The Lucifer Sanction (3 page)

CHAPTER TWO
Venice, Italy
April 1, 2015

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 call to set up the meeting with a member of an
unidentified Zurich organization added another sleepless
night to Sam’s resume. As with most Interpol meetings, this
too was ‘off the record.’ Each telephone communication
was secure and encrypted.

Sam Ridkin’s prior history with the Central
Intelligence Agency was marked with repetitive praise
and presidential accolades. In 1996 the Secretary of State
and the Triumvirate Board whittled their way through a
preponderance of candidates for the top position of the
fledgling agency, thus Sam became American Interpol
Division’s chief. Its first duty was to search out the highest
qualified operatives ranging from distinguished members
of the Secret Service, the navy SEALS and Sam’s previous
employer – the CIA. In short time the AID totaled in excess
of fifty operatives covertly positioned throughout four
continents. Officially however - the division didn’t exist.

When he heard the door close, Sam raised his eyes
from the crawling traffic and half turned. Drew Blake
ambled to the conference table in the center of the room
and placed his valise on the laminated surface. A near
threadbare carpet square reached from one base-board to
the other. It had been resurrected from a Thrift store and
had seen better days. Its faded burgundy and gold brocade
design was blessed with spilled coffee, splashes of Jim
Beam and a few other stains of questionable origin. Sam
refused to replace ‘the piece’’ as he called it, claiming the
stains added character.

The interior of the office matched the reception
area, scant in décor with furnishings neither fashionable nor
functional, possibly originating from the same thrift store
as the carpet square. Sam didn’t care what others thought.
This was his pseudo place of dwelling and his taste in décor
was of no consequence. His two most prized pieces were
an oriental liquor cabinet stocked with an ample supply
of Jim Beam, and a baroque framed mirror of massive
proportion hanging above it. The mirror was a thank you
gift from China’s President Hu Jintao, recognition of a
recent Chinese assignment known only as Black Sabbath.

Sam considered the gift psychological point scoring
by the president. The next week a life-sized replica of
Barack Obama holding a small sign with the word ‘change’
was delivered to Jintao’s home, an address not known to
anyone outside his closest confidants. By the end of that
day, Jintao sent a personalized thank you card bearing the
words, point taken. Beijing security immediately searched
for a new residence.

“Morning Sam,” Blake said with a look of concern.
“I snagged the spot alongside your Lincoln. I couldn’t help
noticing her hood’s cold. Guess you got here early, huh?”

Sam gave a half smile. “Drew, did I ever tell you
I’m my family’s fourth generation living in this constipated
fucking metropolis?”

The voice was gruff and showed lack of sleep. Blake
recognized Sam’s pensive brooding mood. The words
were delivered with trance-like morbidity as Sam nudged
his head at the snaking quagmire traversing the boulevard
below. “God only knows why they’re here – there has to be
better cities out there somewhere.”

Blake encountered Sam’s down moods on many an
occasion but this morning’s signals were compelling, more
difficult to read, leaving him momentarily speechless, with
no idea where to direct the conversation. There seemed no
point dwelling in Sam’s depression; he waited for his boss
to elaborate.

