The Lucifer Sanction

by Denaro, Jason

  Sam Ridkin snapped impatiently, “What about the under-populated areas out there? Surely you aren’t taking them into consideration in these statistics of yours!” He waved an angry hand at Danzig’s file and slammed a fist on the table. The Interpol Chief wasn’t one to lose composure. Blake felt Dal’s eyes seek him out as Bell blushed, surprised by Sam’s outburst.

  “Please, Mr. Ridkin,” Danzig pleaded, “those areas are sparsely inhabited because their population is so meager they are unable to manage or sustain any kind of operative economic system.”

  Sam scowled at Blake as he caught the gaze on his man’s face. Danzig placed the files back in their folder and spoke directly into Sam’s eyes. “Gentlemen, the United Nations predicts the world population will exceed nine billion people in the year 2075. The over-population process is accelerating at an unsustainable rate. Discounting natural disasters we will outgrow this planet in very short time. There will be insufficient food and too few resources if the population explosion is left unabated. We have established conclusively that mankind’s numbers must be forced into decline in order to maintain parity with productivity.

  There have been more people added to our planet in the past fifty years than since the dawn of creation. We cannot allow this growth rate to continue. We must implement the Lucifer sanction and cull the population.”

  Sam strode across the briefing room and into a small kitchen area slightly larger than a closet. The room was had no window and the light source came from an overhead fluorescent tube that provided a cold glow. There was a small laminated circular table with one chair, a microwave, a toaster oven, a small refrigerator, a first aid cabinet and a few cupboards that held a minimum assortment of cups and plates. He pulled a bottle of aspirin, uncapped it, shook four pills into his palm and poured a shot of Jim Beam.

  Blake poked his head into the room and asked, “You okay, Chief?”

  There was no reply, Sam was hurting badly and needed to take a break. Blake and Sam’s relationship was as close as father and son; consequently Sam’s stress level concerned Blake. He reached for a glass, took a bottle of Perrier from the fridge, half-filled the glass and slid it across to Sam who predictably just moved it to one side.

  “I’m no genius,” Blake said, “but my gut feeling is that we’re about to get dropped into one shit-load of trouble. I’ve got my own thoughts about what’s ethical and what isn’t. All this – the ethics – well, it just doesn’t pass through my digestive system, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Despite the lunacy of the situation, the diminutive kitchen offered temporary sanctuary for them both.

  Blake was tempted to say, “So what gives?” but instead he spread his hands and said, “Do we really have to go through with this?”

  Sam shrugged, waved him off, sat down slowly and took a long pull on the Jim Beam.

  “Those guys at the Triumvirate,” Sam moaned, “Those fuckers don’t assign us without serious consideration. Yeah – we’ve gotta to go through with whatever.”

  ***** American Interpol Division Wilshire Boulevard Los Angeles

  March 22, 2015

  12.55 P: M

  Marcie Bryant buzzed through. “Mr. Danzig’s associate has arrived.”

  “Another fuckin’ nut case,” Dal whispered to Patrice Bellinger.

  Sam groaned, rested his head in his hands and mumbled, “Goddammit, show him in.”

  A smiling man with a mass of unruly gray hair entered the room. Danzig grinned widely and said, “Hans my friend, I trust your journey went well?”

  “Pardon my tardiness, there was a delay in Zurich, other than that the flight was pleasant.”

  Danzig turned, faced the group and nodded at the new arrival. “I would like you to meet Doctor Hans Bosch.”

  “I am so very pleased to meet all of you,” Bosch said in an even heavier German accent than Danzig’s. “I assume Paul has had sufficient time to acquaint you with the seriousness of our situation?”

  “I have briefed them on the involvement of Campion and Moreau, and the introduction of the virus – yes.”

  “And of the food situation also, I trust?”

  “Of course . . . of that as well.”

