The Lucifer Sanction (6 page)

They stepped into the Zurich International Terminal
and ambled toward a wall of greeters. A black suited man
flapped at passengers as they pulled baggage carts toward
exit doors. The black suited man’s sign showed one word,
‘Blake.’ He lowered it, stood erect and smiled as three
passengers passed on by. The black suited man’s smile
dissipated and his shoulders briefly drooped. When he
regained composure he redirected his attention at the few
stragglers still scanning the carousel.

The black suited man’s speech impediment became
quickly obvious. “Pleath to meet you. I am Klauth, Mr.
Danzig ith exthpecting you. I hope you had a very good
flight, pleath come thith way.”

“I’m not much of a salesman,” Dal whispered to
Blake. “But I’ll bet my left nut I can sell this guy a few
esses.”

He placed their luggage onto a cart and led them
to a platinum colored Rolls Royce Phantom, a private
limousine accessible to special guests of the Baur au Lac.

Twenty minutes into the drive, Bell said, “This is
styling it. I’ll bet Sam isn’t picking up the tab.”
On arrival at the hotel lobby the three couldn’t help
notice an excessive amount of construction noise. The
nearest concierge, a flush faced man in his early sixties
managed a friendly salutation despite the intermittently
blinking red lights atop a bank of phones.
“Welcome
to
the
Baur
au
Lac,
gentlemen,
madam.”
“That noise,” Dal shrugged, “when’s it gonna
stop?”
“In June, Monsieur,” the concierge replied. He
gave the wall clock a casual glance, “Unless we continue
to suffer further weather delays.”
“Just great,” Dal groaned. He turned on his heels
and eyeballed Blake. “I knew there’d be a catch. And uh,
what’s with that sign?” He flicked a thumb to a red and
white enameled notice: No animals permitted in hotel
except for seeing eye dogs.
“And your point is?” Blake asked.
“Who’s it for, the dog or the blind guy?”
Blake rolled his eyes, gave Dal a gentle jab to
the shoulder. “Good one, Dallas, you should’ve been a
comedian.”
“Yeah well, I’ve gotta try, if I don’t – this noise is
gonna drive me nuckin’ futs.”
Blake raised a finger. “Just thought of it, speaking of
dogs – how’s that golfing buddy of yours doing, you know,
Eddie – the guy whose dog got hit by the golf cart?”
“You ain’t gonna believe it,” a bemused Dal said,
“he took the dog to the vet and the guy lays the dog on the
table, takes a cat out of a cage and has the cat walk all over
the dog. Well, the dog doesn’t move, so the vet says, your
dog’s dead.”
“Jesus Christ!” Blake said, wide eyed. “You’re
kidding me – it died from the bump the golf cart gave it?”
“Yeah,” Dal continued, “and Eddie says, ‘so what
do I owe you, doc?’ And the dude says four hundred and
fifty bucks.”
“Four hundred and fifty? That seems a bit steep,”
Blake scoffed. “Why so much?”
Dal jabbed a finger into Blake’s chest. “He says fifty
bucks for the visit, and four hundred for the cat scan.”

“These guys have good taste,” Bellinger said in
an effort to quell Dal’s incessant whining. “Noise aside,
it isn’t too bad. Wait until you see the suites, you’ll forget
about the noise.”

Dal gave her a doubting glance. “The suites?” he
asked. “When did you stay here?”
“Last year . . . with Hunter.”
Blake and Dal sauntered off to a magazine store
in the lobby area, leaving Bell to handle check-in details.
Bell’s adeptness had a touch of class, an attribute sadly
lacking in her male counterparts. The CIA had recruited
Patrice Bellinger straight out of high school. Her father,
a High Court Judge, was aware of the agency’s interest in
his daughter. He enthusiastically supported their intent.
Her valedictorian status and many accolades placed her in
good standing with the CIA and her current employer – the
American Interpol Division.
She’d attended Harvard on a scholarship and had
come away with a Doctorate in Political Economics &
Government. She excelled as captain of the fencing team
and had taken her final season off to train for the Olympic
team. As a junior she joined the First-Team All-Ivy
League.
The United States Fencing Association announced
Patrice Bellinger’s selection to the team, and as a sophomore
she won the individual championship with a victory over
Ohio State’s, Magdalena Vichikov. Bell’s performance
catapulted the Crimson to its first ever combined NCAA
team championship. She was a two-time All-American,
a two-time All-Ivy League selection and was Ivy League
Rookie of the Year.
Blake and Dal returned to the reception counter as
Bell finished up with the concierge. Dal gave a disbelieving
shrug as his eye caught the daily rate - $541. He leaned into
Bell and chuckled, “With Hunter, huh? I didn’t realize you
and him had that kind of disposable income.”

