The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter FIFTEEN

Gardner Hunter

Santa Barbara, California

March 27, 2015

11A: M



An anonymous call from the disgruntled Libra physicist came into Sam’s office at eleven o’clock.

“So, you’re the guy who’s still working at Libra?”

“Yes, but the others, they do not suspect me,” and the caller went through a few minutes explaining his involvement and the circumstances surrounding the ‘accident.’

“Run that by me again,” Sam said, “the bit about killing off the other scientists.”

“A small group of us disagreed with certain aspects of the Libra project. They were heading into the resort to pick up supplies. I stayed back at the facility to correct a minor malfunction, fortunately for me; had I gone along I would have perished with the others.”

“Perished - how?”

“Their vehicle went off a cliff, a terrible fire – there were no survivors.”

“And you say there are three others working beneath the main facility?”

“Yes, beneath the main structure. We have an area that is used for storage, you know, for superseded equipment, for obsolete prototype transfer chambers, like that. Most of them get stripped down for parts.”

“And the guys upstairs in the, uh - what is it you called it - in the main control room? Those guys, they’re sending another of their people back?”

“Sending him back, that is correct, his name is Günter Neuberg.”

“So this guy, this Neuberg, he’s gonna go back to get our guys?”

There was a long pause. Like a priest in a confessional, the Interpol Chief painfully listened to an extended explanation of what appeared to be an assassination mission by Günter Neuberg.

“Mr. Ridkin, I’ve planned well for my retirement. I’ve sent files to Los Angeles. You’ll need to meet with my man - with an agreed upon sum of money.”

“Why not send these files directly to our office?”

“Far too risky. I’ve sold information to this person on other occasions. I need a nest egg, Mr. Ridkin. This person is what you might call my agent in America. A middle man. He’ll call you on this line within the hour.”

Sam checked his wristwatch, eleven twenty-three. “Sounds like espionage to me.”

“True. Yes, espionage, but why not? It maintains a balance of power. It keeps CERNA and Libra in check. He’ll want funds. For this he’ll pass pertinent files to you. I suggest you send along your best people if you wish to see your other three transported safely to our time.”

Sam rose to his feet, walked to the window overlooking Wilshire and once again – stared at the traffic. This guy could be nothing more than an extortionist, he thought. No, he knows too much, has to be genuine, perhaps greedy, perhaps genuinely concerned as well as greedy. Doesn’t matter. The funds are there for cases like this. I can’t risk not going along with the scheme. “Okay, we have a deal. What’s your name?”

Click.

He remained seated for a while, the receiver still pressed to his ear. For Sam Ridkin the world began a slow motion spin. His three guys were trapped in some God forbidden time-warp and a bunch of crazed scientists whom he’d been led to trust were now questionable. The possibility of assigning Gardner Hunter flashed through his mind. He thought but is Hunter ready?

He moved into the small restroom, ran the water, gave a tired look into the mirror. His hair looked none the worse after the disheveling from scrubbing all ten fingers through it numerous times. He pressed his thumbs into the hollows of his cheeks, pressed gently. His lips pouted and he relaxed the pressure, moved closer, placed a finger below an eye, pulled down gently and cringed at the bloodshot white as the words repeated in his mind – Hunter, Hunter, Hunter.

He thought of Hunter’s previous assignment, of how it caused his breakdown. He gazed at his reflection and said, “Hunter, Hunter, Hunter - you think that last assignment was stressful - now I’m gonna send you to some place in time - oh sure, this is gonna go down just fine.”

He moved slowly from the restroom to the kitchen area, a clandestine meeting with an old friend, Jim Beam. He pulled Jim from the red liquor cabinet - not the earliest he’d asked James to assist with a decision. Ten minutes later Jim was gone and Sam found himself sitting alone, staring mindlessly into the bottom of a glass. He wearily glanced about, took a blurred look at the wall clock, checked it against his wrist watch - eleven fifty-five. He heard the front desk phone buzz to life. A moment later, Marcie tapped on the door. Sam pulled at his lip, raised his eyes slowly and gave a glazed look at his secretary. He thought about Hunter’s therapy, of how Hunter had always been happy whenever a new mission to a far off place came up. Then he thought, far off, hmm, this one’ll crank his motor.

