Fellini stood back, gazed at the exposed section of the metallic object and gave a peripheral nod to Drummond as though asking permission to shoot video. A minute later he lowered the camera, reluctantly placed a hand on the object’s surface and whispered in a quivering voice that only the doctor could hear, “This - this object, do you think it’s extraterrestrial?”
“No laddie. It’s more likely man-made. We’ve taken days to clear away rubble around this section,” and he waved a hand over the exposed area.
Fellini crooked his eye away from the viewfinder, lowered the camera. “But what if it’s actually not
extraterrestrial? What if it’s from, well - from this planet?” “In that case,” Drummond snorted, “we’ll have a bloody good time asking many, many more questions, won’t we laddie?”
Mateo moved away from the group and found a quiet spot to ponder the situation. As he stretched he inadvertently dislodged a piece of rubble. His eye caught a glimpse of a metal rod that until now had been hidden from view.
“Doctor!” he called aloud, “look here!” Silence slipped on by as Drummond inspected the metal rod. “Could be a lever,” he whispered, “perhaps a handle?”
He gave a slight tug as the group huddled about anxiously hypothesizing. An opening appeared on the metallic surface and the doctor clutched it, pulled, pulled, and could feel it give a little. He gestured to Mateo who quickly slid the handle of a pick into the narrow opening.
Fellini positioned the camera high above Drummond’s head, angling for the best shot. The Scot threw a look of irritation at Fellini, causing the Blick man to grin anxiously and plead his case. “Please, Doctor, for posterity . . . after all, history is being made here.”
Drummond grumbled at the cameraman and applied more leverage. “Just a little more, just a . . .”
The opening widened. He held a hand upward as those around him scrambled back in a feverish effort to move away. Mateo used a foot to push a large rock into the crack to prevent it closing.
Drummond glanced back, reached for a pebble and flipped it through the opening, listening as it rattled on the metallic floor. It echoed for a while, then silence. He placed a hand on the edge of the opening and guardedly peaked inside, a one eyed observation; edgy, ready to pull back. He half-stepped through with one leg, then his entire left side while maintaining his balance in readiness for a quick withdrawal. He held this position for six tense seconds, seven, eight, and then, letting out an unsteady breath – stepped on in.
Fellini held back, fearful Drummond would evaporate in a flash of light. Nothing happened. Drummond moved deeper inside the sphere followed by Fellini, his three journalists and Mateo.
One of the journalists, Ansell Portman, an American student attending the University of Zurich, stood alongside Fellini and called aloud, “Hello!” His shout reverberated. “Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello.”
Fellini lurched to one side as Drummond twirled about and angrily jabbed a finger at Portman. “When will you comprehend who’s in charge here? That kind of foolishness can be dangerous, who knows what’s further inside this...”
“I’m sorry, Doc,” Portman said. “My eagerness got the better of me.”
“It’s getting late in the day,” Drummond said squinting at his watch. “The surface light’s dwindling.” “Wha’dya think?” Portman whispered to Mateo. “Think it’s a UFO?”
Mateo made a nervous face and scanned about, wide-eyed. “I think we should call it a day,” he said, “that’s what I think.”
Portman: “Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”
“You’re joking of course,” Fellini mocked in a tone of disbelief. He paced nearer the doctor. “Doctor, this is the find of all time. We have to move onward.”
“Don’t lose sight of who’s in charge here,” Drummond snapped.
The Blick man felt his pulse quicken as he addressed the two tentative young men. “Aren’t you excited to discover whatever might be deeper inside?”
Drummond smirked, turned and considered the look on Fellini’s face. He placed a gentle hand on top of the camera and lowered it. “Sounds like a journalist with Pulitzer Prize aspirations,” the Scot said. “You prepared to risk the lives of all of us to chase that prize? Are you hopeful of bagging wee green men in this camera?”
The reporter returned the grin. “Maybe we’ll run into Klingons,” and he looked about for backing from those behind him. They remained silent.
Moments later they inched along the passageway until they reached a large metal door. It had no visible handle, no means of gaining access. Fellini reached forward, placed a hand on the metal. “Ice-cold,” he muttered. “Feel this, it’s chilled.”
