Teague uttered a low rasping chuckle, like heavy sandpaper being applied to the rusted shell of a worn out car.
Frank took his place in a well cushioned chair opposite Teague, the warmth and sound of the crackling fire seeming to transport him to another time when the world was a far simpler place, free from the near constant electronic bleating of the present age.
A single red file sat upon Teague’s black-jeaned folded legs. While his left hand rested on the folder, his right held a cup of hot tea which he then brought to his mouth and took a slow sip from.
“This is your file, Frank. There’s a digital version in those computers over there of course, but I still prefer something more substantial. Something I can feel. Makes it more real, right? It has the FDA assignment information, contains your history in D.C., your habits, your whoring, the wheeling and dealings of the last thirty-odd years. You’re quite a character, aren’t you?”
“I’ve done my share of things I’m not proud of, if that’s what you mean.”
Another chuckle crept forth from Teague’s deeply creased throat.
“I couldn’t give a shit about the things you’re not proud of, Frank. Hell, you’re looking at the guy who invented the term elegantly wasted! When I call you a character, that’s a compliment! We live in a world of human drones now, where personality is something that comes pre-programmed. Most people haven’t had a truly original concept in years. So when I get an opportunity to sit down and talk with someone who like me, knows a thing or two about a thing or two, I call that time well spent.”
A log on the fire popped loudly as each man sat silently looking at the other. Finally Teague’s lip curled slightly upward as he held up his open left hand.
“Consider this your opportunity to speak to the self-anointed T3 sage, Frank. It may prove to be a one-time deal, mate. There’s no guarantee any of us will be around tomorrow, let alone after that, so you best be getting to it while the getting is still good. I’ve been coming to this place for as long as anyone around here. Ask your questions and I’ll do my best to give you the right answers.”
As he considered what questions to ask, Frank watched Teague take another slow sip of tea. Then the faint smell of cigarettes coming off the Englishman reminded him of another man he hoped to learn much more about.
“Gabriel.”
Teague offered a faint smile, his eyes peering out from under a set of heavy lids.
“Ah, yes…the reluctant avenging angel.”
The statement caught Bennington off guard.
“You believe that? You don’t think he’s just suffering some form of delusion?”
Teague leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He remained that way for several more seconds before murmuring a reply.
“I believe in evil, Frank, so that requires that I also believe in the possibility of good. The universe is a demanding bitch, and what she requires most of all is balance. I met Gabriel once, long ago. I appeared younger than him then, and now, I am much older. And I know I’m not the only one to have noticed that rather odd mystery. Your work with him is outlined in your file, the time he spent with the priest. You have to admit he presents all kinds of possibilities. Besides, he’s got the name for it right?”
Bennington considered it a reasonable answer, and was eager to continue with more questions, hoping to compare Teague’s perspective with that of Alexander Meyer’s.
“Would you consider the Illuminati evil, and if so, what’s your personal experience with them? What do they want?”
Teague opened his eyes and frowned.
“That’s a lot of questions at once. Slow it down, Frank. We’re in no hurry here. My hurrying days are long behind me.
“As for our friends across the street, those bastards have been taking a percentage of everything I make for the last forty-five years! They don’t do it using their real name of course. It’s management, production, distribution, all of it controlled by THEM. We became successful enough and then they took it over. There’s no choice, you have to play along to get along. What they do with the money – who knows? Wars in Central America, disease in Africa it’s all part of the machine to them. They allow it all, so long as they control it all. That’s their game – power, control. They’ve been cracking the whip on
humankind for a thousand years or more, and they get away with it by letting us believe we have choice when in fact we don’t.”
Bennington’s eyes narrowed slightly, knowing Teague had not fully answered his question. He had quickly overcome being in awe of the musician. Now the private detective’s focus was entirely on obtaining more information.
“Do you consider them evil?”
Teague shrugged as he stared into the empty tea cup he held gently between his rough, calloused fingers.
“I don’t see them as evil itself, but I do believe them to be facilitators of the evil that exists in each of us. The Illuminati as I have come to understand them are agents of chaos and beneficiaries of the profit and power their chaos then presents. They control the media industry because it is the hub of cultural influence, and it offers financial reward which can then be used to influence politics and policy, financial, military…all of it is connected to the same body, an always moving circular body, spinning and spinning for its own benefit.”
Teague leaned forward in his chair while his voice lowered to a hushed, croaking whisper.
“Have you heard of the phrase Star Killers?”
Bennington shook his head.
“No.”
Teague grunted as he leaned back and closed his eyes again.