“I’ve got a gut feeling about this one, Drew. It’s
gonna be tough.”
“I kind of sensed that when you called,” Blake said.
“Sorry I came across a bit non compos mentis on the phone.
I had a weird start to the day.”
“Weird?”
“Very weird.”
Sam stayed by the window and waited for Blake’s
version of ‘
a weird start to the day
.’
“This guy shows up at the apartment before my
morning coffee, and you know how that goes. So he starts
telling me some weird story about...”
Blake’s words trailed off. His effort to snap his
boss from regression missed its mark and a chill filled the
Interpol office. Sam strolled from the window, took a short
look at the wall clock, and sat at the table. Blake pulled a
chair and seated himself alongside.
In another attempt to lighten Sam’s mood, Blake
faked a chuckle and pointed at the clock. “Guess I’m early.
Ain’t nine o’ clock yet.”
“Nice change,” Sam said, ignoring Blake’s reference
to his usual tardiness. “We have a special visitor, should be
here soon.”
“Visitor?”
“His name’s Paul Danzig. I’ll explain it all when
the rest of the guys are here.”
Two other members of Sam’s handpicked team
arrived. Carson Dallas and Patrice Bellinger spent a few
minutes exchanging customary greetings with Sam’s
personal secretary, Marcie Bryant.
Marcie had been with Sam since the beginning.
She was a middle-aged slightly overweight woman with a
boisterous Shelley Winters persona and an abnormal Elvis
Presley fixation. Combining the two, she adopted Shelly
Winter’s portrayal of Gladys Presley from the television
movie, Elvis, and her hair was styled and colored to
resemble Gladys.
Sam called in a voice carrying a tone of annoyance,
“Marcie, give maintenance a buzz. Get this window
cleaned!”
It was Sam’s way of venting annoyance at the
unnecessary conversation in the reception area. It caused
immediate silence followed moments later by a flushed,
apologetic Marcie ushering Dal and Bell into the office.
Dal raised a greeting hand and pointed at the
window, “Could be smog.”
Blake chuckled and flicked a warning glance at Dal,
“Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask,” he said, “I had a call after
you left this morning, seems I scored a second date with
that young lady from last night.”
“The attorney?” Dal asked with a wry grin. “The
one missing the thong?”
Bellinger’s curiosity peaked. “Missing a thong?”
she inquired. “Now there has to be a good story there, right
Drew?”
“Aw, just a tight skirt, Patrice. It kinda showed an
outline, it’s a guy thing.”
“Yeah, of course . . . lover boy.”
“So what’s the favor?” Dal interrupted, saving his
friend from further playful jibes from Bellinger.
Blake caught the look of annoyance on Sam’s face.
He felt it best he discontinue the banter.
“This eh, this Paul Danzig, when’s he getting here?”
Blake asked.
A second later Marcie tapped on the door and poked
her head into the room. “Your guest’s on his way up,” she
said in an exaggerated Memphis drawl. “He apologized for
being late - said it was the traffic.”
Paul Claude Danzig was a cultural anthropologist
whose training more than qualified him for his involvement
in the mission that, as of yet, remained undisclosed to the
AID team. Danzig’s history of socio-cultural experiential
immersion set the criteria by which he’d been selected by
his employer.
Danzig’s area of research, often known as participant
observation, emphasized cultural relativity. His awareness
of ethnic variables such as birth rates and declines due
to famine and disease, were soon to magnify the devious
intent of this tall gray haired guest.
His animated facial expressions belied a nervous
tick that persisted despite self-unawareness of its presence.
Marcie noticed the twitch and strained to keep a straight
face as she made introductions, “Mr. Ridkin, this is Paul
Danzig.”
Danzig nodded, “It is my pleasure.” His accent was
heavy, Germanic. “I apologize for...”
He extended his left arm and gestured at his watch.
“That’s quite okay,” Sam replied nodding toward
the window. “We’ve been watching the mess down there.
Allow me to introduce our team.”
Danzig smiled and thrust his hand forward in a
friendly greeting gesture. He placed an attaché case on
the table, opened it and methodically rifled through the
contents, speaking as he removed a selection of files.
“Thank you Mr. Ridkin. I am extremely pleased to
meet all of you on such short notice. Admiral Bates has
assured me of your efficiency and most importantly of your
confidentiality.”