The door made a slow grating sound as it fractionally slid open, allowing chilled air to hiss through the narrow gap. Drummond took a tentative step into an illuminated frosty atmosphere. A half-minute later he turned and beckoned the others to follow. They moved forward and caught sight of two transparent chest-like objects spread a few feet apart, each partially filled with a white mist.
Fellini’s voice was fearful. “What are they?”
“Don’t move,” Drummond barked, raising a hand. “There could be some type of deterrent.”
“What?” Fellini quivered. “You think a rain of arrows will shoot across from the walls.”
Craig Drummond glanced at the Blick man, “Oh, we have a movie fan here, do we? You think protection like that couldn’t be in effect here, Fellini?” There was no reply. The doctor stretched a hand toward the darkness. “If you’re so curious, go on ahead – be my guest.”
***** Drummond took a cautious step backward, nodded at the three box-like objects and gesticulated for the reporter to move on, but Fellini held his ground.
“They’re sarcophagi,” Drummond said.
“This will make you famous,” Mateo murmured. Drummond hesitated, relished the word – famous.
“Go ahead, laddie, role your bloody camera, for the record, as you said . . . for posterity.” Fellini’s camera recorded the setting as the three sarcophagi became more visible through the settling mist.
Drummond made his way to the nearest container bearing the name Robert Campion. The doctor hesitantly worked a screwdriver around the perimeter of the casket, eventually separating the lid from its base. He took a nervous step back as a hissing vapor escaped.
The thought of arrows shooting from walls was now farthest from Fellini’s mind. The Blick man cautiously moved a little nearer as the doctor motioned to Mateo and Portman to come and help.
“Doctor, you sure it’s safe?” Portman asked. “The mist coming from the casket . . . could it be toxic, something like King Tut’s tomb?”
Drummond waved a hand through the haze and warily sniffed his fingers. “Hmm, good point, laddie. It appears to be some kind of formaldehyde. Don’t be worried, I’ve smelled similar during preservation research back in Glasgow.” He nodded at the lid. “I need you strong lads to lift this, lift it slowly, keep the opening as level as possible, just a wee bit at a time.”
Drummond took in Portman’s fear, and passed him an assuring shrug. “It’s only preservative, don’t be worried, watch what you’re doing now lad. Lift gradually, a wee bit at a time.”
Portman countered with a thin smile while Mateo gave a look of resentment as he sheepishly stepped forward. They raised the lid and eyeballed the mist as it hissed from the chamber.
Mateo lost his balance, staggered back, allowing the lid to slip from his grasp. It clattered to the floor and came to a rest at their feet. Drummond flashed his beam into the casket and caught his first glimpse of the remains of a medieval clad occupant.
Fellini recorded the surroundings with the mania of a Cecil B. De Mille. Drummond, somewhat amazed by Fellini’s over enthusiasm, gave the reporter a peripheral glance. But then, there was that carrot, Mr. Pulitzer, dangling mere inches from the Blick man’s lens.
A trickle of fear ran through Drummond’s veins. He put on a brave
face while trying to believe his own formaldehyde theory. He moved nearer, focused his flashlight on the near skeletal remains of the medieval figure. He took a pencil, moved it to the edge of a front tooth. “Look at this,” and he tapped on the tooth with the tip of the pencil. “It’s a crown.”
“This eh . . .” and he took a closer look at the nameplate, “. . . this Robert Campion, he had better teeth than me,” Fellini said, as he tightened the shot. “I thought medieval teeth were decay ridden. This guy has great teeth.”
And Fellini could taste his Pulitzer.
Drummond moved to the second container, set the screwdriver down and stretched a hand to Fellini. “Pass me your flashlight. I see a skeletal hand in here; looks like it’s clutching a sword.”
“Mother of God, who are they?” Mateo asked.
Drummond removed his glasses, wiped them on the edge of his neck cravat, leaned forward and studied the nameplate on the casket. “Hmm, Dominic Moreau, a Frenchman, but his attire appears to be English, maybe 14th century.”
“Do you think there are more of these people further inside of this thing?” the Blick man asked as he unenthusiastically peered into the distance. “Maybe there’s some clue as to what this all means.”