The Interpol Chief had placed Gardner Hunter on an eight month disability. The mission in Germany left Hunter with an extreme nervous condition. He’d gained a few pounds over the past year but had retained his two most treasured attributes, a plus two golf handicap and skills as a cat burglar – a stealth-like ability to access any secure situation.

First indication of a breakdown became obvious when his gun hand began trembling. Drew Blake suspected Hunter’s imminent breakdown, a fear confirmed on a preassignment briefing when Hunter shook his head, backed away and mumbled, “Count me out of this one.”

The refusal went on report and Gardner Hunter was granted immediate medical leave.

****

Now, a year later, Hunter was at peace in his world

– in his incense filled small apartment outside of Santa Barbara. He’d placed three calls through to the AID office, left messages with Marcie Bryant, waited in anticipation of a call from Sam.

Billy Joel played softly in the background doing his seventies hit, Just the Way You Are. Hunter had heard rumors of Blake, Dal and Bellinger’s European assignment – he’d thought it strange none of the three contacted him prior to setting off. He’d put Marcie Bryant through the usual third degree, three times, but Marcie denied knowledge of any assignment.

Perfumed incense catapulted him to past times, to days when blood had yet to stain his hands, a time when as a young man he was recruited by the Secret Service, moved onto the CIA and finally found himself alongside Drew Blake and Carson Dallas at an American Interpol Division familiarization seminar.

As he brooded around his small apartment, it occurred to him that he was a pretty boring guy. The kind of guy you couldn’t really put a label on. Some guys smoked pot, some drank too much coffee. Hunter did neither, just went through a bottle of Courvoisier each week. He listened to his seventies classics. If his mood was somber, he’d listen to Dr. Hook - their hit I’m gonna Love You a Little Bit More conjured up memories of nights spent with Patrice Bellinger. It was one of their songs. He’d break out of that mood by reviving the seventies. The Bee Gee’s Staying Alive, Rod Stewart’s Maggie May, but Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge over Troubled Water brought on a morose mood and would send him back to more sad times. He’d press the fast forward and get to The Eagles singing one of his trusty pick-me-up numbers Hotel California. When he wanted to belt one out, he’d do an accompaniment to Don McLean’s, American Pie.

Gardner Hunter lay on a beat-up leather sofa by the light of an incense stick, shook his head to the beat of the music, threw down another Courvoisier and reminisced of happier days with Patrice Bellinger. Incense was their perfume, the seventies classics - their songs. A romanticist, he’d not had another woman since Bell - well - not in the true sense of having. Two cognac glasses and an ever present bottle of Courvoisier sat on the table by the sofa. The second glass was always there – he just never placed it back in the China cabinet. But every few days he’d pick it up, give it a slow wipe over, gaze silently at its emptiness. He’d whisper, “Hello Bell.”

For Hunter, the end of the affair was the beginning of his descent into the maelstrom of depression. He’d taught Bell many things, but being a true southern gentleman, he never discussed that period in their lives. He’d taught her his greatest skill, how to kill a man using a blade. Bell mastered the art. Her skill as an Olympic fencer also stood her well, but it was Hunter who showed her the ease with which she could slit a throat. Patrice Bellinger took it in stride, coming through her internship with honors.

Not so Gardner Hunter.

Hunter poured the cognac as he eyed the caller’s name on his cell. He was quick to answer; the call had been a long time coming.

“Hello Sam, I’ve been waitin’ a long time for this call. Where’s Bell?”

Sam took a moment to catch the background music. “Can’t answer that, I see you’ve got your golden oldies playing.”

Hunter looked around and smiled at his sound system. “I need to be with ‘em, with Drew and Dal. I need to be with Bell.”

Sam thought I like that. After a few moments of silence he said, “I understand, Gard.”

