The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter FIVE

Zurich, Hotel Baur Au Lac

March 24

8.07 P: M



They stepped into the Zurich International Terminal and ambled toward a wall of greeters. A black suited man flapped at passengers as they pulled baggage carts toward exit doors. The black suited man’s sign showed one word, ‘Blake.’ He lowered it, stood erect and smiled as three passengers passed on by. The black suited man’s smile dissipated and his shoulders briefly drooped. When he regained composure he redirected his attention at the few stragglers still scanning the carousel.

“Hey, over hear,” Blake called.

The black suited man’s speech impediment became quickly obvious. “Pleath to meet you. I am Klauth, Mr. Danzig ith exthpecting you. I hope you had a very good flight, pleath come thith way.”

“I’m not much of a salesman,” Dal whispered to Blake. “But I’ll bet my left nut I can sell this guy a few esses.”

He placed their luggage onto a cart and led them to a platinum colored Rolls Royce Phantom, a private limousine accessible to special guests of the Baur au Lac.

Twenty minutes into the drive, Bell said, “This is styling it. I’ll bet Sam isn’t picking up the tab.”

On arrival at the hotel lobby the three couldn’t help notice an excessive amount of construction noise. The nearest concierge, a flush faced man in his early sixties managed a friendly salutation despite the intermittently blinking red lights atop a bank of phones.

“Welcome to the Baur au Lac, gentlemen, madam.”

“That noise,” Dal shrugged, “when’s it gonna stop?”

“In June, Monsieur,” the concierge replied. He gave the wall clock a casual glance, “Unless we continue to suffer further weather delays.”

“Just great,” Dal groaned. He turned on his heels and eyeballed Blake. “I knew there’d be a catch. And uh, what’s with that sign?” He flicked a thumb to a red and white enameled notice: No animals permitted in hotel except for seeing eye dogs.

“And your point is?” Blake asked.

“Who’s it for, the dog or the blind guy?”

Blake rolled his eyes, gave Dal a gentle jab to the shoulder. “Good one, Dallas, you should’ve been a comedian.”

“Yeah well, I’ve gotta try, if I don’t – this noise is gonna drive me nuckin’ futs.”

Blake raised a finger. “Just thought of it, speaking of dogs – how’s that golfing buddy of yours doing, you know, Eddie – the guy whose dog got hit by the golf cart?”

“You ain’t gonna believe it,” a bemused Dal said, “he took the dog to the vet and the guy lays the dog on the table, takes a cat out of a cage and has the cat walk all over the dog. Well, the dog doesn’t move, so the vet says, your dog’s dead.”

“Jesus Christ!” Blake said, wide eyed. “You’re kidding me – it died from the bump the golf cart gave it?”

“Yeah,” Dal continued, “and Eddie says, ‘so what do I owe you, doc?’ And the dude says four hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Four hundred and fifty? That seems a bit steep,” Blake scoffed. “Why so much?”

Dal jabbed a finger into Blake’s chest. “He says fifty bucks for the visit, and four hundred for the cat scan.”

****

“These guys have good taste,” Bellinger said in an effort to quell Dal’s incessant whining. “Noise aside, it isn’t too bad. Wait until you see the suites, you’ll forget about the noise.”

Dal gave her a doubting glance. “The suites?” he asked. “When did you stay here?”

“Last year . . . with Hunter.”

Blake and Dal sauntered off to a magazine store in the lobby area, leaving Bell to handle check-in details. Bell’s adeptness had a touch of class, an attribute sadly lacking in her male counterparts. The CIA had recruited Patrice Bellinger straight out of high school. Her father, a High Court Judge, was aware of the agency’s interest in his daughter. He enthusiastically supported their intent. Her valedictorian status and many accolades placed her in good standing with the CIA and her current employer – the American Interpol Division.

She’d attended Harvard on a scholarship and had come away with a Doctorate in Political Economics & Government. She excelled as captain of the fencing team and had taken her final season off to train for the Olympic team. As a junior she joined the First-Team All-Ivy League.

The United States Fencing Association announced Patrice Bellinger’s selection to the team, and as a sophomore she won the individual championship with a victory over Ohio State’s, Magdalena Vichikov. Bell’s performance catapulted the Crimson to its first ever combined NCAA team championship. She was a two-time All-American, a two-time All-Ivy League selection and was Ivy League Rookie of the Year.