Drummond considered the comment. He’s right, he thought. We should move ahead, search further, come back to this later. Maybe there are answers farther inside.
The Scot allowed a half-minute to pass while continuing to study the costumed man inside the cylinder. “Aye, laddie, we can come back to this room later,” and he evaded Fellini’s nod. “So eh - let’s move farther along the passageway.”
Craig Drummond gave an approving half-smile to Fellini. He admired his bravado, a quality he himself had once possessed. But that Indiana Jones persona was long gone. The Scot had developed a conservative manner, arriving at decisions with much trepidation unlike his young prodigies - unlike Fellini. There was a large dose of envy inside Craig Drummond and he wondered how far he would venture if he were alone in this environment.
He stared into the near blackness of the passageway, his mind chewing on itself. Fellini gave a look, and the doctor, feeling his querying eyes returned the expression. They stopped as the beam of Drummond’s flashlight illuminated another large door seemingly designed to accommodate wider objects, a wider opening similar to those found in medical facilities.
“Go ahead, open it,” Fellini said, as he raised the viewfinder to his eye.
Drummond paused momentarily then gingerly turned the handle. A moment of hesitation was followed by a barely audible click.
“It’s a stairwell,” Portman whispered.
“It looks, eh - sinister,” the Blick man said, “as though it’s separate to what we’ve seen so far.”
Drummond descended, his eyes tracking the flashlight beam as it snaked along the edge of each step, his mind hovering someplace between euphoria and terror. He pressed his body to the wall, uneasy as he took the final steps. The beam crept along a section of wall and finally came to rest on what appeared to be the door of a freezer.
“I’m feeling bad about this,” Mateo muttered, a few paces behind Drummond. “Maybe we should leave it until tomorrow. Who knows, it might be safer to have some military or . . .” and he paused for several long seconds, hoping another of the group would finish the sentence.
Silence.
“Maybe we should have some cops with us,” Mateo concluded. “What if there . . .”
They were hit hard by a blast of rank, icy air that carried the now familiar odor of preservative. Drummond jumped back, almost tumbling over Ansell Portman. They regrouped and Drummond pointed the flashlight into the blackness, directing the beam at two additional cylindrical containers.
“This one here . . .” and he lightly touched the nearest cylinder, “. . . is much smaller than the others.”
“It appears to be empty,” the Blick man exclaimed.
“Turn the camera off for God’s sake, laddie,” Drummond snapped. “Give a man some space here.”
Aggravated by the Blick man’s insensitivity, the Scot impatiently moved around the casket, lost his footing on the damp floor, slipped, fell, and winced as his helmetlight flickered on impact and died.
A shiny object caught his eye. His voice gained a tone of excitement. “Shine the light there . . . right there in the corner of the casing, on that red thing,” Drummond whispered. “My God, it looks like a dog’s collar. I can see the tags,” and the doctor reached for the collar and read the faded engraving.
“What’s it say?” Portman asked.
“Hmm, it says Bruno.”
Portman: “But why’s it empty?”
Fellini: “Where’s the dog that wore the collar?”
“Dunno. But one thing’s for sure,” Drummond replied, “it didn’t disintegrate like those two poor bastards upstairs.”
“Like Campion and Moreau,” Fellini mumbled, glancing at his notes.
“Looks like the dog was a wee bit more fortunate than his compatriots,” Drummond hypothesized.
“Maybe they were participants in some kind of weird experiment,” Fellini said, waving a hand at the empty chamber, “one that went dreadfully wrong.”
Excitement made an abrupt shift to melancholy.
Portman: “Maybe we’ll never know.”
Drummond moved nearer Bruno’s chamber. In a whisper he alone could hear he sighed, “Might be better if we never know.”
CHAPTER TWO
Venice, Italy
April 1, 2015
12 A: M
Midnight, heart of Venice.
Asolitary figure materializes in the picturesque quiet Sestiere of San Polo. He rubs his face as his eyes adjust to the darkness. He focuses on a gondola as its meager bowlight illuminates the murky water of The Grand Canal. The stranger raises a match to a cigarette and the glow allows a sinister glimpse of his weathered features.