“It’s a phrase used by some, others use different ways for saying the same thing. In my line of work, I’ve had many friends and associates die unexpectedly. Granted, drugs or other forms of abuse or simple bad luck are certainly responsible for some, but in other examples these people were purposely terminated, either for the threat they had become because of foolishly saying things better left unsaid, or more often, for the profit potential their death presented. How many times have you read of a certain celebrity’s estate being worth several times more following their death? For some, it was the difference between significant debt when they lived, versus tens or even hundreds of millions of dollars value for the estate with them dead. You kill a celebrity, increase your profit, and send a very clear message to others you control that they would do well to keep their mouths shut. Star Killers…”
Bennington knew Teague had a band member who had died young many years ago under mysterious circumstances. The private detective didn’t wish to spend valuable time rehashing that music industry conspiracy though, but instead wanted to know how Teague had come to still be alive, as well as being a member of the T3 Group.
“And how have you managed to avoid these Star Killers?”
Teague grinned as he held his right hand under his chin.
“As this face testifies to, I had the bad manners to grow old, and therefore, largely ineffectual as an agent of cultural influence. Nobody wants to listen to an old guy playing music, right? So, they continue to take my money, but don’t bother much with my comings and goings anymore. Years ago, after the death of a band member, I had an older friend, he was a former manager for some of the big acts in the 30’s and 40’s, tell me of what they called a support group for people like me. Without saying the term, he let me know who he thought killed my friend, and was the one who brought me to the T3 Group. I’ve been involved ever since as something of a consultant of sorts, giving insight on how the industry works, what deaths were likely…encouraged, etc. In exchange, I’ve been given assurance of protection for my wife, children, and grandchildren should something happen to me.”
The logs again stirred in the fireplace, causing a cloud of sparks to ascend upward into the chimney.
“Do you know anything about Malthus?”
Teague had withdrawn a gleaming, ivory handled switchblade from inside the waistband of his dark jeans and proceeded to carefully c
lean the space underneath his thick fingernails.
“I know enough of Malthus to avoid him. Remember I said how the universe requires balance, and that Gabriel was part of that balance?”
Bennington gave a half nod, eager for Teague to continue.
“Well then, Gabriel represents that balance just as Malthus does, two sides of the same coin, each representing the spiritual currency of our time.”
Teague then used the tip of his switchblade to point at the private detective.
“But you’re the one who’s met him. You tell me what you think of Gabriel.”
“I don’t know, and that’s frustrating. I’ve spent a lifetime quickly sizing up candidates and their opponents, working the angles so that the results favored my campaign. With Gabriel though, he remains an enigma. Part of me wants to believe, while the rest of me…”
Teague interrupted with another croaking chuckle.
“Ah, there it is, that leap of faith the sneaky bastard upstairs left for all of us to decide upon. Is He, or isn’t He, to be or not to be?”
Bennington let out a sigh as he leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He suddenly found himself feeling very tired.
“I hope I’m not boring you, Frank. Perhaps I’m not living up to the image of the perpetual rock and roll hell raiser.”
Frank dismissed the apology with a shake of his head.
“No, I’m just tired.”
Teague’s raised eyebrows and soft grunt let Bennington know he understood.
“This isn’t an old man’s game, is it? The running about, the late hours, it’s why I still come here to the clubhouse. Even for just a day or two, I’m allowed to sit in this library alone with my own thoughts, a good book, and the warmth of the fire. Simple pleasures, mate, simple pleasures.”
Frank momentarily lost himself in the dying glow of the fire, his mind attempting to grasp the possibility of Gabriel actually being what some believed him to be, and wondering further what his own place in this ages-old battle between dark and light, truth and deception meant, or if it meant anything at all.
As if reading his thoughts, Teague’s rasp of a voice joined the soft, gentle chorus of smoke and fire.
“I do know this, Frank, that where God has appeared, the Devil is soon to follow. Two sides of the same coin…”
20.
“ Why don’t we just go across the street and finish them? Enough of the T3 Group’s meddling, enough of the games, the back and forth between them and us. I’m told the Illuminati are far more powerful, numerous, wealthy, and influential. If that is true, then let me prove myself to you more than what you’ve seen on that video. Allow me the honor of destroying them.”
The Pindar folded his hands under his chin while silently regarding August Hess’s suggestion. He had certainly thought to do the same many times in recent years, and even more so since the recent successes of Frank Bennington’s assignments against them. And yet, though New York was his realm, he did not enjoy absolute authority in all affairs relating to the Illuminati. There had always been rules, protocols, to help ensure their existence remain just out of sight behind the curtain of the regular world around them.
Hess was watching Zavala intensely, sensing the Pindar’s conflicted desire toward the possibility of simply wiping out the T3 Group from New York.
“I assure you, Pindar, I can make it happen while still maintaining certain…discretion. I would also add that I act as an agent of the New United Nations as well.”
Alvaro Zivala’s eyes widened slightly, glancing at Malthus before returning to August Hess.
