The Lucifer Sanction

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.