Dom Moreau had been ‘ear-marked’ by Libra during his early years at Midwestern State University, a public liberal arts college in Wichita Falls, Texas. Two years following graduation and with a questionable sabbatical behind him, Moreau joined the Zurich based research facility. He is familiar with the renowned landmarks of Venice, St. Marks Basilica, the Rialto, the Doge’s Palace and the Bridge of Sighs. He’d visited the piazzas and the silent palazzos and had browsed Venetia’s quaint churches on many occasions. His French father, Francois Jean Moreau, had inflicted Dom with a scattering of French speaking skill, perhaps sufficient to suffice ordering from a menu, but insufficient to converse fluently. Had he been born a girl his name would have been Dominique. Dom had suffered more than his share of ribbing over the name issue during his early years at M.S.U.
A smile flashes over Moreau’s face. His eyes wander the length of the canal, the chain-mail hood barely revealing his grin as he huddles and waits for the Venetian sunrise. With the last cigarette spent, he wraps his arms about his shoulders and briskly rubs at the heavy medieval surcoat he wears over a sleeved tunic and burgundy hose. To those around him his appearance is one of a medieval period street performer. He scans about, his eyes searching out a face. He ponders better times, begs his God for the smallest morsel of forgiveness for his instigating such a horror – for the pandemic.
For accountability.
He’d searched Calais and Venice yet his associate Denis Campion had eluded him. As with his previous visits, Moreau feels at ease in Venice.
“My beloved Venetia,” he mumbles softly. “How well you’ve stood the test of time.” He nods politely at passersby curiously questioning his attire.
A smile flickers across his face as he catches the aroma of brewing coffee as it floats from a nearby fondaco. His eyes leisurely close and he inhales deeply – savors the brew, thinks thank God coffee has survived the passing of time.
Moreau slips a metallic disc from his pocket and strokes one finger around its edge. A small glow emanates from the disc and an alphanumeric readout appears:
; Forty-five degrees, twenty-six feet, nineteen seconds north – twelve degrees, nineteen feet, thirty-six seconds east.
He mentally confirms his scheduled meeting and makes his way to the basilica of Santa Maria della Salute. He peruses the scattering of worshipers, steel-gray eyes darting predator-like from one parishioner to another.
He fears the worst. Several days have passed since he has seen Denis Campion. He admires the beauty within the basilica while remaining aware of the importance of blending with the parishioners.
The air around him contains a dank odor reminiscent of the medieval stench from the period from whence he’s traveled. A squeaking sound distracts him. He instinctively steps behind a pillar, eyes following an elderly woman walking feebly from a confessional, head lowered, blessing herself – leaving the building.
Moreau slips the disc from his pocket and glances at the small monitor, verifies coordinates. Satisfied he’s not mistaken he raises his eyes and continues scouting the congregation. Denis Campion was nowhere to be seen. Moreau curses as time slips on by. Ten minutes, twenty. Annoyed, he murmurs, “Your coordinates Campion. Check your fuckin’ coordinates.”
***** American Interpol Division Headquarters Los Angeles, California
Ten Days Earlier
March 22, 2015
8: 42 A: M
Samuel Noah Ridkin hadn’t slept much the previous evening. His position within the American Interpol Division often compensated him with such nights. He stared from the twelfth story window of the Interpol Division’s Wilshire Boulevard location. Sam was in his late sixties, had a full head of Afro hair lightly streaked with gray, and resembled actor, Morgan Freeman. To those who didn’t know Sam, the flared nostrils added an illusion of fierceness intensified by bloodshot eyes, demonic in a tranquil way along with a pedantic frown and deep furrowed forehead resulting in his assiduous expression of ferocity. The combination of these attributes resulted in an authoritarian charm that was the Interpol chief – Sam Ridkin.
Sam thought something isn’t right as he watched the congestion of Los Angeles traffic twelve floors below. The previous day’s call from Admiral Bates still hung heavily on his mind. Bates was a founding member of the Triumvirate Board whose sole function was handling assignments and ‘non-existent issues’ around the globe.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 2
