Dal mumbled, “Fuck-up,” as he squatted alongside Blake. “Zurich, huh?”
“Yeah, gotta be. Who else? They pulled him back somehow. Dunno.”
Hunter asked, “So uh . . . wha’d’we do now?”
“We go home,” Blake groaned. “No ampoules – mission’s done. We’ve gotta activate and get on back.”
***** Libra Facility Zurich
April 3, 2015
Paul Danzig sat alone at the central control panel. A steady bleep, bleep, bleep indicated Neuberg’s transmission, and a series of wiggles and lines danced across a monitor forming troughs and peaks. Beckman had a sense of urgency in his step as he entered from the adjoining control room. He reached for a hand piece and began mumbling cryptically in German, “What is going on?”
Beckman waved him off. “Are you sure?” Bosch shouted as he hurried into the room. “Are you certain?”
Beckman punched in a sequence of coordinates. Looked gloomy. He ran the sequence several more times as all three hypnotically awaited the result. The monitor blinked and numbers, dates, and coordinates began scrolling down the screen.
Beckman sank back in his chair. Bosch lost control of his bladder and Danzig seeing the pee pooling at Hans Bosch’s feet took three quick steps away.
“Neuberg has activated the devise prematurely,” Beckman groaned in a shaky voice. “He has incorrect coordinates. Something is terribly wrong here.”
The information on the monitor was in source code. Danzig pointed at the screen and asked, “What does that mean?”
“A computer malfunction,” Beckman said. “I need to gather the information required for configuration. I need to reinstall the cache engine.” He switched to an alternate system, checked the monitor, enabled the cache support in the router and found the cache engine installation to be corrupt. “I do not understand,” Beckman groaned in a quivering confused voice, sweat dripping from his nose splashing onto the keyboard. “The problem does not appear to originate from Neuberg’s end. Someone has tampered with our configurations . . . someone within this facility.”
“But this is impossible,” Bosch snapped. “The Frenchman, where is le Blanc?” He looked about and shouted, “Where is that fucking Frenchman!”
His shout echoed through the corridors of Libra. But the Frenchman was moving with stealth, down one flight of steps, into another, scrambling, bumping the walls, descending. He slammed through the storage room doorway, startling d’Artagnan as he attached a transmitter to a red collar. He jumped back, dropped the collar as le Blanc buckled and began vomiting. He tried to speak, but wasn’t able to perform both functions simultaneously.
“It is done, but . . . but . . .” and he eventually panted, “Il est activé.”
“Neuberg?” d’Artagnan said with a questioning look.
The Frenchman was momentarily incoherent. “Yes. Yes. Oh my God. Yes, but the date. The date...”
**** Danzig, Bosch and Beckman stared at the monitor in disbelief, each fixated on the reprogrammed detonation date.
April 4, 2015 The coordinates: Forty-six degrees, thirty-seven feet north, eight degrees, thirty-six feet east.
The city: Andermatt, Switzerland.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
September 20, 1356
Leap of Faith
The six riders dashed toward the nearest opening as the French cavalry gained ground. Sir Nicholas removed his breast plate and clumsily flung it aside, barely missing Denis Campion whose mount flinched at the passing armor and jarred its head sideways.
Blake shouted from behind, “What the fuck are you doing?” His horse strained as it thundered through the dust created by those ahead of him. Bell dropped back fifty yards as she brought up the rear.
Sir Nicholas turned and bellowed, “Remove your weight! It is no good to you where we are going!” His voice was difficult to comprehend as he bounced about in the saddle like a cowboy hanging on for dear life while bull riding.
Dal discarded his helm and broadsword and booted his warhorse alongside Hunter, their remaining armor rattling about as each horse careened forward. Dal strained to be heard above the sound of rattling armor. He shouted back at Gardner Hunter, “Where the fuck are we going?”
“Look behind you,” Hunter shouted. “Those fuckers are closing in too fast!”
“Get your discs out!” Blake shouted. “We’re gonna activate . . . now!”
Bell finally threw off the last of her armor and was down to hose, chain-mail, and a tunic. She shook her hair free.
“You guys, your discs, activate them!” Blake screamed.
All four pressed the edge of their green discs. Nothing. They exchanged anxious glances.
Beyond the precipice the Dordogne River snaked its way through fertile farmlands. Sir Nicholas reached the edge ahead of the other riders, barely coming to a halt before the fatal plunge of three hundred feet. Within seconds Blake, Dal, Hunter, Bell and Campion joined him at the edge. Nicholas dismounted and quickly shed his armor.
Hunter reared his horse. He shouted, “What’s with these fuckin’ discs? What are we doin’ wrong?”
Bell gave Blake a questioning look and pressed more firmly on the activation edge. But again – they were still on the edge of the escarpment.
Sir Nicholas shouted, “I believe our only way to survive is to throw ourselves at the mercy of the French! They are not always merciless pigs!”
Hunter peered at the knight who had stripped down to his surcoat and hose and was waving at the approaching horsemen.