“Sam, I feel honor bound to be with ‘em.”

Sam leaned on an authoritative tone. “Honor bound, is that what you call it? Have you forgotten it was you who wanted the leave of absence?”

“Goddammit, Sam! I needed it and now I’m over it, okay?”

Boogie Wonderland wailed away as Earth Wind and Fire did their best to block out Sam’s voice.

“Over it!” Sam said after cooling down a few degrees. “A few months of over it, is that it then?”

Hunter shook his head and Sam visualized his mood, his expression. He paused for several beats and disguised his emotional instability. “I don’t wanna overreact on the phone, Sam, but my therapist says I’m ready to come back.”

“So we have a favorable analysis, do we?”

“Yeah, she says my psychopathic desire to slit throats has rekindled sufficient enough that I’m ready to come home to roost, to be put back on the roster, you know what I’m sayin’.”

“You don’t sound too ready to uh - come home to roost.”

Hunter sensed the tremble in his voice. He cleared his throat and said forcefully, “Look, you know as well as I do that my commitment to the Burma mission took a lot out of me. I lost track of the kills but I can handle that shit. It was seeing what was happenin’ to the innocent guys over there - to the kids. Do I think I’m ready to come back? Try me.”

Lynard Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama started up and Hunter raised the volume.

Sam elevated his voice above the music, almost shouting into the handset. “They’re in Switzerland, can you hear me? Hunter! They’re in Zurich!”

Hunter leaned across, lowered the volume. “Confidential shit, huh Sam?”

“Confidential? Yeah!”

“How confidential?”

“Confidential!”

The conversation bumped along like all conversations when one party wants to beseech the other while reserving a semblance of dignity, while salvaging a little self-esteem.

Hunter softened his voice to a not quite begging level. “Come on, Sam – lemme come in for Christ’s sake. Chief, c’mon, cut me some slack here.”

Silence.

“Sam?”

****

Sam detected the waver in Hunter’s voice. A tone of faked assuredness. It left him unconvinced. He dialed the division’s psychiatrist, Dr. Sue Ellen Paulson for an ‘off the record’ assessment. Four minutes after exchanging the usual niceties, Sam said, “We need to send him in. You think he’s ready?”

“He’s borderline. He’s had serious issues, the Chinese and German missions took their toll. Taking that into account, I have to say his recovery has progressed as well as one could expect.”

“Is he well enough to go on out there alone, Doc?”

“A solo mission Sam, can you expand on that a little?”

“You know I can’t tell you more – I just need to know Hunter’s fit enough for an assignment without team support.”

There was an inkling of doubt in the doctor’s mind. Her concern went beyond Gardner Hunter’s ability to handle a solo assignment. His recovery from a tempestuous relationship with Patrice Bellinger prompted her next query.

“Without disclosing any of your top secret mumbo jumbo, I need to know one thing.”

“Maybe - fire away.”

“At any time, will he be working with Patrice Bellinger?”

Sam recognized the loaded question. “It could come down to that,” and there was a long pause. “You have a problem with that, Doc?”

“To be quite frank, Sam, I’m not totally convinced your man can remain emotionally detached.”

“Emotionally detached, huh? Okay then.”

He thought I can’t tell her Hunter’s going in to pull Bell back here - that would take too much explaining. With that story it’d be me who’d end up on her couch. He allowed some silence to pass. Sue Ellen Parsons also paused.

“If emotional detachment is our biggest concern,” Sam said, “well, I can live with that. Yeah, I believe Hunter can maintain emotional detachment.”

They took turns at playing devil’s advocate. Thirty minutes later, Sue Ellen Parsons acquiesced.

Sam buzzed Marcie. “Marcie, get Hunter back on the line.”

While he waited he ran a scattering of scenarios through his mind, he thought hi Gard, how are you doing? Then thought that sounds condescending. He put on a cheery voice and tried the doc says you’re fine. But that sounded intrusive. Then he thought I might get lucky – Hunter will start the conversation. He liked that scenario.

