The Lucifer Sanction

by Denaro, Jason

  “This is my most prized possession, awarded to my grandfather by the Führer. I am giving it to you to wear for us - for the fatherland. Wear it for ein neues Deutschland. Bring it safely home, verstehen sie, Günter?”

  Beckman placed the Iron Cross over Neuberg’s hood and lowered the silver helm over his chain-mail. The knight made his way toward the Particle Transfer Chamber as Bosch, Le Blanc and Danzig took up positions by the control panel.

  “Come along, Günter,” Beckman said. “Take one more look at the others.”

  When Neuberg reached the farthest chamber, he placed a hand on top, turned and raised his visor. He gave the suspended Dominic Moreau a long gaze. “I recall our initiation into Libra,” he said. “Whoever would have thought it would be me who would play the Anti-Christ. I will see you shortly, my friend.”

  “Please, Günter, no sentimentality,” Beckman snapped. “You must not think of your role as such. You are going to be...” Beckman hesitated, leaned heavily on his words. “You are going to be a savior.”

  Neuberg turned away from Moreau, glanced at Campion, shook his head and moved to the chamber. With apprehension, he ascended the final rung, paused and then reluctantly stepped into the unit. He removed one gauntlet, laid it on his chest, closed the visor and with his ungloved hand took a firm grip on the broadsword.

  Bosch, Danzig and Beckman stood at the control panel as a mist seeped into the chamber. Beckman pressed a sequence of buttons. Neuberg’s helm vibrated with the occupant’s silent scream. His pain was a millisecond long, his jerking body falling into immediate rest.

  Danzig spoke to Beckman through the side of his mouth, keeping his eyes on the mist as it engulfed Neuberg. “You think Moreau and Campion will be alive when Neuberg locates them, if in fact he ever does?”

  “Moreau and Campion left here wearing English attire,” Beckman said. “The three American agents also wore English uniforms. If they are with Edward’s forces they are indeed with the victors. But one thing for certain, all five will quickly learn who their friends are.”

  “Did Neuberg question the device?” Danzig asked.

  “Minimally,” he exhaled. “And may God have mercy on us all.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gardner Hunter

  Santa Barbara, California

  March 27, 2015

  11A: M

  An anonymous call from the disgruntled Libra physicist came into Sam’s office at eleven o’clock.

  “So, you’re the guy who’s still working at Libra?”

  “Yes, but the others, they do not suspect me,” and the caller went through a few minutes explaining his involvement and the circumstances surrounding the ‘accident.’

  “Run that by me again,” Sam said, “the bit about killing off the other scientists.”

  “A small group of us disagreed with certain aspects of the Libra project. They were heading into the resort to pick up supplies. I stayed back at the facility to correct a minor malfunction, fortunately for me; had I gone along I would have perished with the others.”

  “Perished - how?”

  “Their vehicle went off a cliff, a terrible fire – there were no survivors.”

  “And you say there are three others working beneath the main facility?”

  “Yes, beneath the main structure. We have an area that is used for storage, you know, for superseded equipment, for obsolete prototype transfer chambers, like that. Most of them get stripped down for parts.”

  “And the guys upstairs in the, uh - what is it you called it - in the main control room? Those guys, they’re sending another of their people back?”

  “Sending him back, that is correct, his name is Günter Neuberg.”

  “So this guy, this Neuberg, he’s gonna go back to get our guys?”

  There was a long pause. Like a priest in a confessional, the Interpol Chief painfully listened to an extended explanation of what appeared to be an assassination mission by Günter Neuberg.

  “Mr. Ridkin, I’ve planned well for my retirement. I’ve sent files to Los Angeles. You’ll need to meet with my man - with an agreed upon sum of money.”

  “Why not send these files directly to our office?”

  “Far too risky. I’ve sold information to this person on other occasions. I need a nest egg, Mr. Ridkin. This person is what you might call my agent in America. A middle man. He’ll call you on this line within the hour.”

  Sam checked his wristwatch, eleven twenty-three. “Sounds like espionage to me.”