Their adjoining suites were stylishly elegant with
sumptuous decor and marbled bathrooms. The complimentary mini-bars were an instant hit with Dal. He
kicked off his loafers, pulled an Absolute Vodka and a
Jim Beam, unscrewed the caps, and switched from one to
the other as Blake flicked through channels trying to find
anything in English.

Thirty minutes later made their way to the hotel’s
restaurant where Bell sat waiting. At eight forty-seven they
scrutinized the haute cuisine menu of the hotel’s Restaurant
Français. Blake ran tired eyes over the offerings, settling
on roulade, meat thinly sliced, rolled around a savory
filling secured string and browned and braised in wine. Dal
salivated over tournedos, a piece of tenderloin beef four
inches in diameter, the artistic presentation alone negating
the bank-breaking cost. Bell ordered shellfish prepared à la
nage, literally swimming in court bouillon, flavored with
herbs and served hot in its broth.

Blake worked slowly on the roulade, his eyes
lowered as he asked, “Bell, don’t you kind of miss
Hunter?”

A little later, Dal said pointedly, “I spoke with him
last week, says to give you his, uh...”
Bell dropped her silverware and stared him dead
in the eye, her voice cutting through him with surgical
precision. “Give me his what?” And she spat the word
‘what.’
Dal nearly choked on a chunk of tenderloin, his
eyes bulging as he tried washing it down with a half-glass
of Cabernet. “His eh – his very best. Yeah that’s it. Said to
give you his very best, that’s all.”
Without missing a beat, Bell flipped him the
finger.
“Hey – that ain’t nice,” Dal said, faking shock.
“Hey, yourself!” she snapped. “You deserve the
bird.”
Having avoided the Heimlich maneuver, Dal
chuckled, “Oh really! Giving me the bird, huh? That ain’t
too ladylike.”
He spent the next few minutes avoiding her stare,
taking small bites, chatting to Blake who, aside from an
occasional uh hu, uh hu, worked away on his roulade.
A smirk crossed Patrice Bellinger’s face as she took
in Dal’s ceaseless banter. He caught her smirk, broke off
his chatter with Blake, and bellowed, “What!”
Her smirk became a hearty laugh. “Aw – I was just
thinking of how you were such a perfect gentleman when
we first met. I recall Sam introducing you, Carson Dallas. I
was so impressed. First impressions can be so misleading.”
She laughed for a half-minute and then became strangely
silent. After playing with her food she reached for the
napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry – yeah, I really
do miss Hunter.”
Blake continued to toy with the roulade as Dal
coughed the words, “Come again?”
“I wish he could be with us for this job,” she
sighed.
“Get over it,” Dal said, eying his plate.
“Excuse me!” she snapped, making a screwed up
face.
Silence.
“Uh-oh,” Blake said placing his fork alongside his
plate. “Silence ain’t good – have speaks with me, Patrice,
Dal, anyone?”

Eight-thirty the following morning they enjoyed
breakfast at the trendy restaurant Rive Gauche. Hunter’s
name was unambiguously absent from the conversation.
Bell, feeling
a little off from the previous night of
drinking, turned away from Dal as he finished a bottle of
Gewürztraminer. She flashed him an extra special look of
revulsion as he set about devouring a platter of oysters.

“Why not?” Dal queried. He tapped a finger on the
empty bottle. “It’s on the tab, right?”
“Oysters for breakfast?” Bell snapped. “Give me
a break.” Her complexion changed from her usual pink to
a pale hue. “I need to head upstairs,” she said. “I’m not
feeling good.”
Dal grinned as she flung her chair back. “Something
you ate?” he called as she shot out of the restaurant like a
cork from a bottle of Perriet Jouet.
Blake was amused by the scene and took the last
pull from his cappuccino. Dal gazed about the restaurant as
Blake held a mouthful of coffee.
“And what’s with this leaving a piece of chocolate
on the pillow?” Dal scoffed. “I woke this morning and
thought my brain had hemorrhaged fuckin’ fecal matter.”
Blake leaned to his left, tapped a finger on Dal’s
forehead and sniggered, “Amazing how you show no signs
of neurological damage. Mental backup in progress – do
not disturb!”