Blake and Dal returned to the reception counter as Bell finished up with the concierge. Dal gave a disbelieving shrug as his eye caught the daily rate - $541. He leaned into Bell and chuckled, “With Hunter, huh? I didn’t realize you and him had that kind of disposable income.”

****

Their adjoining suites were stylishly elegant with sumptuous decor and marbled bathrooms. The complimentary mini-bars were an instant hit with Dal. He kicked off his loafers, pulled an Absolute Vodka and a Jim Beam, unscrewed the caps, and switched from one to the other as Blake flicked through channels trying to find anything in English.

Thirty minutes later made their way to the hotel’s restaurant where Bell sat waiting. At eight forty-seven they scrutinized the haute cuisine menu of the hotel’s Restaurant Français. Blake ran tired eyes over the offerings, settling on roulade, meat thinly sliced, rolled around a savory filling secured string and browned and braised in wine. Dal salivated over tournedos, a piece of tenderloin beef four inches in diameter, the artistic presentation alone negating the bank-breaking cost. Bell ordered shellfish prepared à la nage, literally swimming in court bouillon, flavored with herbs and served hot in its broth.

Blake worked slowly on the roulade, his eyes lowered as he asked, “Bell, don’t you kind of miss Hunter?”

She ignored the question and focused on the soup.

A little later, Dal said pointedly, “I spoke with him last week, says to give you his, uh...”

Bell dropped her silverware and stared him dead in the eye, her voice cutting through him with surgical precision. “Give me his what?” And she spat the word ‘what.’

Dal nearly choked on a chunk of tenderloin, his eyes bulging as he tried washing it down with a half-glass of Cabernet. “His eh – his very best. Yeah that’s it. Said to give you his very best, that’s all.”

Without missing a beat, Bell flipped him the finger.

“Hey – that ain’t nice,” Dal said, faking shock.

“Hey, yourself!” she snapped. “You deserve the bird.”

Having avoided the Heimlich maneuver, Dal chuckled, “Oh really! Giving me the bird, huh? That ain’t too ladylike.”

He spent the next few minutes avoiding her stare, taking small bites, chatting to Blake who, aside from an occasional uh hu, uh hu, worked away on his roulade.

A smirk crossed Patrice Bellinger’s face as she took in Dal’s ceaseless banter. He caught her smirk, broke off his chatter with Blake, and bellowed, “What!”

Her smirk became a hearty laugh. “Aw – I was just thinking of how you were such a perfect gentleman when we first met. I recall Sam introducing you, Carson Dallas. I was so impressed. First impressions can be so misleading.” She laughed for a half-minute and then became strangely silent. After playing with her food she reached for the napkin and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry – yeah, I really do miss Hunter.”

Blake continued to toy with the roulade as Dal coughed the words, “Come again?”

“I wish he could be with us for this job,” she sighed.

“Get over it,” Dal said, eying his plate.

“Excuse me!” she snapped, making a screwed up face.

Silence.

“Uh-oh,” Blake said placing his fork alongside his plate. “Silence ain’t good – have speaks with me, Patrice, Dal, anyone?”

*****

Eight-thirty the following morning they enjoyed breakfast at the trendy restaurant Rive Gauche. Hunter’s name was unambiguously absent from the conversation. Bell, feeling a little off from the previous night of drinking, turned away from Dal as he finished a bottle of Gewürztraminer. She flashed him an extra special look of revulsion as he set about devouring a platter of oysters.

“Why not?” Dal queried. He tapped a finger on the empty bottle. “It’s on the tab, right?”

“Oysters for breakfast?” Bell snapped. “Give me a break.” Her complexion changed from her usual pink to a pale hue. “I need to head upstairs,” she said. “I’m not feeling good.”

Dal grinned as she flung her chair back. “Something you ate?” he called as she shot out of the restaurant like a cork from a bottle of Perriet Jouet.

Blake was amused by the scene and took the last pull from his cappuccino. Dal gazed about the restaurant as Blake held a mouthful of coffee.

“And what’s with this leaving a piece of chocolate on the pillow?” Dal scoffed. “I woke this morning and thought my brain had hemorrhaged f*ckin’ fecal matter.”

Blake leaned to his left, tapped a finger on Dal’s forehead and sniggered, “Amazing how you show no signs of neurological damage. Mental backup in progress – do not disturb!”