The Lucifer Sanction (9 page)

Bosch waved Danzig off, making it quite clear his
associate would have no further participation in the science
lesson.
“Please do not doubt our resolve, Agent Bellinger,”
Bosch sneered. “Their loss is an insignificant price to pay
for the progress of science.”

CHAPTER NINE
Venice, Italy
April 1, 2015

Dom Moreau glanced at the disc and read the
coordinates: Forty-five degrees, twenty-six feet and nineteen
minutes north. His face took on a defeatist scowl, aware of
his failure to travel to the required point of departure.

The malfunctioning converter disc had him locked
into a radius of less than three hundred miles of Poitiers,
unable to move beyond points north of the 12th parallel.
Zurich was now beyond reach - his easterly movement
allowed him access only as far as Venice.

Aside from his failure to meet with his associate,
Moreau’s mission was complete. He’d successfully spread
the Bubonic Plague from China to Europe.

The pandemic hit Pisa in 1348 and quickly traveled
to Florence, on to Rome and Bologna. Once in Venice, it
rapidly moved into southern Germany and Austria; from
Genoa it crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea to Marseilles, France
and Barcelona, Spain. It continued through the towns of
southern France and reached Paris and England by early
June of 1348 and the Low Countries by the summer of
1349. Moreau had indeed ‘completed his mission,’ or so he
wanted Libra to believe.

Dom Moreau gazed at the small group of parishioners gathering near the entrance to the basilica.
Campion, with his flame red hair, would be immediately
recognizable, his crop difficult to conceal even beneath a
hat. On the occasion of their first meeting in Dordogne, a
local villager had tagged him Denis le Rouge, Denis the
Red.

The Dom’s attire drew a few giggles, a few pointers,
but a passing young man dressed as a renaissance fair flutist
legitimized Moreau’s 14th century attire. He gestured at
onlookers and smiled briefly at the flutist. He had a vague
familiarity with the Palazzo, having been there on one
occasion with Campion.

In 1849 the Palazzo was celebrating its first year of
existence. The water level within Venice wasn’t yet an issue.
Merchants bustled in a trading frenzy from one business
to the next. The colorful Fondaco houses sat several feet
higher than the present day’s sinking survivors.

Dom Moreau started for the basilica’s front door.
Inside he found a scattering of worshipers, but could see no
red headed man among them. He returned to the coordinates
opposite the Grand Canal - it was now twelve forty-five. A
drunken straggler clutching a grappa bottle appeared just
as Moreau was checking his disc. He stumbled forward and
said, “Please can you spare some change? My wine - it is
all gone.”

At precisely twelve forty-six the bottle shattered at
the straggler’s feet. Moreau had dematerialized before his
eyes.

CHAPTER TEN
Zurich
March 26, 2015
8.17 A: M

On the morning of March 26 at precisely eightfifteen, an olive-skinned man met with three Interpol
operatives. A master of hand-to-hand medieval combat,
it was the olive-skinned man’s job to prepare this group
for survival in the 14th century. He greeted Bell, Dal and
Blake as they struggled assisting one another pulling on
hose, adjusting surcoats and tugging chain-mail over their
heads.

“Good morning, good morning, good morning. My
name is R-A-O-U-L.” He bowed graciously as he spelled
out each distinct letter. “You can call me Raoul.”

Blake’s first impression of the massive room was
that it could be an indoor arena. Dal took four involuntary
paces forward, sparked partly by curiosity and partly by
Bell prodding him from behind. As Raoul led them by an
array of hanging straw dummies he gestured at the generic
warriors. “We’re here to give you a taste of what will likely
confront you upon transference.” Raoul’s European features
dimmed. “Medieval European fighting styles aren’t as
some expect, not the swashbuckling fencing antics of the
three musketeers, most unlike rapier oriented movies.”

He moved to an assortment of broadswords,
daggers, gruesome metal spiked balls attached to lengths
of chain, and a solitary foil. Bell grinned and placed a hand
on the foil.

“Yes, Agent Bellinger, we are aware of your fencing
prowess, most impressive indeed. This is obviously your
weapon of choice.”

