“Ah yes, Agent Dallas. I recognize you from your fishing excursion in Puerto Vallarta with eh” and he tilted his head at Blake, “with Agent Drew Blake here.”
“Puerto Vallarta?” Dal queried. “You’re wrong. We’ve never been there.”
“Of course. I’m sorry,” the visitor chuckled, “you’re much older in this photograph. Well, I can tell you this, you both won the tournament. That’s quite a catch the two of you made. Here, I’ve a photograph with the four of you.”
Blake reached for the picture. “Winning a tournament, four of us? What the fuck are you talking about? We’ve never been to Puerto Vallarta, let alone win a tournament. We don’t do fishing.”
The snapshot showed two men resembling Blake and Dal. There was a woman, the woman with whom he’d slept during the night. And there was a kid, a good looking boy who could be sixteen, maybe older. Blake searched his memory bank. The kid looked like him, but... the other guy, the one that looked like Dal, the guy looks so much older.
He felt he should know the visitor. How’d he come by the photograph? Blake thought for a long while but nothing came to mind.
“I’ve got it,” he smirked. “This is some kind of scam, right, a computerized image? I’ve seen how you guys can mess with shit.”
The visitor smiled and allowed Blake time to recompose. He moved about the room admiring the original artwork adorning the redwood paneled walls, part of Blake’s retirement plan. The Interpol Division Agent preferred investing in what he referred to as usable ‘here and now’ objects d’ art, his Porsche C4 being among his many enjoyable investments. No 401K in Drew Blake’s portfolio. The visitor moved to a Mayan relic, an intriguing statue purchased from a needy museum curator, officially listed as destroyed in transit. The statue seemed to be balanced lopsidedly, a feature which added to its relic appeal. He placed an admiring finger atop the relic. Blake inhaled, took a step nearer the stranger. “Careful with that,” he said, “it isn’t a replica.”
“Of course it isn’t. It’s Pacal, king of the Maya Kingdom. I’ve seen replicas, but this original . . . this is magnificent.”
Dal coughed.
Blake’s penthouse apartment appeared macabre to the young man, yet he could feel his heartbeat racing. It was a veritable museum, a time capsule of priceless collectibles.
Blake passed the photograph to Dal and gave a cutting look at the visitor.
“Okay, so who the fuck are you?” Blake inquired, the Mauser still by his side.
“You’ll receive a phone call shortly from Sam Ridkin.”
“And if we do? I don’t see what business that is of yours.”
“Well, this is going to be very difficult for you to comprehend.”
“So go ahead . . . comprehend me.”
Dal, still scrubbing his scalp as he studied the snapshot, nodded in agreement.
“He’s going to assign you both to a mission involving a Swiss research facility known as Libra, or to be precise . . . Libra Pubis Aeternas. You mustn’t accept this assignment. You mustn’t travel to Zurich.”
Blake stared into the young man’s eyes. There was something familiar about the kid. He wondered if he’d met him at some earlier stage, sometime back in his life, back in the kid’s life. Could he have forgotten the kid? After all, he’d taken quite a few blows to the head in his football days. Sure, that’s it, I’ve just forgotten, and this is one big set up, one big post party stunt. Gotta be a hidden fuckin’ camera some place, he thought. I’ll bet Dal’s a part of all this shit. He gave that thought consideration – then he thought this kid can’t be more than twenty, okay, give or take, at the most, twenty five. He tilted his head, scratched at his beard stubble with the muzzle of the Mauser.
“Kid, I don’t know how you know about any meeting or any Zurich mission.”
Dal chipped in, “And I haven’t heard anything about Zurich – so what’s going on?”
Blake threw a look at Dal. “What the fuck, Dallas. Are you jerking my chain here? What’s all this about? Is this some kind of stunt you’re pulling?”
Dal took offense. “Hey, hold the phone. I’ve been here with you, man. I’ve no clue about this dude and his fuckin’ story.” He waved the photograph at Blake. “And look at this photo. I’m a fuckin’ old dude. If I’d set this up I’d be looking cool, not looking fossilized. Look at these dudes, they gotta be over fifty.”
