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Page 4.
Chapter 3.
 Jeff Maxxon's nine a.m. appointment with Albert Beering was postponed again and again because of the chaos over the body in the clock tower. Finally, about one p.m., a senior aide ushered Jeff along a hushed corridor, deeply carpeted, paneled in burled Amazonian wood. A pair of ebony doors with blue-glass inlays, between two massive alabaster jars, were at the end of the corridor, and inside Jeff found the billionaire at the end of a foot-long Macanudo cigar.
"Come in," Albert Beering shouted in a surprisingly strong voice, given that he appeared to be in his eighties, a pale being with watery blue eyes, lax skin, and some remnants of white hair on a billiard ball skull. "Close the door and leave us alone," he shouted to the dark-suited aide, who bowed as he pulled the doors shut. "Welcome, Maxxon. Care for a drink?"
Jeff shook his head. "Thanks. I don't drink during business hours."
Albert Beering and cigar moved toward an ormolu cabinet, which he opened, exposing a porcelain wet bar and liquor bottles set among mirrors. "Smart man," he said. "I don't either. Let's share cranberry juice and get down to business." Cigar smoke roiled around his head and ice slammed into glasses. "We had an unpleasant surprise this morning."
"Yessir," Jeff said. "We did." He kept seeing the dead woman's heavy lids, her pale teeth, her lifeless lips and throat, and wished he'd overslept.
Albert Beering brought blood-red glasses to the desk. "I was called in from an early business meeting. I've never seen anything quite so exquisitely ghastly. Dammit. Sticks in your memory, doesn't it?"
Jeff sipped his tart, sweet juice. "Yessir." He had inadvertently shielded Lexa Whiston, pressed against her and doing a pushup against the wall, as the rioting crowd surged screaming down the hallway. Lexa, pale as a sheet of 20-pound bond, had graciously taken his book, thanked him, and ducked away down a stairwell. "We all were shaken up," Jeff said.
"Understand you're Special Forces, young man. Used to the sight of blood."
"Hardly, Mr. Beering. I've seen my share, but you never get used to it." He'd served in the deserts and mountains of western Asia, and was haunted by charnel house memories of burned out tanks and desert highways strewn with human shreds.
Beering nodded. "Yes, of course. Death tangled in a giant clock. How exceptional." His demeanor softened somewhat, though the flinty strength never left it.
"Any idea who she was?" Jeff asked.
Beering shrugged. "Some editor at American Press." He glanced at his wristwatch, seeming to remember suddenly that time ticks inexorably forward. "I have been looking forward to our meeting." He sat down, smoothing his shirt as though sitting for a photograph. His expression grew wistful. "Somebody needs to write a good story about Raritania before progress and renovation change her face. I am, as you can see, a quite elderly man. I am still filled with energy, but I am 82 and who knows how much longer I can keep my arm on the tiller." Beering set his glass aside and regarded Jeff like a thing he was about to purchase. "You will occupy an office at World Anaconda, my publishing subsidiary, but before you assume senior editorial duties, you will spend six months on special assignment to me personally. You are to write the story of Raritania, but in so doing you are to work in the story of my family, and of me." His face grew hard and intent, his eyes bulging in their bleached sockets. His lips tightened into slits quivering with emotion. "The ancient pharaohs built their tombs, and the Romans built their temples, and the medieval kings built their cathedrals." He rose dramatically. "My ancestors built fine clocks, culminating with these great clock towers, and those are their legacy. I have built nothing but an empire of stocks and bonds, of leases and options and mergers. My legacy is a house of cards built on accounting tricks. I want something more of me to survive. That is why I am paying you to write your book. Please, don't fail me. Somehow, write a little of my spirit into it. Make me live forever. Can you do that?" he pleaded.
"I will do my best." Jeff had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he thought it would be fun to write a poetic ode to this haunting city. On the other hand, he was not about to compromise his independence and perform accolades to this tough old geezer who seemed chipped from granite. Jeff wasn't even sure he liked the man.
Beering closed himself back into his harsh armor. "I picked you," Beering said with a big puff of cigar smoke, looking comfortable with his power, "from a number of candidates that were suggested to me."
"And I appreciate that," Jeff said, feeling a bead of sweat warming the inside of his collar.
Beering puffed enthusiastically on his cigar. "I wanted somebody with credentials; that's your history doctorate. I wanted a good writer and editor; that's your background in Manhattan. I wanted somebody with integrity; that's your Army background, including medal for bravery; pulled a few guys from a burning tank, I hear." Beering's eyes scintillated coldly. "I wanted somebody with zeal; that's your financial situation; I figure that's the best motivation of all."
"I will give it all I've got," Jeff said. His palms suddenly felt sweaty. Since his divorce three years ago he'd managed to keep paying on the house he and Margo owned in Connecticut; now Margo was remarrying, the place was about to go into foreclosure, and he risked losing everything.
"Good," Beering said. "I give you six months, young man. I'm paying you top dollar and you should be able to get out of debt." He rose, and Jeff followed suit. "Write a good book, Maxxon. Keep me informed of your progress. Go on, nose around, poke into anything you wish. Just write a true and objective book." His gaze darkened. "Oh, and there is one little thing."
"What is that?" Jeff asked.
Beering laid his cigar aside and took a photograph from his desk drawer. He held it reverently. "Take a look."
Jeff saw a frontal snapshot of a youngish man wearing some kind of tuxedo. The photo looked dated. The man in the photo had an odd familiarity. He seemed about thirty, with a bulbous, balding head. He had a firm looking face, pinched lips, and piercing eyes. "This looks like an old snapshot," Jeff observed.
Albert Beering wore again that mask of mysteries. "You are looking at a relative of mine. I won't go into details. Note that face, memorize it, and report to me if you happen to stumble upon him. More I can't tell you now. Would you humor me?"
"Sure," Jeff said. "Can I keep the-?"
"No," Beering said, snatching the picture back. "It's special to me. You may never meet this individual, and that will be just as well. But if you do, I want you to call me immediately, at any hour, day or night. Will you do that?"
"Yes," Jeff said, puzzled.
"Good." Beering added, as an afterthought, "His name is Louis." Beering looked at his watch again. "I have another meeting scheduled. My granddaughter," he said as though that explained everything.
Even as they shook hands, Beering seemed to forget Jeff and, by the look in his eyes and the down set of his mouth, seemed to look ahead to some unpleasant business.
On the way out, Jeff saw walking toward him, with a pale and distraught face, Miss Lexa Whiston. He started to greet her, but she walked past him without seeing him. She walked toward Albert Beering's office. As the elevator door closed, Jeff saw a last glimpse of her fine figure and it dawned on him that she was most likely the granddaughter Beering had spoken of, and dangerous as it might be, he felt drawn to her.
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