The Lucifer Sanction

by Denaro, Jason

  “Gentlemen, meet Herr Bruno.”

  The dog raised its liquid eyes and gave a panting smile to its master.

  Hunter tentatively slouched forward and stroked the dog’s head. “So what’s the deal with Bruno here?”

  “Please do not misunderstand our intent. This entire area...” and he waved a slow hand about the room as he spoke. “This is considered a graveyard, considered dead space. Libra confines its focus on the upper level, on more advanced technology.”

  Sam stared hard into Frober’s eyes for any clue as to what was festering in the German’s mind. He dismissed his doubt and shrugged, “These so called prototypes – are you feeling okay with them?”

  “Initially we had issues, but Bruno will be in an adjoining chamber. We will set both coordinates for near simultaneous transfers. When Agent Hunter arrives at his destination, Bruno will have arrived a few seconds ahead of him.”

  “Hey, hey, hey – back up there, Tonto. The dog goes

  – then me? What if the dog goes and he disintegrates, do you still hit the blast off button for me? Does Bruno have his own disc?”

  “If Bruno fails to transfer we have a three second window in which to abort your transference – a time lag – a kill switch.”

  “And the dog’s disc, how does he activate it to get back here?”

  “We are able to transport him back. His weight is a factor, yours however, well – it requires self-activation.”

  Hunter made an aggghhh sound. “Wrong answer there, Fritz, ain’t what I wanna hear. What I wanna hear is ‘of course not, Agent Hunter.’”

  Frober chortled, “Of course not, Agent Hunter.”

  Hunter remained silent.

  “Do you feel better now?” Frober asked. He repeated in a more serious tone, “Of course not,” and released a long sigh as he gave Sam a perfunctory glance. “I cannot overly impress the seriousness of the situation.”

  Sam snorted, “I follow the nature of the situation, Doctor.”

  “They are very clever men,” Frober groaned, “those people upstairs.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Very dangerous men – their philosophy is clear. They are not unlike politicians, attorneys and media – they believe that out of calamity comes opportunity and wealth.”

  Sam thought about that for a half-minute. Before Frober could continue casting aspersion on those upstairs, Sam asked, “What do we need to know about this Neuberg guy?”

  “Our ability to intercept Neuberg will destroy Libra’s ‘Hitleresque’ aspirations. We must alter his reentry coordinates, the angle of his return trajectory. If all goes well, we will direct him away from this universe. He will be dispatched into infinity, to some black hole where it will be our people who activate the device, not Bosch, not Schroeder. It will have no effect on our world. The waterways will remain safe. Our timing is crucial; we will have a very small window of opportunity.”

  Sam became anxious, his palms were sweating and he rubbed them briskly on his sleeves. “A small window of opportunity – how’ll you override the men upstairs?”

  “We three are the fathers of the Particle Transfer induction within Libra. Andre Ziegman, one of my two compatriots was head-hunted from CERNA. Andre is a genius and came at great cost. We are the brains behind what is now in the hands of those at the controls. They believe we are dead. The element of surprise serves us well. I should add that we do have one more card up our sleeve, a little help from one of our sympathizers - he remains extremely compassionate to our cause. He is above us; he is still in their trust.”

  “You mean to say you’ve an associate upstairs - up in Libra?” Sam asked.

  **** “I don’t like this,” Hunter said as sweat beaded on his face, “but I’m not gonna stay back and let Bell die. I’ve wasted too many years thinkin’ about her, ain’t gonna let her go like this, Blake too, ain’t gonna happen. Aw shit, Dallas too.”

  Sam realized Hunter’s anxiety, realized he might not be able to convince his man to take the final steps.

  Hunter repeated as if in a self-assuring exercise, “I’ve gotta do it. Just gotta do it.”

  Sam considered the possibility that Hunter was clearly disposed to withdrawal. He speculated if Hunter would have considered leaving Blake and Dal to their demise had Bellinger not been involved.

  Hunter gazed down at his hand. “Sam, I’m tremblin’, look at this.”

  “Gard, aren’t you curious about what it’s like back there?”

  “Fuck back there. I skipped a lot of history classes, Sam,” and he forced a grin.