Blake grabbed a hold of Bell’s reins as she maneuvered her skittish mount a little nearer the edge.
“I’m not feeling good about this,” Bell shouted. “Our discs, what’s wrong with them?”
Blake tugged at her reins, looked into her eyes, saw the fear. Saw the tears beginning to swell. He’d never seen her cry.
Dal yelled across to Blake, “These discs are fucked. Aren’t we supposed to get back home alive? What happened to ‘you’re here aren’t you’?”
Denis Campion tilted forward, the ride had opened his wound and any further hard riding would end his life. Blake leaned toward Campion, propped him upright and shouted, “You okay, man? Don’t leave us now, we have to go. They’re gonna bring us back to Zurich; we’re gonna wake up back at Libra. Hang on, any second now. Keep pressing your disc.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Campion called, mustering enough energy for a half-nod. “I’m hurting something fierce. Those guys at Libra, they . . . they better do it soon.”
Dal shouted at Blake, “I thought we had a guaranteed round trip!”
“Yeah I remember,” Blake shouted back. “But Moreau, he ain’t gonna go back!”
Campion turned to Dal and shook his head, not a gesture Dal needed to see. The ginger bearded man threw up a voluminous amount of blood, wiped the back of his hand across chaffed cracked lips, tilted his head toward Blake and grinned as his eyes rolled back in his head. Blake shouted across the rump of Dal’s rearing mount, “Stay with us! Hang in there Campion. We’re gonna go home!”
The ginger bearded man held the grin, then belched another pint of near purple blood. He swayed and with one hand firmly grasping the pommel, and steadied himself. Campion slowly turned his mount, dug both spurs deep into its flank and bolted the short distance toward the precipice.
Sir Nicholas scurried back to his charger, remounted, gave a short look to Bellinger, smiled and nodded, suggesting he was always aware of her disguise. Within five seconds he was at full gallop toward the nearest of the French. He shouted a war-cry and waved his sword above his mount’s ears. He severed the first Frenchman’s arm with one quick blow, turned to Blake as the next two riders swooped upon him. Nicholas ducked, swerved the first blows, swords bouncing off his shoulder armor. Exhausted he succumbed to the volley of blows, his smile dissipating as blood ran from his lips. He looked back at the group hovering on the edge of the precipice, and mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
Blake was in
a quandary, torn between watching Campion’s charge over the cliff and Sir Nicholas’s charge into the French. Hunter savagely wheeled his mount about, gave Blake a look of what the fuck do we do. He gestured to Sir Nicholas and shouted to Blake, “We can’t just leave him!”
But it was too late. The French were too close – just two hundred yards off.
Gardner Hunter felt Bell’s eyes, he didn’t want to turn, tried to retain a confident demeanor.
Patrice Bellinger closed her eyes and was in his arms, back in Burma, back in China, back anyplace but France, anyplace other than this hellish era. Hunter took a firm hold of her reins, held her mount steady. It twitched, sensing the approaching charge. As his mount pranced about, he saw the fear in Bell’s eyes.
Tears flowed freely as Hunter reached across and gave her a final hug. He turned away and raised a sword . . . made a saluting gesture to Blake. Again they attempted disc activation, attempted transportation. Nothing.
The French riders drew nearer, massive chargers with necks outstretched and nostrils flaring, their riders anticipating the bloodbath.
French colors flapped furiously in the wind of the charge, pennants held high by some, while others carried outstretched lances and waved broadswords, lusting to slash into the group ahead. Hunter recalled Sir Nicholas’s words the French are not always merciless. He pondered the idea of dismounting, of pleading for mercy, considered it, thought of what they’d do with Bell. The consideration lasted a few seconds, long enough to blink, to shake off the foolishness. With the idiocy gone he wheeled Bell’s mount about and Blake snapped out a shout, “Try the fuckin’ discs again. What the fuck! Jesus Christ! Go! Go! Go!”
The French cavalry were now less than one hundred yards off.
Fifty yards separated them from the edge of the world as they spurred their mounts at full gallop in the direction Campion had headed. Fully stretched and with every fiber of sinew straining to clear a nonexistent hedge, their skyward leap began. The four appeared to sprout wings and leap away from land. But there was ho hedge. There was no solid ground... and they tumbled. They were falling uncontrollably. Three horses tumbling, tumbling, riders shouting as though pleading with their mounts to secure firm footing. Each rider entered into a crazed free fall as they became dislodged from their saddles, one bumping against the other, flailing legs being bumped by the weight of frenzied, wide eyed horses. Hunter caught a glimpse of Blake spinning about alongside of him. Spinning. Shouting. What were seconds seemed an eternity. They had no safety net, no padded landing.
The Dordogne River lay three hundred feet below.
”Your discs,” Blake shouted, “activate your discs, try them again . . .”
And in the warmth of that humid French evening, their echoed screams would come to an abrupt end in the raging waters of the Dordogne.
Blackness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Dig Site
Andermatt, Switzerland
January 4, 2044
11:08 A: M
The Note
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 an
other 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.
The Lucifer Sanction Page 24
