The Lucifer Sanction (26 page)

At the Andermatt dig site, Craig Drummond and his
group walked in single file up five flights of steps toward
the main control room, each relieved at no longer needing
the small flashlight. Drummond hobbled along with the
help of Fellini. Two students obscured from view groaned
from behind a raised platform.

Drummond shouted, “What is it, laddie?”
Ansell Portman reached
the room ahead of
Drummond. He raised his head above the group and waved
a hand. “Come on over, Doc. You ain’t gonna believe
this.”
Four bodies lay slumped below a control panel,
each wearing a name badge. The panel displayed a bank of
lifeless monitors, except for one that continually flickered.
The doctor wheezed as he limped to the control center.
“Read their names to me, laddie.”
Mateo squinted, his eyes blinking, repeatedly
moving from one of the deceased to the other, intermittently
reading between blinks.
“This one with all of the gray hair is Bosch, Hans,
and this one is, eh . . .” and he pointed at the tallest of
the three. “This one is Danzig, Paul, and the one over here
says, eh.” He moved in closer and squinted. “This one is
Beckman, Gerh . . . and I can’t make out the rest of the tag,
it’s deteriorated with decomposition of the body.”
Fellini walked away from the bodies, took a
cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
“Do you mind?” Drummond shouted at the Blick
man. “You can’t contaminate the scene. It’s bad enough that
you’re traipsing about!” He made a thunderous clapping
sound with his hands. “We could have methane seepage.
Put that bloody cigarette out immediately!”
The doctor returned to the first container and
pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. He leaned closer to
the occupant, carefully placed a hand beneath the chainmail vest and probed about. “I have something here.” He
removed a piece of folded paper and very slowly read the
note. He paused and shook his head in stunned disbelief.
His voice was a strained whisper. A dry mouthed choking
sound. “This is unbelievable.”
Fellini couldn’t hold back any longer. “What is it,
Doctor? What does it say?”
Drummond was unable to reply for several long
seconds. He locked eyes with Fellini. His voice was
strained. “This note is dated March 22, 2015.”
He slid down the side of the casket; his eyes shut
tight, a tear escaping from each as he huddled in a near
fetal position. Fellini squatted alongside and placed a hand
on his shoulder. Drummond’s voice had gone. Unable to
read, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness and
passed the note to Fellini who, in silence, read it twice. His
head hung low as he passed the note back to the weeping
doctor.
Craig Drummond cleared his throat, tried to speak,
couldn’t. He swallowed hard and again cleared his throat.
He took in the staring faces, lowered his eyes, coughed, and
succeeded in clearing his throat sufficient enough to read the
note. “My name is Drew Blake.” He stopped, wiped away
a tear. “If you’re reading this note we’ve failed to make it
back to our time. Please contact Sam Ridkin at the office
of SoCal Exports in Los Angeles and tell him we’re home.
Give him my very best; ask him to see that our ashes are
spread on the waves off of Santa Monica pier. We always
liked that spot, right off the end of the pier. Go Vikings.”
Drummond swallowed hard. “It’s signed, ‘Andrew Blake,
a proud Minnesota Viking.’”
He passed the note to Fellini who handed it to
Portman. Drummond sat at the control panel and slowly
scribbled one more name on his list. Drew Blake: Minnesota
Viking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Visitor
Santa Monica
March 22, 2015

Remnants of the past evening hung in the air, the
odor of cigars, of affluence. Drew Blake groaned. The
brunette had been a protracted chase, but to the victor went
the spoils. Blake let out a semi-snore, felt the weight of
his body as he tried to roll over on the soft mattress. The
Sauvignon left a bad taste and his tongue carried a pink furry
coating. He found a slightly more comfortable position,
rolled the pillow around his head, his eyes still tightly shut.
Carson Dallas had spent the night on an enormous Italian
leather sofa rather than risk the short drive home smelling
like a brewery.

The radio alarm kicked in, signaling the start of
another sunny Californian day. Dal cracked a smile. He
groaned, “So uh, was she worth it, was she that good?”

“Better,” Blake grinned with a look of contentment,
the grin of a victor. He pretended he’d imagined the ding
dong ding annoyance of the chiming door-bell.

“For Christ’s sake,” he moaned, “it’s only twenty
after seven.”
Dal, nearest the entry to the lushly decorated
penthouse, ignored the chime. Blake grumbled, pressed his
tongue against his upper teeth and removed a little of the
coating. He stumbled from bed, tripped over a floral thong
lying in the hallway, paused and smiled, flashed Dal a grin
and caught the victory sign from a congratulatory Carson
Dallas. He scooped up the thong and feeling invigorated
hop skipped and jumped toward the door. He tugged at
a burgundy velour robe, passed another smile at Dal and
twirled the thong above his head.
“Who the fuck are you?” Blake groaned as he
pressed one eye to the spy-hole. “Do you know what time
it is?”
Silence.
He turned to Dal who, still grinning, was now
propped on an elbow. “Here, you might need this,” Dal
said as he reached under the sofa. He tossed a handgun to
Blake who fumbled the weapon as he tried to keep the robe
from flying open.
Dal broke into deep laughter. “Ain’t anything I
haven’t seen before,” he said stretching across to a halffull glass of what could be vodka, gin or white wine. He
swallowed, belched, pulled a face and groaned, “Jesus
Christ, who the fuck’s been drinking water?”
Blake regained composure and cautiously opened
the door. The tall, blue eyed stranger looked a little familiar.
Blake held the weapon by his side, allowing its presence
to infer a threat, yet not appear aggressive. The stranger’s
mouth dropped as he tenuously eyed the Mauser M2 semiautomatic, a gift Dal had given Blake for his thirty-seventh
birthday. Blake looked past the young man, to the left, the
right. There was no one else in sight.
“Agent Blake, I need to speak with you. It’s a matter
of extreme urgency.”
The stranger curiously peered over Blake’s shoulder,
analyzing the apartment, taking it all in. His eyes shifted
back to Blake.
“Yeah, okay. Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting
company this early.”
Dal coughed and gave the old ‘
what the fuck am I’
look as he shrugged, palms turned up.
As the stranger entered, Blake took half a step into
the passageway, saw that the visitor had come alone. He
carried a look of awe mixed with occasional glimpses of
respect for his surroundings. He moved about the room
and nodded at Dal now sitting upright and scrubbing his
fingertips crazily into his scalp.
“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 grasping 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

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.