  “Very good,” the gray haired man said as he settled into a chair. He placed an attaché case alongside Danzig’s, opened it and gestured at the case: “United Nations figures predict the world population will peak in excess of nine billion people in the year 2075. The over-population process is moving at an unsustainable rate of acceleration. Discounting natural disasters we will outgrow this planet in very short time. There will be insufficient food and too few resources if the population explosion is left unabated. We have conclusively established the fact that mankind’s numbers must be forced into decline in order to maintain parity with productivity.”

  Sam groaned, “And how do your people see this forced decline happening?”

  “In a most unpleasant way I am afraid. You must understand, Mr. Ridkin, there have been more people added to our planet in the past fifty years than since the dawn of creation. We cannot allow this growth rate to continue.”

  Sam jumped to his feet, his eyes darting upward, flickering across the ceiling as he searched for words. “Are you suggesting we annihilate the excess, that we do another of your 14th century culls?”

  Blake shuffled about, sat on the edge of his chair and wondered how long it would be before Sam’s blood pressure peaked.

  Bosch’s tone was insolent. “The cull was absolutely necessary. How long do you believe man can endure the destruction of the environment? The documentation of the ruination of our oceans, our lands and the reckless pollution of our skies is everywhere, yet still goes unheeded. We are unable to keep up with the demand. We simply cannot feed all of those people. Demand has exceeded the limits of the carrying capacity of our planet.”

  “We’ve got plenty of grain,” Blake retorted. “Production numbers are up. So what’s the real deal here?”

  Bosch made a negative gesture and frowned. “Quite correct, however the government sources are too quick to optimistically inform us of grain surplus. Unfortunately the same statisticians discount the effect of overpopulation on those figures.” He reached in the attaché case and pulled a folder. “Even though there is an increase in production, we have an even greater growth in the number of people,” and he waved the folder at Blake. “War, global warming, topsoil deterioration, disease and other factors all play a part in the balance of population.”

  Dal interjected, “So why not let it play out that way?”

  Danzig read their faces, took in their level of discomfort. He needed a closing line, a line that would place an indelible exclamation mark at the conclusion of his delivery. “Unfortunately we cannot leave it to chance.” He wandered to the window and scrutinized Wilshire Boulevard. “Look at them,” he scoffed, “fighting for their piece of ‘the home of the brave.’ Why do they go through this torture each day? They work to earn a living, receive a salary and then hand over a part of their earnings in taxes, taxes that pay the ‘government of the people’.” Danzig tapped on the window, made a tsk, tsk sound, pointed, turned away from the traffic and drifted to the table. “We were once on a precipitous ride into the uncertainties of the present, however we are now able to travel back in time and avail ourselves of the opportunity to improve our world.”

  No reaction.

  “Although we cannot as yet move into the future, we most certainly can chart the route on which the future will travel. We have already sent our people back and took the necessary steps to reducing the population of the 14th century. AIDS, Ebola and cholera epidemics are reducing the numbers further, but the toll is insufficient. Indications are we must repeat the bacterium exercise. Libra’s decision came about with extreme trepidation,” Bosch said in a forceful tone. “We can argue the ethics of the situation all day, or we can move forward with the Triumvirate’s request for your organization’s involvement.”

  Danzig inter
jected in a consolatory tone. “We have a more immediate problem than your ethical belief. Our man Moreau has refused to return as ordered. He delivered a weak transmission threatening to spread a newly developed bacterium. We believe he is suffering mental issues.”

  “Mental fuckin’ issues?” Blake groaned in disbelief. “And this guy, this Moreau, he’s carrying a new bacterium?”

  “Yes, it is known as Lucifer and is several times deadlier than its predecessor and eh, most unfortunately, there is no antidote. It is the ultimate cull,” Bosch replied. “Its implementation has been sanctioned by the Triumvirate.”

  He smiled broadly as though the creation of the strain was a plus for medical science.

  Sam hammered his fist down and stood in rage causing his chair to bounce back across the room. Patrice Bellinger sprung to her feet as Sam shouted, “This is absurd!”