Blake lowered the Mauser and gave Dal an apologetic half grin. He redirected his attention to the visitor and made a jabbing finger gesture at the young man. “I’m a patient guy but right now . . .” and he shot a quick glance at the Victorian clock hanging above the Chesterfield sofa, “right now kid, you’ve used up all the patience I’ve got
- pre morning coffee. Explain what’s going on or forever hold your peace. I’m gonna give you ten seconds to tell me who the fuck you are, what you want and what this photograph means.”
The stranger slowly nodded; his eyes lowered. They were a bright aqua color, uncannily similar to Blake’s. Blake recognized the expression; saw himself in the kid’s demeanor. The second hand on the wall clock swept by the seven, the eight, and Blake gestured toward the clock. “Ten seconds, kid. Don’t fuck with me. Like I said, I don’t have patience for it.”
“I’m James Andrew Blake, your great, great grandson. I exist as a result of you not meeting with Sam Ridkin later today, and your refusal to accept the proposed Zurich assignment. The photograph is genuine. That young man is my great grandfather. The woman is your future wife.”
Dal coughed, covered his mouth and passed a sly “Bullshit” comment to Blake.
“Sit down kid,” Blake said, “we’ve gotta hear this story.” He flicked a thumb over his shoulder toward a padded leather swivel chair in a far corner of the room. The phone buzzed just as the visitor moved to the seat. Blake placed the Mauser on the desktop and said, “Morning Sam.” Pause. “Yeah, yeah, yeah sure. . .” Pause. “Yeah, Dal’s hear, he stayed the night.”
“We have a, eh . . . a situation that came up overnight, a little problem,” Sam said. “Can you and Dal call into my office, say uh . . . later this afternoon?”
Blake raised his eyes, caught Dal’s curious stare. He placed a hand over the mouthpiece and flicked his eyes to Dal. He stared for ten confusing seconds then flicked his attention to the visitor. Again, silence accompanied a flabbergasted expression. His eyes dropped slowly to the handset, to Sam who was now shouting, “Blake! Drew! You there?”
He placed a hand over the receiver and half whispered, “It’s Sam. He wants us at his office later today.” His stare bounced from Dal to the visitor. He couldn’t see the stranger, the chair had swiveled about and the back of the Chesterfield was now facing him. He called across the room, “Hey kid, have you got a crystal ball or what?”
No reply.
He flipped the handset through the air. Dal gave a dismissive shrug as he caught the phone.
As Blake moved toward the chair he said, “Christ Almighty! That’s our boss on the blower, how the fuck did you know he was gonna call?”
Silence.
He shouted at the back of the chair, “Kid! Hey kid!”
There was a sudden glow, not quite a flash, a momentary flicker more like a fluorescent tube malfunctioning. Blake shied away. He placed an arm across his face to shield his eyes, turned and glanced at Dal who’d reached for his Sig and tossed it toward Blake who instinctively snatched it mid-air. He held it extended in both hands and apprehensively moved around the chair. His face took on a stone like expression.
The voice on the phone grew louder. “Drew! Drew! If you’re there for Christ’s sake answer!”
Dal’s eyes were locked on Blake. He placed the cordless to his ear and whispered in a quivering voice, “It’s me, Dal, what’s up Sam?”
“Goddammit, Dal! I need you guys down here by five. I’ve already called Patrice; she’ll be here as well!”
Dal’s eyes remained on Blake, who was standing frozen, both hands graspi
ng the Sig shakily aimed at the chair. He lowered the weapon and placed one hand on the wing-back.
Dal’s voice was chilled. “Wha . . . what’s up?”
Blake swiveled the chair around.
It was empty.
Dal struggled to rationalize what had just happened. He raised the hand piece to his ear, listened to Sam’s annoyed tone. Dal’s eyes searched Blake for logic, but logic eluded them. The two agents stared silently at the vacant chair as the voice on the phone called aloud, “Dal, Drew, you guys there? What the hell’s going on?”
Blake moved across the room, reached for the phone, listened in disbelief. He looked at Dal and scratched nervously at stubble, shook his head to clear it, to unscramble it.
“You want us to go where, Sam?” he asked incredulously, “To Zurich?”