The twitch drew a grin from Dal. He gave Blake’s
foot a gentle tap. Danzig was cognitively dissident of
his habit. He removed a folder from his attaché case,
leaned back in the chair and gestured at the files he was
methodically arranging.
“I have been assured this room is secure, that no
part of this meeting is being observed or recorded.”
Sam: “What?”
He gave Danzig a look of annoyance. “The mirror’s
real and we’ve got no listening devices – okay? You can
proceed in absolute confidence.”
Danzig returned the nod.
“Please forgive me. With that assurance allow
me to move forward. What I’m about to discuss must not
leave the confines of this room. I recently held meetings
with Admiral Bates and his Triumvirate concerning the
magnitude of this situation.”
He paused, interlocked his fingers and pushed
his inverted palms toward the group. The cracking of his
knuckles was followed by three rapid twitches. Dal tapped
Blake’s ankle again and showed two fingers below the
tabletop.
“I assume you have all heard of the Philadelphia
experiment?” Danzig asked and continued unaware of
the group’s reaction. “The invisibility tests on the U.S.S.
Eldridge?”
Sam was uncomfortable with the direction the
conversation was heading. He ran his fingers through his
hair in a nervous gesture. “The destroyer the Navy denies
ever vanished,” Sam said, in a mater-of-fact way.
“Well, vanished is not quite the way it happened.”
There was silence. Danzig had their full attention.
“Vanished does not quite fit the bill. Though no official
documentation exists to support this story, in the fall of
1943 the navy successfully teleported the U.S.S. Eldridge
from Philadelphia to Norfolk, Virginia.”
“Ah, excuse me,” Blake said, raising a finger. “But
uh, how are we involved in this history lesson?”
“Please be patient, allow me to guide you through
this. You know what they say about virtue...”
Blake rolled
his eyes and Sam coughed his
disapproval.
As Danzig’s face twitched, Dal added a third finger
to his count.
“We’ve searched records in the Operational Archives
Branch of the Naval Historical Center,” Danzig said. “The
records show the ship was in the vicinity of Bermuda. It
was undergoing training and sea trials until the middle of
October. After which the Eldridge joined a convoy headed
for New York. That convoy’s on record as having arrived
in New York harbor on October 18 where the destroyer
remained docked until the beginning of November. The
report claims that during this time frame, the Eldridge was
never in Philadelphia.”
Blake again raised an interjecting hand. “What
about witnesses? Surely there were other ships around?
I mean to say, a destroyer isn’t gonna just disappear and
reappear without anyone noticing.”
“The crew of the civilian merchant ship, the
Andrew Furuseth observed the arrival via ‘teleportation’
of the Eldridge into the Norfolk area,” Danzig said. “The
Office of Naval Research stated that the use of force-fields
to make a ship and her crew invisible doesn’t conform to
known physical laws. It denies the completion of Einstein’s
Unified Field Theory. During 1943-1944 Einstein was
actually a part-time consultant with the Navy’s Bureau of
Ordnance, undertaking theoretical research.”
“I heard of a similar incident called Operation
Rainbow. Is there a connection?”
“Yes, Agent Dallas, one and the same. Comprehensive searches of the archives failed to identify records
of any so called Operation Rainbow relating to any ship
disappearing or teleporting. In the 1940’s the code name
Rainbow was used to refer to the Tokyo-Rome-Berlin Axis.
The Rainbow plans were the war department’s strategy to
defeat the Italians, Japanese and Germans.”
Sam again glanced at his watch. He appeared
annoyed at the extraordinarily implausible conversation.
He raised a finger and grunted, “Coffee, anyone?” and
buzzed the front desk. “Marcie, can you brew a fresh pot?”
He smiled courteously at Danzig. “What’s this to do with
us? Has our navy gone and lost another destroyer?”
“Our facility in Zurich has conclusively proven that
teleportation is possible for any object through a technique
known as degaussing.”
“Degaussing?”
“Degaussing, Agent Blake. That is when the circumference of a ship’s hull is covered with a system
of electrical cables running from bow to stern. An
electrical current flowing through the cables creates the
degaussing effect, but the technique is primeval by today’s
standards.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Dal said, “wouldn’t the crew