CHAPTER SIX
Andermatt, Central Alps
Switzerland
March 25
7.05 A: M

The man reminded Blake of the quintessential
Colonel Klink. Conversation was minimal during their
drive from the hotel to the private hangar. Bell looked hung
over, Dal
was
hung over, and Blake was a prodigiously
miserable morning person even without the booze.

Blake gave the passing scenery a short glance and
moaned to himself, “Is it legal for the sun to be up this
early?”

The wipers struggled as they cleared accumulated
snowflakes from the windshield of the Benz.
“The road from Gothard is snowed in,” the driver
said apologetically. “So we will avail ourselves of the
foundation’s helicopter.”
He turned his head to the
passengers and put a slight laugh in his voice. “Far better
than the two hour drive less important dignitaries must
endure.”
Blake kept a serious face and asked the driver,
“What’s your name?”
“Arno.”
Dal peered at a flight-control tower barely visible
through the increasing white mist. He asked, “So eh, where
are we headed, Arno?”
“To Andermatt, a small village not well known to
tourists. Our Swiss Army trains there.”
The driver sniggered, hunched his shoulders then
whispered as though sharing a secret. “It tends to dissuade
sightseers, and provides an added advantage of free
security.”
Blake caught the driver’s eyes in the rear view
mirror. He nudged Dal and said, “Must make for fun
weekends, huh?”
“Yes, the soldiers leave us in peace on weekends.
That is when we see some tourists – only on the weekends.
Not during the weekdays, that is when we have it to
ourselves, when we test our...”
He paused, cognizant of overstepping his mark.
Blake caught Dal’s look of ‘
what the fuck’
but kept
his eyes locked on the rear view mirror where the driver’s
apprehensive look still hung.
Silence.
Blake pressed. “You were saying you test, eh –
what exactly?”
The driver ignored the question.
Blake pressed a little more. “On weekdays, Arno –
you test what?”
“Best you wait to have that question answered.
We will arrive at Andermatt shortly, enjoy the flight. Your
transportation is just ahead.”
A baggage cart pulling a chopper on a trailer
emerged from a hangar. Within minutes the rotor began its
familiar whop, whop, whop gyrations. Two minutes after
climbing aboard and at one thousand feet, all three were
gazing down at the Zurich traffic.
Minutes later Bell shouted at the pilot and pointed
to a ski resort to their right. “That’s a ski lift, are we nearly
there?”
“Yes, it is the cable car at Gemsstock. We will set
down in a few minutes.”
“Haven’t been on snow since Big Bear,” Dal
shouted, “It looks promising!”
It took the pilot a few minutes to negotiate a landing
between steep mountainous slopes. The chopper blades
stirred the powdery snow, causing an opaque cloud of
white to engulf them. A building constructed of aluminum
or perhaps titanium came into view as though materializing
from another world.
A white suited man ran to greet them, squinted and
turned his face away briefly as the down-thrust from the
chopper shot fresh snow about the landing area. He held
one arm across his face to shield his eyes. The chopper
pilot leaned across, patted Blake’s knee, and jabbed a
finger toward the man who was momentarily obscured by
a fresh flurry. The rotor continued whirling as Bell, Blake
and Dal were assisted from the cabin, kept their heads low
and made the eighty yard dash toward the building. Dal
turned to Blake as they ran and made a shrugging gesture.
Blake ignored it.
Bell caught the gesture and called aloud, “What’s
going on?”
Blake considered his response for a few moments,
couldn’t come up with an answer, and spouted out, “Just
roll with the blows, okay.”
“Welcome to Libra,” the white suited man said
with a half-bow. “Your luggage will arrive shortly, please
follow me; we have private suites for our guests. There is
appropriate clothing laid out for each of you. Please shower,
relax. I am sure you are not only wet but also very cold. We
will send for you in an hour or so.”
Ninety minutes later Dal sat in a small dining area,
stared into his cup and sighed, “Ah – hot chocolate.”
Bell stroked her cup, placed it against her cheek,
felt the warmth and ran her tongue around the edge, playing
with the foam on top. Dal groaned, pretended to ignore
her sexuality. She persisted in taunting him by pouting
her lips and sensually blowing into the cup. “Welcome to
Switzerland,” she said, holding his stare. “Have to tell you,
Dallas - that shower was sooo good.”
A woman in a white smock appeared from a door
marked Staff Only. Blake pulled himself away from his
