to stare back into the eyes of Malthus, refusing to allow the other Illuminati operative to intimidate him.

  “The woman proved…more capable than we thought.”

  Malthus jumped down from the church altar he had been sitting upon and strode to where Walid and Jean-Paul stood. Both men had failed miserably to bring Frank Bennington to him, and that meant Malthus would be forced to endure questioning from the Illuminati’s New York Pindar, a pathetically self-important little monkey who inexplicably thought himself Malthus’s superior.

  “Did I ask for an excuse? I ordered results! Why didn’t you just kill the bitch? Isn’t that y
our particular talent – killing people?”

  Jean-Paul’s eyes flashed a warning to Malthus. He was pushing the limits of his patience.

  “Walid is right. The woman is an exceptional operative.”

  Malthus jabbed a finger into Jean-Paul’s chest.

  “Perhaps I should be hiring her to kill you then!”

  Jean-Paul stood silently, though his eyes continued to challenge Malthus’s anger.

  “Malthus, why are you shouting in my home?”

  It was the New York Pindar, a designation given to those of the highest rank within the Illuminati. Alvaro Zavala had been initiated as the New York Pindar shortly after September 11th, 2001. It was widely believed his sudden ascent within the Illuminati hierarchy was reward for his part in helping to coordinate the events of the day that left thousands dead at the hands of Islamic terrorists.

  Zavala was sixty-five years old, his gaunt face deeply lined around the eyes and mouth, his thin lips always being moistened by a quickly protruding and retreating tongue. Every day Zavala wore the same simple ensemble – tight black tank top tucked into a pair of equally black and form fitting pair of jeans. His feet were adorned by a pair of deeply scuffed, leather Doc Marten boots that he once boasted to Malthus he had worn for the last thirty years. The Pindar still fancied himself a punk rocker, remaining dedicated to the fashion sense of an era decades past.

  Malthus, Jean-Paul, and Walid gave the approaching Pindar a slight bow, their eyes remaining fixed upon the floor beneath their feet as they did so.

  “Apologies, Pindar Zavala, I was disappointed to learn of their failure to deliver Frank Bennington to me as I had ordered.”

  Zavala smiled up at Malthus, and then moved his eyes toward Walid and Jean-Paul.

  “Gentlemen, welcome back to New York. It has been too long since last we spoke.”

  Jean-Paul and Walid bowed again to the Pindar.

  “So, it would seem Malthus wishes to place blame on the both of you for the failure to bring this Bennington to us. Tell me, is such blame deserved?”

  Walid’s upper lip curled into a snarl as he shook his head from side to side while still glowering back at Malthus.

  “NO, the failure is only temporary. Malthus could have had him in Washington D.C., but chose not to get the target there either.”

  Malthus’s head tilted backward as he laughed loudly at the accusation.

  “My going to D.C. was not to take Frank Bennington there, but to ensure his travel to New York and the subsequent meeting with Alexander Meyer. That would have allowed us to then extract from him, among other things, the contents of that meeting. Unfortunately, the billionaire has fled the city, and Frank Bennington now enjoys the full protection of the T3 Group!”

  Zavala’s eyebrows rose slightly above his narrow, deeply imbedded brown eyes as he regarded Malthus’s outburst.

  “And whose decision was it to not take Bennington in Washington D.C., Malthus? Was that not your decision entirely? While having access to what was said between Bennington and Alexander Meyer would have been welcome, it is the suspected clue left to Bennington by the dead priest that remains our primary concern.”

  Malthus’s face contorted into a mix of exasperated disgust as he waved his right hand dismissively toward the Pindar.

  “There remains no evidence of any such clue. The priest’s work, the possible cure, remains a minor setback. It’s my understanding that information is already being controlled, the vaccine to be produced and disseminated at our leisure. Everything continues to go as planned, correct?”

  Zavala smiled knowingly as he looked at the visible lump protruding from Malthus’s forehead.

  “And what of your old friend, Gabriel? What part does he play in this plan you speak so confidently of?”

  Malthus turned to face the church altar and the massive cross with the body of Christ that prominently hung upside down behind it. He wanted so badly to rip Zavala’s insolent throat apart, but knew such an act would make him an enemy of the Illuminati, and that relationship had proven far too valuable to Malthus to risk doing so. Instead, he answered in a contemplative whisper.