be electrocuted?”
Danzig
adopted
a
self-righteous
grin.
“No.
Degaussing cancels a ship’s magnetic field. The equipment
installed in the hull is activated only in waters when there’s
suspicion the enemy has deployed magnetic mines. When
correctly carried out degaussing made ships invisible to
magnetic mines but not to the human eye, not to any type
of underwater listening devices and certainly not invisible
to radar.”
Sam rubbed his eyes frustratingly. “So what’s the
navy’s official position on this invisibility stuff, same as
Area 51? It’s my understanding they’re still in denial.”
“They deny to this day that any invisibility or
teleportation experiment involving any ship occurred at
Philadelphia or any other location.”
“I appreciate the history lesson,” Sam said, “but
again, where’s this taking us?”
Danzig extended an annoyed hold on palm at Sam
Ridkin. He went back to rifling through his files. A halfminute later he said, “The degaussing experiments were
never laid to rest. After Einstein’s passing, a small group
of contemporaries persisted with his research. You may not
believe the information I’m about to disclose, but...”
Danzig’s discomfort was evident as his eyes flickered from one to the other followed by an eerie silence.
After several long seconds the atmosphere returned to
a semblance of normality, solely attributed to Marcie
knocking at the door. She backed into the room precariously
balancing a tray on one hand and carrying a carafe in the
other. She placed them by Sam and discreetly exited.
Danzig filled a cup and drank slowly as each of the
group selected snacks from the assortment. He placed his
cup alongside the file and continued, “Recent discoveries in
quantum physics have revealed there are many universes.
Our Libra facility in Zurich is actively involved in subatomic particle transference.” He paused and absorbed
their looks of confusion. “To put this simply, we’ve
already moved subjects to a parallel universe, successfully
transported people through time. We have proven we can
go back, that we can visit the past.”
Sam placed his cup noisily on the table as the three
agents sitting around him grunted, sighed, and shuffled
about in disbelief. Blake looked across at Danzig and shook
his head. Danzig was quick to respond.
“I agree, Agent Blake. Believing in man’s ability
to travel to parallel universes has until recently been
considered by most to be a ludicrous theory – nothing more
than pure science fiction.”
“Rightfully so,” Sam groaned.
“The philosophy of a single universe,” Danzig
continued, “is similar to a driver thinking he can only
move his car along a single road; that he cannot detour.”
He illustrated his point by imitating a driver’s hands
maneuvering a steering wheel. “He feels he cannot turn
onto a service road.” He pointed as though about to turn.
“We have proven the driver can in fact take an alternate
road, one that is running parallel to the road he was
originally traveling. This new road allows him to feel the
same sensations. He arrives at the same destination as he
would if he had driven the freeway.”
“Parallel universes, huh?” Sam grunted dismissively. “Really now – this all seems unrealistic. Too much
like science fiction. Describe it to me – what exactly is a
parallel universe?”
“It is a duplicate image of our own world. Just as
a document transmitted by a facsimile is an exact copy of
the original.”
Blake leaned forward. “Are you saying you’ve
already sent people back in time?”
“As difficult as it is for you to believe, we have
in fact transferred two of our people, Dominic Moreau
and Denis Campion into a parallel universe. They had a
specific assignment that resulted in significant advantages
for the world as it is today.”
This statement produced a round of eye rolling.
“Our physicists have made significant progress
since Galileo, Copernicus and Newton. In their time they
believed our universe to be similar to a huge clock with
each of its hands marked with a dot representing planets
moving around the sun. Back then many imagined the
universe to be infinite in all directions with space having
no end. The great thinkers prior to the year 1009 believed
the universe occupied every corner of the heavens. Then
along came Einstein and his theory of relativity. Much of
that early thinking died a quick death.” Danzig gestured
with one palm outstretched, “Mr. Ridkin, there are so many
promising and bizarre theories subjectively studied by our
group of Zurich based physicists.”