  It was a futile attempt to shift Hunter’s focus. Psychology was never Sam’s forte. After a minute had passed they moved off in the direction indicated by Frober, finally arriving at a dusty, dimly lit room that resembled a movie set for Knights of the Round Table.

  Shivering and cold, Hunter moved to a dust covered burgundy upholstered chair. He looked at Sam and his voice sank. “Don’t know that I’m too kosher about the prototype shit.”

  Sam hesitated and kept his eyes to the ground. He asked Frober, “What are the chances the prototype doesn’t get him back?”

  “I am sorry. There are no guarantees, but I am confident all will go to plan.”

  “But if it doesn’t . . .” Hunter said, “. . . I’d be stuck back in . . .”

  “I am afraid so,” Frober said contemplatively. “You would remain in the year 1356.”

  Hunter gazed at the period dress hanging on racks around the room. His eyes locked on the helm, a heavy pointed piece with the narrowest of slits restricting vision.

  “Sam, you know I’m claustrophobic.”

  Sam took the helm from its shelf and gave a pleading look to Frober. “Do you have anything less uh - less confining?”

  Twenty minutes later Hunter stood erect, hardly able to move. His body was wet with sweat and suffocating in the long sleeved under garment. He felt restricted and had difficulty manipulating his arms. His shoulders sagged as both Frober and Ziegman placed the heavy chain-mail over his head and followed this by strapping on a breastplate. He received a final inspection from both Ziegman and Frober, and gave no acknowledgment to Sam Ridkin’s nodding smile.

  Another man entered, pulled along by a large German Shepherd. The dog walked with a sense of purpose, giving Sam a sideways glance as it passed. The man smiled at Sam and gave Hunter an admiring half-nod. “Mon Dieu

  - Sir Galahad,” he said in a sarcastic French accent.

  Frober gestured warmly at the man. “Here we have our third musketeer.” He made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. “This is our d’Artagnan.”

  The Frenchman made a saluting gesture, after which he lowered himself onto one knee and stroked the dog’s head. The shepherd’s collar had a malfunctioning fastener clip and the man struggled with joining it to the leash.

  “Are you having a problem?” Frober asked as he and Ziegman continued adjusting Hunter’s body armor.

  “Yes, it’s this collar. I’m going to replace it.”

  “Be sure the transmitter is the most recent version,” Frober said as he caught the look of concern on Sam’s face. “A few of the collars ceased transmission,” he explained as he placed a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. “Use one of the red ones,” Frober said, “one of the RT6 units.”

  The faulty collar was removed and replaced with a bright red nylon version, with the transmitter being clearly visible as a simulated tag, a small shiny disc. The Frenchman leaned back and admired the dog. “Bruno is my best boy,” he said. “The pick of the litter, he’s a very good boy.” He kissed the dog’s cheek and said in a high pitched voice, “Et le papa vous aime mon garçon”

  Hunter said, “And you don’t mind kissin’ his ass goodbye as well, huh?”

  D’Artagnan grinned, wiped his lips, and tapped on the collar. “We can bring him back, monsieur. We’ve done so two times before with Bruno.”

  “However, unlike you, Bruno has no choice,” Frober added. “When we see you have transferr
ed safely, we will recall him to the chamber. He does not need a disc, with his low weight ratio we are able to activate from right here. His return will be confirmation that all is working as it should. Obviously we would prefer to use the chambers in the main facility; however that is out of the question.” “Yeah,” Hunter groaned, “so is dyin’.”

  “Agent Hunter, you will have your weapons. All we ask is that you locate and dispose of Neuberg. This is your prime objective. After he is eliminated you must secure his broadsword containing the device, find your friends, give each a replacement disc and we will affect their return to the chambers above. You will return simultaneously to the unit here below.”

  “Doesn’t sound too difficult, wha’dya think, Chief?”

  “Piece of cake, Gard. You’ll do it in a sleep walk.”

  Sam tried to smile but the expression came across as a grimace. Hunter saw the look and sensed Sam was feeling bad about his chances. He placed the silver helm slowly over his head and lowered the visor. Ziegman swiveled the helm a little left, a little right, and aligned Hunter’s eyes with the narrow slit.