“The House of Saud sanctions your proposal?”
Without hesitation, Hess nodded.
“They were not pleased by Mr. Bennington’s role in exposing certain aspects of their ongoing green energy interests. Remedying that exposure is proving costly. And as you likely know, they have significant investments in the health industry as well, so the FDA assignment produced yet further heartburn for them. Bennington is now seen as being a product of the T3 Group’s New York faction. We eliminate them, we eliminate him, leaving the Saudi’s pleased.”
The Pindar straightened in his throne, still uncertain over completely trusting the just arrived August Hess.
“Tell me, Hess we have seen your penchant for eliminating entire villages in Africa. Was it that particular set of skills which has then brought you to us here in New York?”
Hess’s overly large mouth moved upward into a sneering half grin.
“You are wise, Pindar, knowing it is no accident that I am now back in the United States. Everything has its place, its purpose within the Illuminati and I am certainly no exception.”
Zavala looked to Malthus, wanting the operative to share his own input regarding Hess’s proposed attack upon the T3 clubhouse.
“And what of you, Malthus, should we engage in something so bold?”
Malthus’s low whispered reply slithered across the Pindar’s consciousness, tugging at Zavala’s ever present insecurities and desires.
“Mr. Hess is clearly a capable operative. If he does in fact have the firm backing of the Saudis, such an attack could elevate you even further within the Illuminati, Pindar Zavala. You might even find yourself among the Council of Elders.”
Zavala’s fingers clenched the sides of his throne at the mention of the Council of Elders. It was there the greatest power within the Illuminati resided, the world itself divided up among those so privileged to be designated as such.
It is my destiny.
Malthus’s nostrils flared as he inhaled the stench of the Pindar’s unrelenting hunger for power and standing. All Zavala needed was a subtle push to transform the soft war between the Illuminati and T3 Group to a far more open and violent confrontation upon which the ashes of the next age would be built.
“Do it, Pindar Zavala. Do it…”
Jean-Paul watched as the corners of the Pindar’s mouth twitched with each word whispered by Malthus, the Rwandan sensing some form of dark magic passing from one man to the other. Then he felt the eyes of August Hess moving over him like a graveyard breeze in the darkest of nights.
The sound of faint clicking could be heard all around them as the hundreds of operatives seated in front of their surveillance screens in the operations room continued working like a barely moving collection of human drones, their eyes scanning the countless images flashing before them every hour, compiling data that would later be reviewed and then used to further the Illuminati agenda.
One operative was doing more than merely processing data though. A heavy set forty-six year old computer programmer by the name of Roger Rucker had gained access into the Illuminati six years ago and had found himself seated at the same work station ever since, just a few paces from Zavala’s throne. Every day he arrived at 5:00 a.m. to begin the surveillance operation’s day shift, and then returning home to the one bedroom apartment three blocks from the dark church where he and several other operatives were given housing by the Illuminati. Roger’s twin brother Stephen was among those killed inside the South Tower on September 11th, 2001.
Months after the 9-11 attacks, Roger began investigating those responsible. He felt the story portrayed by the media to be only part of the truth. The death of his brother motivated him to find out more. He created a website for others like himself who were demanding answers regarding what really happened on September 11th. That site had over a million unique visitors in just over a month, many of them leaving their own questions and insights in the comments section of his website.
He was first visited by the FBI six weeks after the site went live. A month later saw another visit. The agents were brief and professional, if not particularly friendly. Nearly four months later, Roger found a well dressed, older black man standing outside his apartment door. The man didn’t give his name, but instead handed Roger a scrap of paper with a handwritten web address and the number six scrawled over it.
“You want answers? Start there, we’ll be in touch.
”
The web address took him to a job posting site. The sixth posting simply read “data processing” and included a phone number. Though he didn’t know why, Roger knew he was being tested. He researched the number, traced its ownership to an import/export subsidiary based out of London for a company named Venetti International. Further research linked Venetti International to another umbrella corporation titled SPO based out of London. SPO’s public filings revealed it had long been among the most generous donors to the United Nations, donations which at the time of Roger’s research totaled nearly seventy million dollars in the last decade alone. Corporate docs listed the President of SPO to have been a man named Alvaro Zavala. Zavala had been given that title two years prior to September 11th, 2001. SPO was officially dissolved forty five days after the 9-11 attacks.
By this time, Roger Rucker had immersed himself entirely in his research. His once athletic build turned soft, his interests narrowed to nothing beyond trying to link the pieces of a very convoluted puzzle together. Chris, his partner of nearly seven years, finally grew tired of being ignored and moved out of their shared apartment. Roger barely noticed, the research having developed into all out obsession. He slept little and bathed even less.
Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series... Page 65