FINI Excerpt from previous Drew Blake adventures
PORTAL THE MAN WITH THE steel-cold eyes drove the Audi sixty meters or so along a heavily wooded tract until he came to a large cleared area fronting a dilapidated barn. The structure was partly hidden by heavy foliage of kudzu, or some other fast growing vine. Like that. He came to a stop alongside a rusted tractor, a sentinel guarding doublebarn doors, a reflection of better days with corroded wheels embedded in damp, moss-covered ground. His comrade seated in the rear remained unmoving; his eyes cutting into the passenger huddled in a fetal position, feet on the seat and knees guarding each side of his face.
Travis Craven strained as he fought to focus on the muzzle of the Luger just inches from his nose. The driver eyed the pair in the rearview mirror and let out a snigger as the larger Russian delivered a heavy blow with the butt of his 9mm, jolting Craven’s head. A dull thwap, followed by a groaning whimper as the American recoiled from the blow, pulling his knees tighter to either side of his face, attempting to shield his head. The man seated in the rear stepped from the Audi, moved to the barn door, pulled at it, but its hinges were all but gone and refused to yield. He cursed in heavy, guttural Russian. His first attempt dislodged one plank; his second jerked the handle free of the door and its screws ripped clean from rotted holes. He looked toward the driver, shrugged apologetically and caught an impatient snarl from the man with the steel-cold eyes. Several long moments later, using his right arm and leg as leverage he managed to force the door. To his dismay he realized he’d soiled his suit and began brushing remnants of moldy timber from his crushed gray coat as two fat rats scurried across the damp ground, scrambling to seek refuge in a rotting haystack.
The man with the steel-cold eyes killed the engine as his comrade went about maneuvering the garage door back to a near closed position. The smaller of the two Russians stepped from behind the wheel, opened the rear door, dragged Craven from the car and manhandled the American to the ground where he lay huddled on the straw splattered surface as the two men from Moscow chatted quietly. The largest of the pair stepped forward and in a quick jolting move placed a boot into Craven’s rib cage. There was a cracking sound like celery being snapped, followed by a muffled groan as Travis Craven rolled away from the boot, pain shooting through his body as he pleaded to God for strength to draw breath. The smaller man moved to the rear of the Audi, popped the trunk and pulled a few items. Two coils of rope, duct tape, and a wheel brace. He dropped them alongside Craven whose eyes were bulging as breath eluded him. The big man had surely broken at least a few of his ribs.
“Drag him to the post, cut the tape, secure his hands in front,” the man with the steel-cold eyes said with a sneer. “Here,” and he stooped, picked up the larger of the rope coils and motioned at the overhead beams, “throw it over the beam and raise him up.”
Craven entertained a quick thought of resisting, thought of it in those few moments when the tape was cut, but his arms were non-responsive and there were those broken ribs. After a long silence the American finally spluttered, “What do you people want from me? Just take the bags, leave me be. I’m no threat to you.” But they weren’t done with him. He was their trophy and the night was young. He balanced on the tips of his shoes as the big man drew back a threatening fist, readying himself to deliver another blow. The smaller Russian held up a hand, thought about it and faked an apologetic shrug. Mildly impressed with Craven’s bravado, he groaned in a deep accent, “No, it will kill him,” and he reluctantly shook his head. “We need him alive for a while.”
Craven gasped for breath. The words ‘fuck you’ crossed his mind as his eyes raked the overhead beams. He inhaled painfully and found a little breath. In a cathartic moment he prayed for help.
God was predisposed.
______________________________________________
PORTAL CRITICAL REVIEW It is common belief that the theory of relativity disallows us the possibility of traveling through time. Well – maybe. However by use of the Einstein-Rosen bridges, better known as wormholes or portals, traveling through time is now considered by many as a possibility. The connection of two distant points in space provide us with a theoretical shortcut, like drilling a tunnel through a mountain, shortening the time and distance needed to get to the other side. A quantum vacuum known as Casimir energy has been studied in a Pasadena institute and has been found to possess an anti-gravitational quality, thus making the separation of two portals a possibility. Step through one doorway (or PORTAL) and emerge through another.