He selected two massive swords and passed one to
Blake and the other to Dal.
“I wish to see each of you gentlemen attack one of
our practice soldiers and make short work of the victim.
And please, I would like you to do so in very short time.”
“Why the time frame?” Blake asked curiously.
“You will not have time to procrastinate when you
face an enraged Frenchman thrashing at you with one of
these,” and he raised the largest of the swords.
Dal asked, “Short fights or else, huh?”
“You will find that a person quickly runs out
of breath in the course of battle, Agent Dallas. You will
commence with vigor, with enthusiasm, but the energy will
rapidly dissipate. Therefore the length of an engagement is
of the essence.”
“You’re gonna time us?” Dal asked.
“Yes, I have a stop watch.”
“How long’s an actual fight average?” Dal asked
curiously.
“I estimate – hmm – about twenty.”
Dal groaned, “About twenty minutes? There’s no
way can I swing one of these for twenty fuckin’ minutes.”
Raoul sniggered, “Seconds, Agent Dallas – twenty
seconds.”
Blake gave a smile and chuckled, “Oookay.”
“I’m out,” Dal snapped, and placed his sword back
on the table. “Give me a foil like Bell has.”
“You’re out?” Blake laughed, “Wha’dya mean -
‘out’?”
There was a long pause. No answer.
“You must be coached in the use of the broadsword,”
Raoul said. “The foil will not suffice for either of you. The
broadsword is mandatory.”
Two minutes later Bell lunged with her foil while
Dal and Blake fumbled about with weighty broadswords.
Raoul had each man attack a suspended straw dummy,
instructing them in the art of effectively cutting with
forceful precision.
“The key to fighting is to rely on footwork,” he
grunted as he demonstrated to an exhausted Dal. “You, I
can see, have obviously never learned to dance.”
Dal caught Blake’s chuckle.
“Watch me,” Raoul said as he leaped across Dal’s
line of vision. “You must be light of foot, use your shield
for defense while counter cutting.”
He breathed heavy as he wheeled the sword about,
cutting huge chunks of straw from the suspended dummy.
Dal
whispered
to
Blake,
“Rudolph
fuckin’
Nureyev.”
Raoul pirouetted, leaped back to the other side of
Dal, and paused to regain breath. “The art of counter cutting
means you must unite movements,” Raoul wheezed. “They
must be offensive and defensive at the same time. When
you cut . . .” and he severed the head from the dummy, “. .
. in the midst of battle with vast chaos of clashing people,
each thrashing insanely with no desire other than to separate
you from your limbs, your cut must be a defense against
the opponent’s blows. With their assortment of medieval
weapons, practical techniques can sometimes go by the
wayside.”
He sprang between Dal and the demolished dummy,
thrust his shield into Dal’s chest and sent him sprawling
across the ground. He placed a foot lightly on Dal’s chest
and laughed, “If a situation deems it necessary you will
need to quickly learn to perform without weapons, perhaps
even without armor.” Then in an unexpected move, Raoul
lowered the pointed tip of the shield to Dal’s crotch. “This
is especially important if your opponent does not adhere
to chivalrous concepts. We do not want this to happen, do
we?” He made a faked lunge causing Dal to slam his knees
together and quickly drop his hands to his groin.
It was a four hour crash-course in self-defense,
switching from mace to dagger, ax to broadsword, gaining
knowledge of backup weapons and even the use of a shield
as a hacking tool, familiarizing each man with balance,
developing a greater sense of distance and timing.
Blake, winded from wheeling the broadsword
during his ‘counter cutting,’nudged Dal. He flicked a thumb
at Raoul and groaned, “The man’s a fuckin’ impala.”
Collapsing into a haystack alongside the sand
covered oval, Dal asked Raoul, “What’s with all this
hay?”
A large door opened and two enormous simulated
chargers were guided out by four of the Libra staff who
pushed them along with twenty foot long guiding rods
extending back of each equine. They resembled Trojan
horses. Each was mounted on a platform and ran along on
rubber-tired wheels.
Blake frowned at Dal, leaned on the pommel of
his sword, and grated, “You just had to fuckin’ ask, didn’t
you?”
Raoul said, “Your resumes indicate all three of you
are accomplished riders.”
Blake rubbed painfully at his hip and moaned.
“Yeah, we get out once in a while. Accomplished? Yeah –
that’d be us.”
Dal reluctantly added, “Annually – like every
February
29.”
His
wisecrack
was
wasted
on
the
Frenchman.
Raoul placed a hand on top of the pommel. “Knowing
how to ride is not sufficient for survival, you need to be
agile on horseback. The French knights with whom you
may come in contact will identify your skill level by your
posture, by your movement. Both qualities are common to
professional soldiers, not to peasants or craftsmen . . . and
uh, Agent Dallas . . . those qualities are clearly lacking in
leap-year riders.”

