He placed their luggage onto a cart and led them to a platinum colored Rolls Royce Phantom, a private limousine accessible to special guests of the Baur au Lac.
Twenty minutes into the drive, Bell said, “This is styling it. I’ll bet Sam isn’t picking up the tab.”
On arrival at the hotel lobby the three couldn’t help notice an excessive amount of construction noise. The nearest concierge, a flush faced man in his early sixties managed a friendly salutation despite the intermittently blinking red lights atop a bank of phones.
“Welcome to the Baur au Lac, gentlemen, madam.”
“That noise,” Dal shrugged, “when’s it gonna stop?”
“In June, Monsieur,” the concierge replied. He gave the wall clock a casual glance, “Unless we continue to suffer further weather delays.”
“Just great,” Dal groaned. He turned on his heels and eyeballed Blake. “I knew there’d be a catch. And uh, what’s with that sign?” He flicked a thumb to a red and white enameled notice: No animals permitted in hotel except for seeing eye dogs.
“And your point is?” Blake asked.
“Who’s it for, the dog or the blind guy?”
Blake rolled his eyes, gave Dal a gentle jab to the shoulder. “Good one, Dallas, you should’ve been a comedian.”
“Yeah well, I’ve gotta try, if I don’t – this noise is gonna drive me nuckin’ futs.”
Blake raised a finger. “Just thought of it, speaking of dogs – how’s that golfing buddy of yours doing, you know, Eddie – the guy whose dog got hit by the golf cart?”
“You ain’t gonna believe it,” a bemused Dal said, “he took the dog to the vet and the guy lays the dog on the table, takes a cat out of a cage and has the cat walk all over the dog. Well, the dog doesn’t move, so the vet says, your dog’s dead.”
“Jesus Christ!” Blake said, wide eyed. “You’re kidding me – it died from the bump the golf cart gave it?”
“Yeah,” Dal continued, “and Eddie says, ‘so what do I owe you, doc?’ And the dude says four hundred and fifty bucks.”
“Four hundred and fifty? That seems a bit steep,” Blake scoffed. “Why so much?”
Dal jabbed a finger into Blake’s chest. “He says fifty bucks for the visit, and four hundred for the cat scan.”
**** “These guys have good taste,” Bellinger said in an effort to quell Dal’s incessant whining. “Noise aside, it isn’t too bad. Wait until you see the suites, you’ll forget about the noise.”
Dal gave her a doubting glance. “The suites?” he asked. “When did you stay here?”
“Last year . . . with Hunter.”
Blake and Dal sauntered off to a magazine store in the lobby area, leaving Bell to handle check-in details. Bell’s adeptness had a touch of class, an attribute sadly lacking in her male counterparts. The CIA had recruited Patrice Bellinger straight out of high school. Her father, a High Court Judge, was aware of the agency’s interest in his daughter. He enthusiastically supported their intent. Her valedictorian status and many accolades placed her in good standing with the CIA and her current employer – the American Interpol Division.
She’d attended Harvard on a scholarship and had come away with a Doctorate in Political Economics & Government. She excelled as captain of the fencing team and had taken her final season off to train for the Olympic team. As a junior she joined the First-Team All-Ivy League.
The United States Fencing Association announced Patrice Bellinger’s selection to the team, and as a sophomore she won the individual championship with a victory over Ohio State’s, Magdalena Vichikov. Bell’s performance catapulted the Crimson to its first ever combined NCAA team championship. She was a two-time All-American, a two-time All-Ivy League selection and was Ivy League Rookie of the Year.
Blake and Dal returned to the reception counter as Bell finished up with the concierge. Dal gave a disbelieving shrug as his eye caught the daily rate - $541. He leaned into Bell and chuckled, “With Hunter, huh? I didn’t realize you and him had that kind of disposable income.”
**** Their adjoining suites were stylishly elegant with sumptuous decor and marbled bathrooms. The complimentary mini-bars were an instant hit with Dal. He kicked off his loafers, pulled an Absolute Vodka and a Jim Beam, unscrewed the caps, and switched from one to the other as Blake flicked through channels trying to find anything in English.