  “True. Yes, espionage, but why not? It maintains a balance of power. It keeps CERNA and Libra in check. He’ll want funds. For this he’ll pass pertinent files to you. I suggest you send along your best people if you wish to see your other three transported safely to our time.”

  Sam rose to his feet, walked to the window overlooking Wilshire and once again – stared at the traffic. This guy could be nothing more than an extortionist, he thought. No, he knows too much, has to be genuine, perhaps greedy, perhaps genuinely concerned as well as greedy. Doesn’t matter. The funds are there for cases like this. I can’t risk not going along with the scheme. “Okay, we have a deal. What’s your name?”

  Click.

  He remained seated for a while, the receiver still pressed to his ear. For Sam Ridkin the world began a slow motion spin. His three guys were trapped in some God forbidden time-warp and a bunch of crazed scientists whom he’d been led to trust were now questionable. The possibility of assigning Gardner Hunter flashed through his mind. He thought but is Hunter ready?

  He moved into the small restroom, ran the water, gave a tired look into the mirror. His hair looked none the worse after the disheveling from scrubbing all ten fingers through it numerous times. He pressed his thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks, pressed gently. His lips pouted and he relaxed the pressure, moved closer, placed a finger below an eye, pulled down gently and cringed at the bloodshot white as the words repeated in his mind – Hunter, Hunter, Hunter.

  He thought of Hunter’s previous assignment, of how it caused his breakdown. He gazed at his reflection and said, “Hunter, Hunter, Hunter - you think that last assignment was stressful - now I’m gonna send you to some place in time - oh sure, this is gonna go down just fine.”

  He moved slowly from the restroom to the kitchen area, a clandestine meeting with an old friend, Jim Beam. He pulled Jim from the red liquor cabinet - not the earliest he’d asked James to assist with a decision. Ten minutes later Jim was gone and Sam found himself sitting alone, staring mindlessly into the bottom of a glass. He wearily glanced about, took a blurred look at the wall clock, checked it against his wrist watch - eleven fifty-five. He heard the front desk phone buzz to life. A moment later, Marcie tapped on the door. Sam pulled at his lip, raised his eyes slowly and gave a glazed look at his secretary. He thought about Hunter’s therapy, of how Hunter had always been happy whenever a new mission to a far off place came up. Then he thought, far off, hmm, this one’ll crank his motor.

  The Interpol Chief had placed Gardner Hunter on an eight month disability. The mission in Germany left Hunter with an extreme nervous condition. He’d gained a few pounds over the past year but had retained his two most treasured attributes, a plus two golf handicap and skills as a cat burglar – a stealth-like ability to access any secure situation.

  First indication of a breakdown became obvious when his gun hand began trembling. Drew Blake suspected Hunter’s imminent breakdown, a fear confirmed on a preassignment briefing when Hunter shook his head, backed away and mumbled, “Count me out of this one.”

  The refusal went on report and Gardner Hunter was granted immediate medical leave.

  **** Now, a year later, Hunter was at peace in his world

  – in his incense filled small apartment outside of Santa Barbara. He’d placed three calls through to the AID office, left messages with Marcie Bryant, waited in anticipation of a call from Sam.

  Billy Joel played softly in the background doing his seventies hit,
Just the Way You Are. Hunter had heard rumors of Blake, Dal and Bellinger’s European assignment – he’d thought it strange none of the three contacted him prior to setting off. He’d put Marcie Bryant through the usual third degree, three times, but Marcie denied knowledge of any assignment.

  Perfumed incense catapulted him to past times, to days when blood had yet to stain his hands, a time when as a young man he was recruited by the Secret Service, moved onto the CIA and finally found himself alongside Drew Blake and Carson Dallas at an American Interpol Division familiarization seminar.

  As he brooded around his small apartment, it occurred to him that he was a pretty boring guy. The kind of guy you couldn’t really put a label on. Some guys smoked pot, some drank too much coffee. Hunter did neither, just went through a bottle of Courvoisier each week. He listened to his seventies classics. If his mood was somber, he’d listen to Dr. Hook - their hit I’m gonna Love You a Little Bit More conjured up memories of nights spent with Patrice Bellinger. It was one of their songs. He’d break out of that mood by reviving the seventies. The Bee Gee’s Staying Alive, Rod Stewart’s Maggie May, but Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge over Troubled Water brought on a morose mood and would send him back to more sad times. He’d press the fast forward and get to The Eagles singing one of his trusty pick-me-up numbers Hotel California. When he wanted to belt one out, he’d do an accompaniment to Don McLean’s, American Pie.