At two fifteen Blake twiddled a pencil and beat
out a tentative drum roll with the eraser end. After a few
moments of deep thought he took a notepad from a desk
drawer.

His apprehension caught Bell’s eye. “What are you
doing?”
Dal glanced across, saw Blake writing, and asked
sarcastically, “Hey, Sir Galahad, are you making a shopping
list, m’ Lord?”
“Whatever,” Blake said dismissively, his body
aching from the intense workout. He tore the page from
its pad, slowly folded it and tucked it into the pocket of his
vest.
At two-thirty they were escorted by the wardrobe
assistant; she cast a cursory eye over Dal’s hose as he
summarily dismissed her. It was a brief moment but it
earned a chuckle from Bell. The woman led them to the
familiarization room where they were met by Bosch,
Beckman and Danzig.
“You are all most impressive,” Beckman smiled.
“Raoul speaks highly of your training session, most
especially of yours, Agent Dallas.”
Bell and Blake gave Dal an encouraging smile;
Dal interpreted it as sarcasm or at the very least -
condescension.
“You are about to contribute to history,” Beckman
said. “We will await your transmission from the converter
discs at which time we will implement your return, but uh
- along with the Lucifer ampoules of course.”
Beckman spent the next fifteen minutes repeating
the procedure and reassuring each that they would indeed
return to Zurich – to this very room. After much head shaking
and glancing from one to the other, the group made their
way to the sterile steel room where the suspended shapes
of their predecessors lay. Blake hesitantly stood back and
stared at the lids as each was slid from its chamber. He
gave further painful consideration to the task at hand.
“Mirrors,” Dal groaned as he peered into the nearest
chamber. “It’s a house of fuckin’ mirrors.”
“Yes, of sorts,” Bosch said. “You will see multiple
images, just as you would in the house of mirrors at an
amusement park. You will also be in communication with
our team at all times prior to particle beam injection. Not
unlike the movie, Contact.”
“Contact, huh? I can see that. So I’m able to travel
back and visit my old man on some tropical beach when
uh - when he was a kid?”
“That can be arranged,” Beckman said chuckling.
“Perhaps on your next excursion.”
“Whatever,” Blake said, dismissively.
“I’ll hold you to that, Doc,” Dal smirked. “I never
did get to meet my old man after he left. Maybe I’ll just
consider this assignment a training mission.”
Blake moved to the center chamber. “Guess I’ll play
piggy in the middle. This way, when I get back, whichever
way I turn I’m gonna see one of your ugly asses.”
They carefully climbed up four steps and descended
into their respective chamber. The floor of each was bodymolded in a comfortable chaise impression with a pillow
positioned to accommodate their heads. Once in a reclining
position they wriggled about in an effort to find the most
comfortable setting.
Libra technicians stood by in readiness for the
sealing process as Beckman, Danzig, Bosch and le Blanc
moved to positions on an elevated viewing platform housing
control panels and numerous monitoring screens. Beckman
pressed a series of buttons and took one long look at his
monitor. He grinned at the clear images of each chamber’s
passenger. He leaned forward, looked toward the chambers,
and said through a lapel-mounted microphone, “Are we all
set then?”
Blake anticipated the rushing sensation Beckman
had described. An electric shock-like tingling sensation
shot through him and he thought,
isn’t so bad.
And then the
full ferocity of the particle defragmentation hit home.
Their faces contorted as vocal chords strained
at full capacity. Their screams went unheard - the Libra
personnel were far too preoccupied observing rising and
dipping waves on an array of monitors.
And so it began.

The plague began in Sicily in October of 1347. It
reached France in January of 1348; raged in Paris until
1349. It spread to England in August of 1348 and continued
until early 1350. It reoccurred in 1360 and 1369.

The European toll is estimated at one third of
that continent’s population, a staggering twenty million
people.

Cities worst hit were Avignon with a loss of half
its population totaling twenty-five thousand citizens. It
then claimed half of the Parisian population, another fifty
thousand victims. It swept across the Chanel to London
where it claimed a third of the population, eighteen thousand
citizens. Sienna and Venice lost two thirds of their citizens,
while Hamburg lost three fifths of its population. Outside
of the cities, two hundred thousand countryside villagers
were wiped out by the pandemic.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Maupertuis, France
September 17 1356
10.39 A: M