The Lucifer Sanction (14 page)

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area that is used for storage, you know, for superseded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.”

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.”

“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.”