  Gardner Hunter lay on a beat-up leather sofa by the light of an incense stick, shook his head to the beat of the music, threw down another Courvoisier and reminisced of happier days with Patrice Bellinger. Incense was their perfume, the seventies classics - their songs. A romanticist, he’d not had another woman since Bell - well - not in the true sense of having. Two cognac glasses and an ever present bottle of Courvoisier sat on the table by the sofa. The second glass was always there – he just never placed it back in the China cabinet. But every few days he’d pick it up, give it a slow wipe over, gaze silently at its emptiness. He’d whisper, “Hello Bell.”

  For Hunter, the end of the affair was the beginning of his descent into the maelstrom of depression. He’d taught Bell many things, but being a true southern gentleman, he never discussed that period in their lives. He’d taught her his greatest skill, how to kill a man using a blade. Bell mastered the art. Her skill as an Olympic fencer also stood her well, but it was Hunter who showed her the ease with which she could slit a throat. Patrice Bellinger took it in stride, coming through her internship with honors.

  Not so Gardner Hunter.

  Hunter poured the cognac as he eyed the caller’s name on his cell. He was quick to answer; the call had been a long time coming.

  “Hello Sam, I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this call. Where’s Bell?”

  Sam took a moment to catch the background music. “Can’t answer that, I see you’ve got your golden oldies playing.”

  Hunter looked around and smiled at his sound system. “I need to be with ‘em, with Drew and Dal. I need to be with Bell.”

  Sam thought I like that. After a few moments of silence he said, “I understand, Gard.”

  “Sam, I feel honor bound to be with ‘em.”

  Sam leaned on an authoritative tone. “Honor bound, is that what you call it? Have you forgotten it was you who wanted the leave of absence?”

  “Goddammit, Sam! I needed it and now I’m over it, okay?”

  Boogie Wonderland wailed away as Earth Wind and Fire did their best to block out Sam’s voice.

  “Over it!” Sam said after cooling down a few degrees. “A few months of over it, is that it then?”

  Hunter shook his head and Sam visualized his mood, his expression. He paused for several beats and disguised his emotional instability. “I don’t wanna overreact on the phone, Sam, but my therapist says I’m ready to come back.”

  “So we have a favorable analysis, do we?”

  “Yeah, she says my psychopathic desire to slit throats has rekindled sufficient enough that I’m ready to come home to roost, to be put back on the roster, you know what I’m sayin’.”

  “You don’t sound too ready to uh - come home to roost.”

  Hunter sensed the tremble in his voice. He cleared his throat and said forcefully, “Look, you know as well as I do that my commitment to the Burma mission took a lot out of me. I lost track of the kills but I can handle that shit. It was seeing what was happenin’ to the innocent guys over there - to the kids. Do I think I’m ready to come back? Try me.”

  Lynard Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama started up and Hunter raised the volume.

  Sam elevated his voice above the music, almost shouting into the handset. “They’re in Switzerland, can you hear me? Hunter! They’re in Zurich!”

  Hunter leaned across, lowered the volume. “Confidential shit, huh Sam?”

  “Confidential? Yeah!”

  “How confidential?”

  “Confidential!”

  The conversation bumped along like all conversations when one party wants to beseech the other while reserving a semblance of dignity, while salvaging a little self-esteem.

  Hunter softened his voice to a not quite begging level. “Come on, Sam – lemme come in for Christ’s sake. Chief, c’mon, cut me some slack here.”

  Silence.

  “Sam?”

  **** Sam detected the waver in Hunter’s voice. A tone of faked assuredness. It left him unconvinced. He dialed the division’s psychiatrist, Dr. Sue Ellen Paulson for an ‘off the record’ assessment. Four minutes after exchanging the usual niceties, Sam said, “We need to send him in. You think he’s ready?”