  Sam clutched at his chest and collapsed to the floor. Blake scrambled to his side as Bell quickly dialed 911. Fifteen minutes later two medics monitored Sam’s vital signs.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” the younger medic asked.

  “Vitals look good,” the other said quietly.

  “It’s not his heart,” the younger man added.

  “Hyperventilation I’d say,” the other said. “His vitals are fine.”

  Sam groaned into Blake’s ear, “Just get me the hell out of here.”

  “He’s delirious,” the first medic said.

  “Sure, Sam, sure,” Blake whispered. “Just take it easy, Chief. Please – just take it easy.”

  Bell sobbed and passed Blake a look of pessimism as Dal glared at Bosch.

  ***** American Interpol Division Wilshire Boulevard Los Angeles

  March 22, 2015

  3.48 P: M

  Two hours and twenty minutes later, Sam had sufficiently recovered and returned to the meeting. Danzig passed an unconvincing look of concern to Sam and remorselessly continued the briefing as though nothing had happened.

  “You must understand that the Lucifer sanction is for the good of humanity. Libra has gone to great lengths in transferring Campion and Moreau to a parallel universe. We can access past years just as we can open pages of a book, a novel that has already been written. However we are unable to move forward because, well . . . because those pages are yet to be written, but we can certainly move back.

  “Whatever lay ahead of us consists merely of possibilities. But the past, well now, the past is a manuscript we can peruse, a story we can alter – the same manner in which a writer can alter the completed paragraphs of a novel. The writer has the ability to direct where his story is heading, the ability to affect the outcome.

  “We at Libra are able to correct past misgivings so long as we do not infringe on what has already been recorded by history. Recorded history has happened, but we have the power and technology to assist history in most satisfactorily arriving at that end.”

  Blake asked, “So where are we involved in the scheme of things?”

  Bosch raised himself from the chair amidst a shuffling of feet as anxiety in the room peaked. “I will make this as simple as possible. Libra will transport your team to the coordinates we transported Moreau and Campion. The assignment is quite simple – you must locate the ampoules containing the Lucifer virus and return them to us.” He gave a cursory glance to Sam, and then quickly scanned Blake, Dal and Patrice Bellinger. “Enough for now,” Bosch said. “You will be briefed further upon your arrival in Zurich.”

  “What about your two guys,” Dal asked. “What’s happening with Moreau and Campion?”

  “They are not your concern,” Bosch replied almost indignantly. “We will see to their return.”

  “Will see?” Dal inquired suspiciously.

  Blake knew there was something Bosch and Danzig were withholding. He shook his head, cast a sterner look into Bosch’s eyes and spoke through clenched teeth. “You guys are all fuckin’ nuts.”

  Bosch glanced at Danzig. Both remained silent.

  Sam’s shirt was still unbuttoned and sweat was beading on his chest. He raised a slow hand and said to Blake, “Let it go. Their level of sanity’s best discussed between us later. Let it go, Drew.”

  Blake gnawed on his lower lip and discontinued his outburst. He paced back to the view of Wilshire and lit up another Marlboro.

  “Your flight to Switzerland will be arranged this evening,” Bosch said. “You will be met at the Zurich terminal and taken to our Libra facility.”

  “Like you said,” Blake groaned, exhaling a plume of smoke, “you’re gonna discuss this in more detail once we get to your facility, correct?”

  Bosch maintained his grin. “But of course.”

  “I can’t take any more tonight,” Sam interjected. “If I do, I’ll need a defibrillator.” He paused and took a long shaky breath. “It’s almost six-thirty. I need rest and food while there’s still enough on this planet to be had.” He forced a sardonic grin. “Can we resume this meeting tomorrow; say around ten o’clock or so?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Santa Monica, California

  March 23, 2015

  8:22 A: M

  “You ain’t looking too good, Sam,” Blake said with trepidation. “You feel okay?” He placed a cigarette between his lips and caught Sam’s look of disapproval. “I’m not too keen on meeting with these guys again this morning . . .” Blake said, “. . . what with all of that pandemic shit. Surely there’s someone else they can send to wherever the hell it is?”