chocolate fondue, carefully manipulated a small smear
with his finger, endured Bell’s disapproval as he sucked
the finger clean, and walked toward the woman. He wiped
the finger across his sleeve and thanked her for the fresh
strawberries and chocolate.
“Sorry,” Blake shrugged. “Just so darned good I
didn’t wanna waste a bit.”
Her tone was abrupt, demanding. “Please, come
this way.”
Blake thought it was more of an order than a request.
“Are we off for coffee?” he asked, then turned and shuddered at Dal.
The woman ignored his gesture.
They snaked their way along a wide metallic
passageway to adjoining guest rooms, to the accompaniment
of elevator music. Blake and Dal entered the first of the two
rooms. It was windowless yet had curtains made of a silver
colored organza.
Bell slid a curtain back revealing a solid white
wall, a fake feel, cold, uninviting. Blake stepped into a
suite, tested one of the beds, attempted bouncing, stopped
on the third bounce and grimaced. Accepting his resolve,
he stretched out, kicked off his loafers, and with a note of
disbelief nodded to a ceiling mounted dome and groaned,
“Elevator music.”
“Kenny fuckin’ G,” Dal sniggered from the other
bed.
“Yeah,” Blake said, “even worse.”
A gruff voice came from a large chair opposite their
beds. The chair turned until the seated man faced them.
“Forgive me for intruding on the privacy of your sleeping
quarters. I am Doctor Gerhardt Beckman. No doubt you
have questions.” He stood and reached a welcoming hand
to Blake. “Allow me to familiarize you with our work
here.”
Gerhardt Beckman was a handsome silver haired
Germanic attestation to Arian supremacy. He walked with
pride, with meaning – a candor one might expect from the
master race had they not been the losers. He walked to the
blank windowless wall, paused and stared at the organza
curtain as his hand fingered a remote. The curtain opened,
revealing a movie screen.
Dal shrugged and waved a slow hand at the
screen. “We’re gonna want popcorn and Pepsi if this is a
main feature, but I ain’t gonna complain if you only have
Schnapps.”
Beckman was nonplussed. “There was a period not
so long ago when it was believed time machines would
never come to fruition. To this day many scientists are
impaired by tunnel vision and are in a sense missing their
- hmm, what can I call it?” Beckman paused, rubbed his
chin. “Yes of course, they are not finding their ‘missing
link.’ Tunnel vision results from their Neolithic-like belief
in today’s basic physical laws. With all of their postulating
and with all of their brilliant physicists they become so
entrenched in dogmatic belief that they have allowed their
mathematical theorems to establish the impossibility of
travel to parallel universes.”
He pressed another button on his remote and a
section of the wall opened revealing a panoramic snow
scene. Dal moved to the window and followed a skier
making zigzag patterns down a distant slope. He glanced
at an air duct ten feet above and thanked God for efficient
heating, the outside air being frigid and cold enough to keep
a Santa Monica boy indoors. Blake recognized the ‘off with
the pixies’ oblivious stare on Dal’s face. He knew full well
his partner would be asking for a layman’s translation of
Beckman’s discussion.
“Agent Blake - not only can time machines be
constructed but we at Libra have fragmented central
problems in the foundations of physics. Those who are
aware of our research – but not of our progress – still hunt
for time machines in general relativity theory. Of course,
as you Americans say, they are barking up the wrong tree.
They believe that mathematical theorems related to various
aspects of time machines are associated with the search of
a quantum theory of gravity.
“Theories amount to little less than a ‘follow the
leader’ row of ducks waddling along the peripheries of a
H.G. Wells’ imaginary tale of time travel. These people
are existentialists. What we need are more transcendental
physicists, which I’m proud to say - we have here at Libra.
More people who realize it is not a matter of ‘if’’ super
terrestrial civilizations exist but how we can interact with
those alien life forms, those ‘little gray men’ who’ve
mastered wormhole travel, those who can manipulate a
football sized craft silently around our most advanced air
force and vanish in the blink of an eye - making no sound,
leaving no heat trail.”
“So you’re saying those UFO shows are creditable,
huh Doc?” Dal asked, giving the subject his full attention –
extra-terrestrial life having been Dal’s high school thesis.
“Not all are creditable. However there are many