  “I feel like a fuckin’ Zippo,” Hunter groaned.

  Frober placed a hand inside the breastplate and felt around Hunter’s waist.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Hunter moaned, unable to turn and eyeball Frober.

  “Your two weapons, you must be able to remove a glove and reach your handguns. If Neuberg senses you have been sent to apprehend him, he will terminate you before you have time to react. Agent Hunter, time will not be on your side. Neuberg is well skilled in the ways of medieval warfare, moving about with a broadsword while wearing armor is his forte.”

  The Frenchman with the dog said, “We should get you to your chamber.”

  The shepherd pulled anxiously, followed by d’Artagnan, Frober and Ziegman. Sam stood in disbelief for a moment and then called to Frober, “I really have bad vibes about this.”

  Hunter clanged his way toward the raised chamber and came to a stop as he tried looking through the narrow visor. He froze on the top step and groaned, “I can’t do this.”

  Frober gave Sam a hard look and Sam nodded, disappointed, but not surprised.

  “Way too claustrophobic,” Hunter called aloud. “I gotta take the fuckin’ tin can off.”

  Frober was unemotional. “That is fine; do not be concerned. I realize it is most uncomfortable.”

  The two men eased the knight back from the chamber as Bruno lay comfortably in his confined space, looking content, looking at ease.

  Sam whispered, “The dog looks really relaxed. What’s with that?” He flicked a thumb at Bruno. “He went into the chamber so willingly.”

  Hunter, oblivious to the discussion, was in the process of removing his helm as Sam gave him an annoyed scowl. The three men sniggered as d’Artagnan explained with a half-smile. “The dog,” and he lowered his voice to avoid Hunter’s eavesdropping. “Bruno is in his house. That chamber is where he sleeps each evening.”

  Five minutes later and feeling around a hundred pounds lighter, Hunter smiled and bounced about in an impromptu Irish jig. “You see,” he said as he bowed, “much better. Now I can move.”

  He repeated some quick steps and for a few moments the reality of the task at hand slipped his mind. But all eyes were on Bruno stretched out in the comfortable confines of ‘his house.’

  Hunter’s soft-shoe shuffle went ignored. He froze mid-step; his eyes moving to the dog then back to those around him. He shrugged and asked, “What’s with the fuckin’ dog?”

  Frober and Ziegler guided Hunter into position as he wriggled his body into the most comfortable position, uneasy as he lay in the chamber. Frober’s face, now illuminated by the green lights of the control panel, took on a sinister demeanor.

  Hunter lay staring at the two men either side of the chamber, their faces holding contrived smiles, poor efforts at reassurance. In less than two minutes they’d secured the lid to the chamber as Hunter entertained pleasant thoughts in an effort to fight off claustrophobia.

  Frober raised one finger and mouthed the words, one minute. He placed the tip of his index finger to his thumb-tip and made an okay gesture.

  Hunter was on edge. He thought of how Bell had gone through a similar feeling of discomfort. The thought did little to diminish his fear. He felt confined, a caged animal. Like that. His eyes moved to his left, to the chamber alongside of him. He muttered, “fuckin’ dog.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Lascaux Caves

  September 18, 1356

  Bell steered the frothing mount between large trees until she reached the edge of a precipice. A white cliff rose steeply skyward along one side of her. She sat tall in the saddle, looked back, couldn’t hear the pursuing riders. She touched the damp white surface and thought, the cave has gotta be somewhere here. She felt comfortable with the absence of the French horsemen, absence of their rattling armor. She thought Dumaurier could have Dal safely in Brantôme by now. She dropped her eyes to the left, realized the sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the river below, she thought, reason enough for those guys to stop chasing me. She looked ahead, looked for sufficient width of trail – felt she could make it and spurred her mount.

  The warhorse veered off as she reined the mare away from the deadly drop, skidding into the side of the limestone precipice, its rear hooves digging grooves in the damp dirt. Bell misjudged the nearness of the slope and the horse’s rump slid to a painful halt as it slammed against the edge.

