The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter TWO

Venice, Italy

April 1, 2015

12 A: M





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 f*ckin’ 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 f*cking 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.”

Dal flipped out a fourth finger, followed by, “Your people – they were involved with the Eldridge? Now you’re saying you’ve sent two guys someplace in another time, in another universe? Let’s cut to the chase here. What’s the specific assignment your guys were sent on?”

“In due time Agent Dallas. You have heard of the Black Death, the plague of the 14th century? The percentile reduction in the world’s population in the mid14th century due to the bubonic plague was between twenty-five and fifty percent of the population. That is around two hundred million people. To this very day it continues to kill about three thousand people annually.

Long ago our scientists decoded the genome of the bubonic bacterium known as Black Death. Our planet cannot support its burgeoning population. We have already reduced the planet’s population on one occasion. Our intervention is not a simple matter of black or white, we must be cruel to be kind. We quite simply cannot supply sufficient food for 200,000 humans that are added to this planet each day.”

Blake raised an objecting hand. “You mean to tell me your people had something to do with what occurred in the 14th century? That somehow you sent something back there, something that caused the plague?”

“But of course, that was the specific assignment.”

“And these two guys,” Blake said, scratching at his chin, “they’re still back there?”

“Now we get to the bad news,” Danzig said as he flicked through his files, intentionally avoiding eye contact.

“Bad news,” Blake queried. “You mean to say all of that was the good stuff?”