John Lennon was soulfully singing Imagine when Hunter’s voice came through. It was strong, positive. “Hey, Sam, how’s it hangin’, Chief?”

Sam heard Lennon, heard the self-assured voice – could visualize the forced smile – Hunter was back. “It’s hanging just fine, appreciate your concern. Let’s get down to business, okay?”

And John Lennon continued.

“There’s an organization in Geneva known as CERNA. One of their people has agreed to supply us with some papers we really need to get our hands on. We, you and I, we’re gonna take those papers to Zurich. You need to meet with the contact’s fence. The guy’s in LA.”

Silence.

“You there, Hunter?”

“Yeah Chief, I’m all ears.”

Sam ran instructions by him, gave him a name and a number. “Here’s the guy’s number. You make the call. I don’t need the details. I’ve a courier ready to bring cash to your place. I can have him there in thirty minutes with one hundred grand. And uh, Gard...” He added a chuckle to his voice. “Don’t lose it. When you’re done getting the CERNAfile, get your ass back here - ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. Thanks Sam.”

“And Hunter,” Sam added, “put the Courvoisier back in the cabinet. I can smell the stuff from here.”

****

At ten o’clock on a cool Santa Barbara evening, Gardner Hunter called the number.

“I believe you have papers for me from CERNA?”

“Yeah, I got your stuff, you got my half mill?”

“Gimme a break, I can’t get half a f*ckin’ mill. My boss says one hundred grand, period. I can be there by one in the mornin’.”

“Bro, this conversation is like, over. That ain’t f*ckin’ cool.”

“Cool? F*ck cool? I feel the compulsion to end this call.”

Hunter stayed silent.

The man laughed. “I’m like, bro, don’t even go there!”

“F*ck it,” Hunter retorted. “I’ll just tell my people you don’t have the file.”

“You want it too badly, bro, don’t go pullin’ that bluff shit with me.”

“If you f*ck with us, we’ll find you,” Hunter said and wondered why he’d said something so senseless. “You’re in East f*ckin’ LA, like you’ll be hard to track down.”

“I got friends, bro, and East LA ain’t where you wanna be at one in the f*ckin’ mornin’. You ain’t trackin’ anyone in my hood.”

Hunter held his breath through a long silence as his eyes moved about the room - searching for a response.

The man’s voice became subdued. “Bro, gimme your cell number, I’ll call you on your cell. Midnight tonight, no land-line shit. Be ready. Be in East LA. Don’t be drivin’ no blacked out SUV. If you do - you burn.”

Hunter nodded. “Got it, I’ll be drivin’ a ‘98 silver Continental, black top, just me and a buddy. And uh - he’s black, just in case I get uncomfortable about steppin’ out of the Lincoln, okay? Don’t go layin’ shit on me like, uh – meetin’ in some alley.”

“That’s a shame ‘cause it is in a f*ckin’ alley. I need to feel good about handin’ stolen property over to a f*ckin’ cop. You flash your lights when you get here. I need to know it’s you before I show my hand.”

****

Ishmael White was a pencil pusher who’d been described by associates as a ‘lazy narcoleptic little f*ck’. Hunter gave him a break and accepted him for the assignment; the fact he was the only black agent available heavily influenced his decision. The alternative, a middle aged Irishman named O’Toole came with a nervous twitch. Rumor had it the twitch was contagious, so Hunter went with the lazy narcoleptic little f*ck.

Night time excursions ‘in the field’ were new to young Ishmael White, but Hunter gave him leeway, ignored his uneasiness and chose the new black kid as his partner.

Hunter appreciated Sam’s Lincoln. The car was mint, and Sam had babied her from the day it left the dealership back in ‘98. Hunter cruised along Sunset and fully appreciated why Sam was dubious about allowing him the use of baby.

Gardner Hunter shook his head, smiled and placed a hand on White’s knee. White flinched and moved away. Hunter gave him a minute then faked a yawn. “Bit nervy, are we? Just stay awake.”