  She was near paralyzed with fear as she dismounted. She strained to inhale short sharp breaths and the thought of a cardiac event flashed through her mind. “Not now, please not now.” She sighed as she struggled to gain control of her body, of her mind, and her chest pounded. Come on Patrice

  – get it together, she thought. You’ve gotta get to Dal, see that he’s okay. It’s gonna take both of us to get Drew out of Castelnau.

  She looped the rein loosely around a tree and moved into a deep, dark recess in the side of the cliff. Paintings of large animals decorated the walls. She mumbled between breaths, “I’ve seen this place in a book, these prehistoric paintings. If memory serves me correct this place is Lascaux, so these paintings are the real deal, not the replica tourists see back home. That river down there has to be the Vezere.”

  The cave was carved from soft limestone, not by man but by the action of the Vezere River. Discarded clothing and stale food littered one area and odor of human excrement reeked from further inside. Fear of the Black Death had caused villagers to inhabit the Lascaux cave in hope the disease would pass them by.

  She froze as a black rat scuttled on by, annoyed by her presence. She took a few quick steps back toward the entrance, then realized the rodent was more scared of her than she of it. She recomposed and raised her eyes upward at the cliff that climbed a steep three hundred feet above her.

  Fifty-five thousand years had passed since the first dwellers decorated the walls with paintings of prehistoric animals. She looked back out along the ridge and spotted a scattering of huts built against the cliffs. She cautiously made her way along the trail, rounded a bend and spotted a village built into the side of the incline.

  A plethora of thoughts flashed through her mind as she cautiously moved toward the nearest hut. The sound of running water caught her attention. She paused, moved to the left, parted a hedge of rhododendrons, saw the stream and fell to her knees by the water’s edge. She cupped her hands and scooped its freshness onto her face. Thoughts of Gardner Hunter flashed through her mind. She didn’t need a session on a shrink’s couch to realize her flame for Hunter still flickered.

  Visions of how close she’d come to capture by the pursuing French riders flashed through her mind. They would’ve had their way with me, she thought. She blocked that horror from her mind and returned to pleasant thoughts of Hunter, to romantic evenings and hazy summer days watching children at play by the Santa Monica pier.

  She wiped her face dry and focused on t
he village ahead, couldn’t make out any soldiers, a good enough reason to head in that direction. She watched two men grooming a white destrier and pondered if the groomers were French. Another man sat whistling, working on a saddle. She moved a little nearer, closed her eyes as though doubting the medieval setting. She refocused; the setting was still there. She saw an old signpost with the word Brantôme. The township was a rabbit’s warren of lanes, with fine architecture, hidden courtyards, stone huts and an impressive church at the far end of a courtyard.

  It appeared from nowhere. The dog scrambled through the creek and cowered at Patrice Bellinger’s side. She caught a flash of red, lowered to one knee and stroked the animal’s head. The red vinyl collar held two identification tags: a green disc similar to that given to her in Zurich and a tag engraved with the name, Bruno.

  ***** Hunter’s coordinates had him materializing on a rocky slope. He stumbled headlong into a tree trunk, felt on the verge of blacking out, staggered, and slid down an incline. His head struck something hard. Barely conscious and suffering severe concussion, he shielded his eyes from the glare, squinted, and faded back into delirium.

  Consciousness greeted him sometime later. He pushed the chain-mail hood from his head until it hung loose around his neck. He heard movement nearby.

  “My God, Bell,” he groaned to himself. She was some fifty yards off. He stayed out of sight and a moment later realized Bruno was sitting alongside her, enjoying her affection. He took advantage of the distraction and quietly crawled to a tree nearer the stream, rolling on a twig as he went. Bell heard the snap, looked about. She stared, waited

  - heard no more movement. She looked at the dog and while giving the animal a comforting hug took a long few seconds to examine the tags. Hunter risked another glance, saw her inspecting the tags and knew she was querying the red collar.

  She recalled the words ‘we sent abandoned dogs scheduled for euthanizing at the Zurich pound.’ “Bruno, you poor baby,” she sighed and gently stroked his head. She secured Bruno’s snout to safeguard against his barking, stared into his brown eyes and waited