Thirty minutes later made their way to the hotel’s restaurant where Bell sat waiting. At eight forty-seven they scrutinized the haute cuisine menu of the hotel’s Restaurant Français. Blake ran tired eyes over the offerings, settling on roulade, meat thinly sliced, rolled around a savory filling secured string and browned and braised in wine. Dal salivated over tournedos, a piece of tenderloin beef four inches in diameter, the artistic presentation alone negating the bank-breaking cost. Bell ordered shellfish prepared à la nage, literally swimming in court bouillon, flavored with herbs and served hot in its broth.
Blake worked slowly on the roulade, his eyes lowered as he asked, “Bell, don’t you kind of miss Hunter?”
She ignored the question and focused on the soup. A little later, Dal said pointedly, “I spoke with him last week, says to give you his, uh...”
Bell dropped her silverware and stared him dead in the eye, her voice cutting through him with surgical precision. “Give me his what?” And she spat the word ‘what.’
Dal nearly choked on a chunk of tenderloin, his eyes bulging as he tried washing it down with a half-glass of Cabernet. “His eh – his very best. Yeah that’s it. Said to give you his very best, that’s all.”
Without missing a beat, Bell flipped him the finger.
“Hey – that ain’t nice,” Dal said, faking shock.
“Hey, yourself!” she snapped. “You deserve the bird.”
Having avoided the Heimlich maneuver, Dal chuckled, “Oh really! Giving me the bird, huh? That ain’t too ladylike.”
He spent the next few minutes avoiding her stare, taking small bites, chatting to Blake who, aside from an occasional uh hu, uh hu, worked away on his roulade.
A smirk crossed Patrice Bellinger’s face as she took in Dal’s ceaseless banter. He caught her smirk, broke off his chatter with Blake, and bellowed, “What!”
Her smirk became a hearty laugh. “Aw – I was just thinking of how you were such a perfect gentleman when we first met. I recall Sam introducing you, Carson Dallas. I was so impressed. First impressions can be so misleading.” She laughed for a half-minute and then became strangely silent. After playing with her food she reached for the napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry – yeah, I really do miss Hunter.”
Blake continued to toy with the roulade as Dal coughed the words, “Come again?”
“I wish he could be with us for this job,” she sighed.
“Get over it,” Dal said, eying his plate.
“Excuse me!” she snapped, making a screwed up face.
Silence.
“Uh-oh,” Blake said placing his fork alongside his plate. “Silence ain’t good – have speaks with me, Patrice, Dal, anyone?”
***** Eight-thirty the following morning they enjoyed breakfast at the trendy restaurant Rive Gauche. Hunter’s name was unambiguously absent from the conversation. Bell, feeling a little off from the previous night of drinking, turned away from Dal as he finished a bottle of Gewürztraminer. She flashed him an extra special look of revulsion as he set about devouring a platter of oysters.
“Why not?” Dal queried. He tapped a finger on the empty bottle. “It’s on the tab, right?”
“Oysters for breakfast?” Bell snapped. “Give me a break.” Her complexion changed from her usual pink to a pale hue. “I need to head upstairs,” she said. “I’m not feeling good.”
Dal grinned as she flung her chair back. “Something you ate?” he called as she shot out of the restaurant like a cork from a bottle of Perriet Jouet.
Blake was amused by the scene and took the last pull from his cappuccino. Dal gazed about th
e restaurant as Blake held a mouthful of coffee.
“And what’s with this leaving a piece of chocolate on the pillow?” Dal scoffed. “I woke this morning and thought my brain had hemorrhaged fuckin’ fecal matter.”
Blake leaned to his left, tapped a finger on Dal’s forehead and sniggered, “Amazing how you show no signs of neurological damage. Mental backup in progress – do not disturb!”
CHAPTER SIX
Andermatt, Central Alps
Switzerland
March 25
7.05 A: M
The man reminded Blake of the quintessential Colonel Klink. Conversation was minimal during their drive from the hotel to the private hangar. Bell looked hung over, Dal was hung over, and Blake was a prodigiously miserable morning person even without the booze.
Blake gave the passing scenery a short glance and moaned to himself, “Is it legal for the sun to be up this early?”
The wipers struggled as they cleared accumulated snowflakes from the windshield of the Benz.