sightings by reputable and extremely reliable sources that
are beyond doubt, totally creditable. Air force personnel,
commercial pilots, police officers, military, the majority of
these sources cannot be dismissed.”
Dal: “So Doc, do you have an opinion on Area
51?”
Beckman moved to the window, tapped on the glass
and nodded at the distant slope. He gestured at the skier
who’d now reached the flatter area at the mountain’s base.
He ignored Dal’s query. A heavy knocking robbed Dal of
further discussion as Beckman motioned toward the large
stainless steel entry. He removed a second remote from his
pocket and engaged the opener and a middle-aged blonde
haired man entered.
“Allow me to introduce Doctor Francois le Blanc.
Francois is head physicist here at Libra. He is the technology
wizard behind our leap into the future.” Beckman paused,
broke into a chuckle and added, “Or should I say . . . into
the past?”
Blake, Bellinger and Dal introduced themselves to
the affable le Blanc. He nodded and made a clicking sound
with his heels. “Je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer.”
Bake said, “Let’s dispense with the formalities,
I’m Blake, the blond guy here’s Dal, and this is Patrice
Bellinger.”
They exchanged handshakes and Blake said, “I’ve
got a question, actually I’ve a bunch of questions. The
acronyms I see plastered all about this place – LPA – what
is it?”
“I assumed my colleague informed you we are an
internationally supported foundation known as Libra Pubis
Aeternas, or Libra as we prefer to be known.”
“Sounds obscene,” Dal frowned.
The younger man chuckled, a warm, pleasant
sound. “On the contrary, it is Latin and translates to eternal
balance of population.”
“I knew that,” Dal said flippantly.
Blake cocked his head to one side; and asked with a
deeply curious look on his face, “So then, you gentlemen,
you’re the, eh . . . the self -elected population police?”
Both Beckman and le Blanc exchanged disdainful
glances and Blake caught the body language.
Blake asked, “You mind sharing what we’re being
denied here? I mean, you say you’re an internationally
supported foundation and that you can reduce the causes
of overpopulation. I understand you’ve got the nod from
some of the big boys back home - but who exactly funds
the operation, who’s giving your people the backing?”
There was a long silence. Beckman leaned toward
a flat screen at one side of his desk, gently touched the
monitor and slid a finger across the screen. A cylindrical
beam projected from a small dome inconspicuously set
into the metallic ceiling. The form of a man materialized
within the cylinder.
The figure stood frozen, and after a minute had
passed he began to move his fingers and flexed somewhat
as life traveled up his arms and released full mobility. He
stepped from beneath the light source, smiled and moved
toward Gerhardt Beckman.
Bell reached for Blake’s hand, squeezed it tightly as
they stood in awe of what had just taken place, their eyes
searching the room for whatever trickery had created the
illusion.
Hans Beckman stepped from beneath the dome,
and seated himself at the table.
“Good day, Agent Blake, Agent Dallas, Miss
Bellinger. I see you have met the brains behind our foundation, Francois and Gerhardt.” He gestured at one of the
men. “Do you require my presence, Francois?”
The three agents stood in a trance like state. Dal
jabbed his elbow into Blake’s rib cage and mumbled
incoherently, “What the fuck! Did you see what I saw? Tell
me it’s some kinda computer trickery, what the . . .”
Blake turned to Beckman who was touching another
section of the panel and then threw a daggers look at Bosch.
“What the hell is this, Bosch? You get around, don’t you
Hans? And I thought we moved fast. How’d you get here
so quickly? Where’s your buddy, Danzig? Why’d you skip
out on the meeting with us . . . with Sam?”
“Questions, questions, questions, Agent Blake, so
many questions. Ah yes, the Particle Accelerant Chamber,
a grandchild of the Enterprise – a Captain Kirk bi-product
– another case of fiction evolving into reality.” He walked
on by the three agents and leaned into the doctor’s ear. “Do
you really need me here, Francois?”
“Merci, Hans. Our guests are inquiring about our
mandate. C’est permissable pour les dire tout? I am sure
your presence vindicates me of blame should I disclose any
umm...” He sniggered, pulled a face, “. . . well, should I
disclose any proprietary information.”
Bosch nodded and adopted a more serious demeanor. It was the first time Blake had seen the absence of
the German’s ever-present grin.
“Proprietary? Hmm, I would say