His effort of consolatory humor fell on deaf ears. Ishmael called into the backup car and checked communication lines were clear, his voice nervy, eyes twitching.

The SUV crawled along one block behind the Lincoln. White’s eyes slid to Hunter as he edged the Continental between two rows of parked vehicles as the 5th Dimension hummed in the CD player. White frowned at Sam’s music selection, Up, Up and Away. He reached for the volume knob, turned the music down and spoke softly into his microphone.

“Who’s that – up ahead?” He gestured nervously toward dark figures hunched in doorways. “You see that glow?”

A glow illuminated a face as a match was raised to a cigarette.

“A couple of guys over there too,” and he pointed to their left where two homeless scavengers rummaged about in one of several dumpsters. They turned a corner and moved slowly into a darkened alley. A crowd of street people huddled about glowing embers in a makeshift fortyfour gallon drum heater.

“Look at ‘em, man,” White said pointing at the mix of derelicts. “Brothers everywhere, just looking wasted, just staring at us.”

Hunter spoke softly into his mic. “Paul, can you guys see us okay?”

The shadowing driver replied. “Yeah, we gotcha, you want us to move in closer?”

“Nah, hold your distance, don’t wanna scare our boy off.”

“Our boy?” the lazy narcoleptic little f*ck grumbled.

“Figure of speech, no disrespect intended.”

White was shaky for his twenty-four years. He said to Hunter, “I’m scared shitless,” then to the backup vehicle, “We’re slowing down.” His voice reached panic level. “We’re slowing down. Now we’re stopping.” Then to Hunter, “Why are we stopping?” He paused, stared ahead, his eyes squinting. “Someone’s moving this way. Is that a

- is that a – shit! It’s a – that’s an oozi.” White pounded his right foot on the floorboard and shouted, “Move it, move it. Move it!”

Both men dropped below the dash of the Lincoln as a spray of bullets shattered glass.

White screamed, “Go, go, go!”

Hunter grabbed a brief glance over the rear seat. “Shit! We can’t go back, there’s a f*ckin’ bus back of us.”

More bullets shredded through the headlining of the Continental.

“We’re getting a f*ckin’ sunroof,” White cried. “I don’t care about the bus. Go, go, go!”

The Lincoln reversed at speed, scrapping between the bus and the alley wall, leaving the outer skin of baby’s nearside doors on the brickwork, and finally coming to rest tightly jammed between the wall and an abandoned rusting Toyota van. There was an eerie silence. A face leaned into the lowered window and moved to the beat of Hunter’s music.

Dion Washington’s arrival was appropriately accompanied by the Bond classic Live and Let Die. Washington spoke with eloquence. “Good song, bro, all of those brothers in New Orleans.” His words flowed as though performing a rap routine. “I see your tears and I feel your pain and I’m here ‘cause I’ve somethin’ to gain. I know you got some cash to give so gimme it now if ya wanna live.”

As the Bond tune “Live and let die” chimed in, Washington passed a folder toward Hunter. “Here are your f*ckin’ papers - gimme the cash.”

White was hoping Washington had missed his presence, but the fence pointed a condemning finger at the passenger curled under “baby’s” dashboard. He laughed aloud and stabbed a finger at the man beneath the dash. “And take the f*ckin’ nigger here with ya.”

Dozens of loose papers fell from a folder. Hunter passed the case containing the money, tilted his head sideways as Washington tossed the remaining file pages onto the rear seat. Ishmael White stayed under the dash.

Dark suited men ran shouting toward them. They reached the Lincoln as Hunter and White crawled from the wreckage. One of the suited men placed a hand on each hip, leaned over, drew breath and gasped. “What the f*ck just happened? We were right there, then some motherf*cker in a bus cut in front of us and blocked the alleyway.”

“Most nerve-racking time of my f*ckin’life,” White said. “I ain’t cut out for this shit. I gotta stay in the office. Lemme out, I gotta pee like a f*ckin’ race horse.”