In PORTAL, the first of this writer’s Drew Blake adventures, the villainous Travis Craven eludes his pursuers by speeding his Porsche through coordinates of a PORTAL and emerging in a parallel world. It’s only a matter of time before the narrow portal connecting our world to his becomes the subject of interest for Drew Blake and his cohorts.
Travis Craven passes through a parallel universe and arrives in present-day Paris, France. He carries a deadly consignment of near perfect man-made diamonds. Each stone contains an undetectable incendiary device. Exposed to earth’s atmosphere triggers a countdown with each stone, much to the chagrin of those who admire their newly acquired gem. Blake pursues Craven, only to find himself in a strange, white world. His task is further burdened by the bumbling, and at times humorous French inspector, Claude Chevalier, who, concerned for Blake’s safety and unaware of what lay ahead, follows the Interpol Special Agent into . . . the PORTAL.
***** In writing PORTAL, Denaro has skillfully developed his characters and has also succeeded in creating an antihero of the villainous Travis Craven, so much so that it leaves the reader pulling for Craven’s survival. PORTAL has it all, suspense, humor, action and adventure. While moving in several directions, Denaro succeeds in keeping the reader locked between the covers.
***** “Fascinating reading. PORTAL may be science fiction, but who knows, it could prove to be a possibility down the road. Denaro paints a clear picture in the reader’s mind; his characters are lovable to the end, including his villain, a trait this writer has mastered in this Drew Blake adventure. Not a book you can put down for too long.”
Suite 101 U.K. Book Review Reader’s Choice: “5 star reading.” ______________________________________________
FIDDLER “FIDDLER is a spine chilling read that travels along at warp speed, taking the reader on a police chase through Europe, into the monastery of Montecassino, and culminating in a surprise anti-climax in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Brilliantly written with masterly character development. Denaro leaves the reader wanting more.”
R. Gene Heinrich Editor www.WritingRaw.com
To order through Amazon.com please quote ISBN # 978-1-93510-514-9
Available on Kindle too!
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VATICAN FILESS “Vatican File SS takes the reader on a thought provoking journey that explores the origin of Nazi and Ustasha gold hoards. It exposes the ruthless killings by Ustasha Catholic priests in their routing of gold to Rome’s Vatican and Swiss Banks. The search for Mussolini’s dumped gold is accurately documented in this deeply researched work. Exciting and revealing – Vatican FileSS is a hard to put down novel. F
ind a comfortable seat, and buckle up.”
Wayne Sherline Editor/ CEO Friday Flyer Publication
To order through Amazon.com please quote ISBN # 978-1-93510-532-9
Available on Kindle too!
_______________________________________________ BLACK SABBATH
“It is worth reading through the impeccably researched jargon and conspiracy theories, which are seamlessly blended to make a compelling, if lengthy plot.”
Wayne Sherline Editor/ CEO Weekend News Publication *****
“A Historical Political Thriller that tells the story of a doomsday-like Chinese military operation seeking to control the planet’s weather, and the team of US elite agents that are sent into the heart of China to steal a computer flash drive pivotal to stopping that plan reaching frui- tion.
In Black Sabbath, Jason Denaro blends a story of betrayal, death defying battles and a fast paced deception against the complexity of American foreign policy and the tenuous balance of peace with foreign powers such as the Chinese and Taiwanese whilst also touching on the war in Iraq.
Most successful are Denaro’s characterizations of the Bush administration which he does with a subversive wit and intelligence that is both sympathetic to the Republican cause whilst being damming at the same time.
Jason Denaro’s ability to create mercenaries that can casually ‘kill Commies’ and yet reveal an empathy for the plight of the Chinese and Burmese people gives a depth to Black Sabbath that is unexpected but certainly welcome.
Black Sabbath is relevant to the Bush era political climate and capitalizes well on the idea that, by engaging in war, America has overstretched itself and left itself vulnerable. The charming and at times almost satirical plot of Black Sabbath convinces in both tension and situation.”
Suite 101 UK Book Review To order through Amazon.com please quote ISBN # 978-1-93510-575-6
THE LUCIFER SANCTION “Jason Denaro jet-propels the reader into the historic 1356 Battle of Poitiers in which King John of France struggles against the superior forces of England’s Prince Edward, the Black Prince.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 25