  “Order me a coffee and French toast,” Sam groaned, failing to camouflage his concern. “I’ve gotta hit the John.”

  “Uh oh, big chief ain’t looking too good,” Dal quipped, and caught a sickly backward glance from Sam as he exited.

  Breakfast passed with little conversation. Sam checked his watch and within minutes all four headed back to the Marriott. They stepped from the elevator and made their way single file to the SoCal Exports office.

  “Any calls, Marcie?” Sam asked. “No calls,” Marcie replied. “But there was a note under the door. I put it on your desk.”

  Bell hung back for a chat with Marcie as Blake and Dal followed Sam into his office.

  Sam eyed the envelope with hesitancy and then raised his eyes to Blake and said, “Why am I feeling paranoid about opening this?”

  He slit the envelope open, peeked down and pulled three airline tickets.

  “Sam?” Dal probed.

  “Sam, you okay?” Blake queried.

  “Yeah.”

  Blake asked, “Danzig’s little vacation package, huh?”

  “Yeah, three airline tickets,” and he passed one to each.

  “Well, well, well,” Blake sighed, “and I thought it was all a fuckin’ nightmare.”

  Sam unfolded a foolscap page and read in silence.

  “What’s up?” Dal inquired. “It’s from one of those two crazy motherfuckers, right?”

  Blake sat on the edge of Sam’s desk and rubbed both palms hard into his eye sockets.

  “Los Angeles International at ten o’clock tonight,” Sam said. “You fly out for Zurich, arrive tomorrow at four. Not too bad – a five star hotel.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sam,” Blake said cynically. “They put all this together overnight?”

  Sam studied the note further then raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Overnight?” he chuckled. “These people transport humans through wormholes in the universe. You really think booking flights to Switzerland while we’re sleeping would be a stretch?”

  Blake and Dal glanced at Bellinger who was also staring at the ceiling.

  “At eight tonight,” Sam groaned. “I’ll have the three of you at LAX.”

  Marcie tapped on the door. “Excuse me, Sam, I just had the weirdest call, a Doctor Drummond. He was asking for you. He wouldn’t stop rambling, didn’t take a breath. I tried to say can you hold but I couldn’t slide the words in edgeways.” Her hand covered her mouth as she suppressed a slight giggle. “He had a heavy accent, Scott
ish I believe. I could hardly follow what he was saying. To make matters worse we had a bad line.”

  Sam tilted his head, parrot fashion. “Was he calling from LA?”

  She gave him an inquisitive look. “It’s the strangest thing. He said he was calling from Zurich, something about finding a note, a note written to you from Drew. He mentioned something about the pier, the pier here in Santa Monica.”

  Sam threw Blake a quizzical face. “You recall leaving a note for me in Switzerland?”

  “Hmm. I was skiing in Geneva about eighteen months back,” Blake replied. “But no, I didn’t leave any note.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Zurich, Hotel Baur Au Lac

  March 24

  8.07 P: M

  They stepped into the Zurich International Terminal and ambled toward a wall of greeters. A black suited man flapped at passengers as they pulled baggage carts toward exit doors. The black suited man’s sign showed one word, ‘Blake.’ He lowered it, stood erect and smiled as three passengers passed on by. The black suited man’s smile dissipated and his shoulders briefly drooped. When he regained composure he redirected his attention at the few stragglers still scanning the carousel.

  “Hey, over hear,” Blake called. The black suited man’s speech impediment became quickly obvious. “Pleath to meet you. I am Klauth, Mr. Danzig ith exthpecting you. I hope you had a very good flight, pleath come thith way.”

  “I’m not much of a salesman,” Dal whispered to Blake. “But I’ll bet my left nut I can sell this guy a few esses.”