Hunter shook chunks of glass from his jacket as White said, “Those guys are all screwed up on crack, wasted, all looking at us like we’re from another f*ckin’ planet.” He stood with his back to Hunter and peed furiously on the wheel-well of the Toyota. A minute later he shook, zipped up, faced the suited man and said with a touch of bravado, “f*ckin’ hey, dude. They started coming to the car, so I shout to Hunter like FLOOR IT, so he takes off and...”

The driver of the backup vehicle nodded at the wet patch down White’s leg. “Your first time huh?”

“No shit, dude,” White groaned as he joggled his balls into a comfortable position.

Hunter collected the papers and placed them in the folder. “That Washington guy, he’s one shifty motherf*cker. Don’t understand why he’d pull shit like this. He knew he had a hundred grand comin’.”

“Maybe he had another buyer,” the suited man said, “wanted his cake and eat it too. Maybe he’d been offered a second deal to smack your ass. Anyone out there gunnin’ for you?”

Hunter gently prodded his ribcage and grimaced, “Yeah, you’ve heard, huh? It’s a long line and it stretches clean around the f*ckin’ block.”

“Start at the front,” Ishmael White said, faking a confident grin.

Hunter flicked a thumb at the SUV. “Gimme a lift back to the Shangri-La in Santa Monica, will you.”

He stood back and gave a sympathetic look at what was once a mint Lincoln Continental. He groaned, “Jeez - gonna be hell to pay for Sam’s f*ckin’ baby.”

*****

The Hotel Shangri-La overlooked the Pacific since 1939, a dramatic combination of Art Deco beauty, Hollywood allure and Los Angeles history. Its opulence did little to relieve Hunter’s aching rib cage. Sam had booked a non-smoking room and Hunter lit up his Marlboro while standing on the curb. He gingerly limped to the beach opposite the building, sat on a bench and lowered his head between his knees. He pulled a Shangri-La brochure from his coat and read the words, ‘An idyllic haven of rejuvenation.’ Hunter moaned, “One can only wish.”

He checked out of the Shangri-La the following morning, hailed a cab, and in ten minutes arrived at the Wilshire Marriott. He gazed up at the twelfth floor window of the nearby building, hummed a few bars of Barry McGuire’s Eve of Destruction, broke off and groaned, “It’s been a long time, Sam, long f*ckin’ time.”

The door to SoCal Exports was a welcome sight as Hunter tapped on the frosted glass and grinned at the familiar sound of the lock as it opened.

Click.

Marcie Bryant was at home in her sparsely furnished reception area. She eyed the security monitor and smiled, “Long time, stranger.”

Hunter flipped the folder against his forehead in a saluting gesture. He caught her smile as he passed the x-ray scanner and chuckled, “So why do I feel violated?”

The scanner picked up both the Glock in his shoulder holster and the blade in his rear belt. Marcie ran her eyes along his trouser leg. “Leave the hardware with me, handsome. Sam’s edgy about anything menacing sitting across from him.” She raised a hand to her mouth and chuckled.

“Nothing’s changed then, huh kiddo?”

“Not much. The team’s away. Guess that’s why you’re out of rehab, huh - kiddo?”

“You mean I’m a last resort - I thought I’d earned this reprieve all on my own some.”

“Still the quintessential dreamer, aren’t we, Gard?”

“Jeez, take away a man’s dreams and you ain’t leavin’ him much, huh sweetie?”

Marcie reached for the buzzing desk phone, listened for a half- minute, repetitively saying, “Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh,” and then, “I’ll send him right on in, Sam.” She placed the receiver back on the base and gave Hunter a look of impending doom.

“Sam says to cut the foreplay and send you in. Good luck - kiddo.” She placed a hand around her mouth and whispered, “You my boy - are gonna need it.”

Hunter made a reluctant entrance, arriving just as Sam glanced at his watch. Then, to his relief, the chief moved around his desk and greeted him with a warm hug. “Enjoy the Shangri-La? Thought you could do with a little spoiling. How are you feeling? White called in, said it got a bit hairy last night.”