  “He’s borderline. He’s had serious issues, the Chinese and German missions took their toll. Taking that into account, I have to say his recovery has progressed as well as one could expect.”

  “Is he well enough to go on out there alone, Doc?” “A solo mission Sam, can you expand on that a little?”

  “You know I can’t tell you more – I just need to know Hunter’s fit enough for an assignment without team support.”

  There was an inkling of doubt in the doctor’s mind. Her concern went beyond Gardner Hunter’s ability to handle a solo assignment. His recovery from a tempestuous relationship with Patrice Bellinger prompted her next query.

  “Without disclosing any of your top secret mumbo jumbo, I need to know one thing.”

  “Maybe - fire away.”

  “At any time, will he be working with Patrice Bellinger?”

  Sam recognized the loaded question. “It could come down to that,” and there was a long pause. “You have a problem with that, Doc?”

  “To be quite frank, Sam, I’m not totally convinced your man can remain emotionally detached.”

  “Emotionally detached, huh? Okay then.”

  He thought I can’t tell her Hunter’s going in to pull Bell back here - that would take too much explaining. With that story it’d be me who’d end up on her couch. He allowed some silence to pass. Sue Ellen Parsons also paused.

  “If emotional detachment is our biggest concern,” Sam said, “well, I can live with that. Yeah, I believe Hunter can maintain emotional detachment.”

  They took turns at playing devil’s advocate. Thirty minutes later, Sue Ellen Parsons acquiesced.

  Sam buzzed Marcie. “Marcie, get Hunter back on the line.”

  While he waited he ran a scattering of scenarios through his mind, he thought hi Gard, how are you doing? Then thought that sounds condescending. He put on a cheery voice and tried the doc says you’re fine. But that sounded intrusive. Then he thought I might get lucky – Hunter will start the conversation. He liked that scenario.

  John Lennon was soulfully singing Imagine when Hunter’s voice came through. It was strong, positive. “Hey, Sam, how’s it hangin’, Chief?”

  Sam heard Lennon, heard the self-assured voice – could visualize the forced smile – Hunter was back. “It’s hanging just fine, appreciate your concern. Let’s get down to business, okay?”


  And John Lennon continued.

  “There’s an organization in Geneva known as CERNA. One of their people has agreed to supply us with some papers we really need to get our hands on. We, you and I, we’re gonna take those papers to Zurich. You need to meet with the contact’s fence. The guy’s in LA.”

  Silence.

  “You there, Hunter?”

  “Yeah Chief, I’m all ears.”

  Sam ran instructions by him, gave him a name and a number. “Here’s the guy’s number. You make the call. I don’t need the details. I’ve a courier ready to bring cash to your place. I can have him there in thirty minutes with one hundred grand. And uh, Gard...” He added a chuckle to his voice. “Don’t lose it. When you’re done getting the CERNAfile, get your ass back here - ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. Thanks Sam.”

  “And Hunter,” Sam added, “put the Courvoisier back in the cabinet. I can smell the stuff from here.”

  **** At ten o’clock on a cool Santa Barbara evening, Gardner Hunter called the number.

  “I believe you have papers for me from CERNA?”

  “Yeah, I got your stuff, you got my half mill?”

  “Gimme a break, I can’t get half a fuckin’ mill. My boss says one hundred grand, period. I can be there by one in the mornin’.”

  “Bro, this conversation is like, over. That ain’t fuckin’ cool.”

  “Cool? Fuck cool? I feel the compulsion to end this call.”

  Hunter stayed silent.

  The man laughed. “I’m like, bro, don’t even go there!”

  “Fuck it,” Hunter retorted. “I’ll just tell my people you don’t have the file.”

  “You want it too badly, bro, don’t go pullin’ that bluff shit with me.”

  “If you fuck with us, we’ll find you,” Hunter said and wondered why he’d said something so senseless. “You’re in East fuckin’ LA, like you’ll be hard to track down.”

  “I got friends, bro, and East LA ain’t where you wanna be at one in the fuckin’ mornin’. You ain’t trackin’ anyone in my hood.”