“The road from Gothard is snowed in,” the driver said apologetically. “So we will avail ourselves of the foundation’s helicopter.” He turned his head to the passengers and put a slight laugh in his voice. “Far better than the two hour drive less important dignitaries must endure.”
Blake kept a serious face and asked the driver, “What’s your name?”
“Arno.”
Dal peered at a flight-control tower barely visible through the increasing white mist. He asked, “So eh, where are we headed, Arno?”
“To Andermatt, a small village not well known to tourists. Our Swiss Army trains there.”
The driver sniggered, hunched his shoulders then whispered as though sharing a secret. “It tends to dissuade sightseers, and provides an added advantage of free security.”
Blake caught the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He nudged Dal and said, “Must make for fun weekends, huh?”
“Yes, the soldiers leave us in peace on weekends. That is when we see some tourists – only on the weekends. Not during the weekdays, that is when we have it to ourselves, when we test our...”
He paused, cognizant of overstepping his mark.
Blake caught Dal’s look of ‘what the fuck’ but kept his eyes locked on the rear view mirror where the driver’s apprehensive look still hung.
Silence.
Blake pressed. “You were saying you test, eh – what exactly?”
The driver ignored the question.
Blake pressed a little more. “On weekdays, Arno – you test what?”
“Best you wait to have that question answered. We will arrive at Andermatt shortly, enjoy the flight. Your transportation is just ahead.”
A baggage cart pulling a chopper on a trailer emerged from a hangar. Within minutes the rotor began its familiar whop, whop, whop gyrations. Two minutes after climbing aboard and at one thousand feet, all three were gazing down at the Zurich traffic.
Minutes later Bell shouted at the pilot and pointed to a ski resort to their right. “That’s a ski lift, are we nearly there?”
“Yes, it is the cable car at Gemsstock. We will set down in a few minutes.”
“Haven’t been on snow since Big Bear,” Dal shouted, “It looks promising!”
It took the pilot a few minutes to negotiate a landing between steep mountainous slopes. The chopper blades stirred the powdery snow, causing an opaque cloud of white to engulf them. A building constructed of aluminum or perhaps titanium came into view as though materializing from another world.
A white suited man ran to greet them, squinted and turned his face away briefly as the down-thrust from the chopper shot fresh snow about the landing area. He held one arm across his face to shield his eyes. The chopper pilot leaned across, patted Blake’s knee, and jabbed a finger toward the man who was momentarily obscured by a fresh flurry. The rotor continued whirling as Bell, Blake and Dal were assisted from the cabin, kept their heads low and made the eighty yard dash toward the building. Dal turned to Blake as they ran and made a shrugging gesture. Blake ignored it.
Bell caught the gesture and called aloud, “What’s going on?”
Blake considered his response for a few moments, couldn’t come up with an answer, and spouted out, “Just roll with the blows, okay.”
“Welcome to Libra,” the white suited man said with a half-bow. “Your luggage will arrive shortly, please follow me; we have private suites for our guests. There is appropriate clothing laid out for each of you. Please shower, relax. I am sure you are not only wet but also very cold. We will send for you in an hour or so.”
Ninety minutes later Dal sat in a small dining area, stared into his cup and sighed, “Ah – hot chocolate.”
Bell stroked her cup, placed it against her cheek, felt the warmth and ran her tongue around the edge, playing with the foam on top. Dal groaned, pretended to ignore her sexuality. She persisted in taunting him by pouting her lips and sensually blowing into the cup. “Welcome to Switzerland,” she said, holding his stare. “Have to tell you, Dallas - that shower was sooo good.”
A woman in a white smock appeared from a door marked Staff Only. Blake pulled himself away from his chocolate fondue, carefully manipulated a small smear with his finger, endured Bell’s disapproval as he sucked the finger clean, and walked toward the woman. He wiped the finger across his sleeve and thanked her for the fresh strawberries and chocolate.
“Sorry,” Blake shrugged. “Just so darned good I didn’t wanna waste a bit.”
Her tone was abrupt, demanding. “Please, come this way.”
Blake thought it was more of an order than a request. “Are we off for coffee?” he asked, then turned and shuddered at Dal.