“A bit hairy, huh? Yeah, I’d go along with that. F*ckin’ White . . . the guy spent the night under your dash.”

“Narcolepsy?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. Narcoleptic little f*ck.”

Sam pointed at the folder clutched in Hunter’s hand. “I see you’ve got the files. Good work.”

Hunter winced as he eased himself into a chair. He slid the folder across the desk and sat blank faced as Sam rifled through the papers and set about explaining the Zurich operation. Every few minutes Hunter would let out a groan followed by an expletive, quickly followed by an abrupt, “Sorry, Sam.”

Sam skimmed over the mission. “Libra might have fooled our guys in Washington, but when Danzig failed to keep his appointment, when he just left a note under the door, well - that’s when we started digging. There’s a rivalry going on between Libra and their counterparts in Geneva, a concern known as CERNA. Libra paid off a CERNA physicist to mess with their program, instigated a fault that caused mechanical damage and setting their Geneva program way back.”

“Did they suspect one of their guys was behind the mechanical damage?”

“Not to our knowledge. CERNA did some experimental transfers, some tests involving animals. They believe the mess up was an internal configuration error. The animals they transferred, they uh – well, they are still out there, possibly suffering internal damage. CERNA was unable to program retrievals.”

“Internal damage - out there - with Blake, with our guys, what the f*ck, Sam?”

“Settle down, the research by CERNA was carried out two years back, lots of things have improved since then.”

Hunter dropped both hands on the table. “Jesus Christ! They were doin’ all of this shit that long ago?”

“Yeah, regrettably, at least that long ago.”

Sam pressed a button and Marcie entered. “Could you get a couple of coffees going - Gard looks like he can use the caffeine.”

Hunter gave a wink and flashed his special killer smile. “Thanks, Marcie. The usual, cream, two lumps. Thanks darlin’.”

“As smooth as ever huh, Gard?” Sam chuckled. “We’ve had a little heart to heart with one of the former Libra guys. He’d worked with a Doctor Gerhardt Beckman; he says he can send one person off to join our guys.” He stared probingly at Hunter. “Are you getting the picture? Just one guy can go back to help them out.”

Hunter glared at Sam, who’d suddenly taken on a look of guilt. “Really, Sam, just one, huh?” and then added in a flippant way, “I’m screwed, right?”

Sam felt a little relieved, the pressure valve had eased off and he wasted no time putting on a tone of optimism, of encouragement. He placed a light at the end of Hunter’s very dark tunnel.

“This time we’ll bend the rules,” he said, “give you a big advantage. Take along a couple of Sigs, a few clips of 9mm slugs just to even the score a little, seeing how all those guys in armor are swinging axes.”

Hunter swallowed hard. Sam heard the swallow. Sam faked a chuckle and said, “After all, we can’t have you materializing in 1356 with only your dick in your hand.”

Hunter remained indifferent.

“It really worried me sending Drew and the guys into all of that shit but we played by Libra’s rules. Not this time. This time you get to take back artillery. We’ve a few former very annoyed Libra guys operating in a secluded section of the Zurich facility. They’ve got a couple of prototype units all set to go.”

“Prototype units? That word prototype, it kinda scares me.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff. A few dogs were sent off and all went well. You and I are headed for Zurich.”

“Dogs huh?” And hunter made a shivering gesture. “When did you last hear from our guys?”

“Had a call from the Libra defector, one of the defecting physicists. Seems they had a tracking device locked onto our team’s coordinates. He’ll meet us when we arrive at the Libra facility.”

“What happened with the trackin’ device?”

“It’s got them baffled. Each of our guys carried some kind of transmitter, a small disc, all three shut down at the same time. Just died, last coordinates were near a place called Maupertuis.”

“That’s where I’m goin’?”

“Yeah, that’s it. We’ll leave for Zurich in the morning.”

“On the subject of good and bad news, I’ve got some uh - some news for you too, Sam.”

He reached in his pocket, slid the Lincoln keys across the desktop.