  “Gabriel is no friend of mine, Alvaro Zavala, and that longstanding dispute will resolve itself in due time. As for your implied accusations against me, I say enough. We share many similar goals, the capture of Frank Bennington being among them, and in that endeavor, I remain your willing servant.”

  Walid and Jean-Paul shifted uncomfortably. They had never heard an Illuminati Pindar spoken to in a tone as dismissive as the one Malthus had just used.

  After several moments of silence between Zavala and Malthus, the Pindar chuckled as he began moving toward the front left corner of the church interior, the thump of his heavy boots atop the dark stained wood of the floor echoing against the massive stained glass windows that adorned both sides of the centuries-old structure.

  “Come along then, everyone. It’s clear we have work to do before I bother the Elders with an update.”

  As Zavala continued toward the front of the church, Malthus turned to face Walid, lightly placing his right hand on the other man’s chest to keep him from moving. Walid had attempted to place the entire blame for the failure to capture Frank Bennington on him, an attempt that left Malthus silently seething in rage. It was a gesture reeking of disrespect for which Walid must be punished for.

  “Look into my eyes, Walid and glimpse the truth of what I am.”

  The Algerian refused to be intimidated by Malthus, a man he had long considered overly effeminate and entirely unworthy of trust.

  “Your mind games won’t work on me, Malthus. I don’t fear you.”

  Malthus’s black eyes darkened more as he grinned up at the slightly taller Walid.

  “Then tell me what you see, Walid. Look!”

  Jean-Paul watched as Walid’s eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open like a child’s frightened by the creeping bedroom shadows of a sleepless night.

  “As much horror as your insignificant life has experienced so far, it is nothing compared to the horror that awaits you.”

  Jean-Paul was shocked to see tears springing from the corners of Walid’s eyes, accompanied by a small whimper of terror from a man Jean-Paul had considered immune to fear.

  “We’ll be waiting, Walid. We’re always waiting, because we have all…the time…in the world.”

  Malthus’s voice issued forth from his smiling visage like some oily, primordial ooze. It had transformed into an inhumanly deep and guttural sound, each word somehow repeating itself in a whispered chorus of chants that intertwined with each one of Jean-Paul’s senses.

  Walid’s right hand clamped over his mouth as he attempted to stifle a scream. Malthus, seemingly satisfied with having made his point, turned his head to wink at Jean-Paul before happily turning around to follow Alvaro Zavala.

  Jean-Paul looked down to see a pool of urine collecting around Walid’s feet.

  “Walid, what did you see?”

  The Algerian’s hands were trembling as his eyes moved from Jean-Paul to the desecrated image of Christ hanging upside down above the church altar.

  ‘Walid?”

  Walid Zidane’s reply was a terrified whisper as he shuffled slowly toward the altar.

  “Nothing, I saw…nothing.”

  Jean-Paul found himself unable to move, both fascinated and horrified by the sudden transformation of Walid from a fearless, often brutish Illuminati operative to a murmuring madman. Walid stood in front of the altar looking up into the dark eyes of the Son of God, silently pleading for a forgiveness he knew would never be.

  Not for me.

  From twenty feet behind where Walid stood, Jean-Paul could see the Algerian’s body gripped by a series of muffled sobs. Suddenly, Walid’s gun emerged in his right hand and was then jammed against the side of his own head. Before Jean-Paul could shout even the beginnings of a plea to save him, Walid fired his weapon.

  The gunshot thundered inside of the church, its sound s
oftly vibrating the floor beneath Jean-Paul’s feet. This was followed by the heavy thump of Walid’s body as it crumpled to the floor.

  Jean-Paul winced as he heard the terrified voice of Walid screaming from inside his own head, each word seeming to cross from a greater distance than the next.

  NOT FOR ME!

  16.

  It was nearly an hour later that Stasia knocked lightly on Frank’s sparsely furnished second floor room in the T3 Clubhouse. Frank was slightly embarrassed to have to admit to her he had fallen asleep atop the incredibly comfortable single bed that resided on the left side of the small ten by eight space.