The woman ignored his gesture.
They snaked their way along a wide metallic passageway to adjoining guest rooms, to the accompaniment of elevator music. Blake and Dal entered the first of the two rooms. It was windowless yet had curtains made of a silver colored organza.
Bell slid a curtain back revealing a solid white wall, a fake feel, cold, uninviting. Blake stepped into a suite, tested one of the beds, attempted bouncing, stopped on the third bounce and grimaced. Accepting his resolve, he stretched out, kicked off his loafers, and with a note of disbelief nodded to a ceiling mounted dome and groaned, “Elevator music.”
“Kenny fuckin’ G,” Dal sniggered from the other bed.
“Yeah,” Blake said, “even worse.”
A gruff voice came from a large chair opposite their beds. The chair turned until the seated man faced them. “Forgive me for intruding on the privacy of your sleeping quarters. I am Doctor Gerhardt Beckman. No doubt you have questions.” He stood and reached a welcoming hand to Blake. “Allow me to familiarize you with our work here.”
Gerhardt Beckman was a handsome silver haired Germanic attestation to Arian supremacy. He walked with pride, with meaning – a candor one might expect from the master race had they not been the losers. He walked to the blank windowless wall, paused and stared at the organza curtain as his hand fingered a remote. The curtain opened, revealing a movie screen.
Dal shrugged and waved a slow hand at the screen. “We’re gonna want popcorn and Pepsi if this is a main feature, but I ain’t gonna complain if you only have Schnapps.”
Beckman was nonplussed. “There was a period not so long ago when it was believed time machines would never come to fruition. To this day many scientists are impaired by tunnel vision and are in a sense missing their
- hmm, what can I call it?” Beckman paused, rubbed his chin. “Yes of course, they are not finding their ‘missing link.’ Tunnel vision results from their Neolithic-like belief in today’s basic physical laws. With all of their postulating and with all of their brilliant physicists they become so entrenched in dogmatic belief that they have allowed their mathematical theorems to establish the impossibility of travel to parallel universes.”
He pressed another button on his remote and a section of the wall opened revealin
g a panoramic snow scene. Dal moved to the window and followed a skier making zigzag patterns down a distant slope. He glanced at an air duct ten feet above and thanked God for efficient heating, the outside air being frigid and cold enough to keep a Santa Monica boy indoors. Blake recognized the ‘off with the pixies’ oblivious stare on Dal’s face. He knew full well his partner would be asking for a layman’s translation of Beckman’s discussion.
“Agent Blake - not only can time machines be constructed but we at Libra have fragmented central problems in the foundations of physics. Those who are aware of our research – but not of our progress – still hunt for time machines in general relativity theory. Of course, as you Americans say, they are barking up the wrong tree. They believe that mathematical theorems related to various aspects of time machines are associated with the search of a quantum theory of gravity.
“Theories amount to little less than a ‘follow the leader’ row of ducks waddling along the peripheries of a H.G. Wells’ imaginary tale of time travel. These people are existentialists. What we need are more transcendental physicists, which I’m proud to say - we have here at Libra. More people who realize it is not a matter of ‘if’’ super terrestrial civilizations exist but how we can interact with those alien life forms, those ‘little gray men’ who’ve mastered wormhole travel, those who can manipulate a football sized craft silently around our most advanced air force and vanish in the blink of an eye - making no sound, leaving no heat trail.”
“So you’re saying those UFO shows are creditable, huh Doc?” Dal asked, giving the subject his full attention – extra-terrestrial life having been Dal’s high school thesis.
“Not all are creditable. However there are many sightings by reputable and extremely reliable sources that are beyond doubt, totally creditable. Air force personnel, commercial pilots, police officers, military, the majority of these sources cannot be dismissed.”
Dal: “So Doc, do you have an opinion on Area 51?”
Beckman moved to the window, tapped on the glass and nodded at the distant slope. He gestured at the skier who’d now reached the flatter area at the mountain’s base. He ignored Dal’s query. A heavy knocking robbed Dal of further discussion as Beckman motioned toward the large stainless steel entry. He removed a second remote from his pocket and engaged the opener and a middle-aged blonde haired man entered.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 6
