The Lucifer Sanction

Chapter SEVEN

Andermatt, Central Alps

Indoctrination

March 25

3.38 P: M



The woman in the white smock stepped through a silent sliding door and made a half bowing, half smiling gesture to Bellinger who was sitting, and struggling to pull on dark burgundy hose that appeared far too tight.

Bell grunted, “I’ve always wondered why women stopped wearing hose, now I’ve got the answer.”

With the hose in place, the assistant began to wrap a binding around her upper body. Bell let out a deep breath and cursed her shapely over-endowed bust. The heavy woolen surcoat was far too snug. The wardrobe assistant tugged at the binding and groaned.

“You must take a deep breath and then let it all out. I have a daughter around your age, she too is well endowed.”

Bell glanced at the woman who groaned in frustration, “I cannot get you flat enough.” The woman nodded, And made a not too discreet tsk, tsk sound through her teeth.

Bell exhaled loudly. “This thing’s way too tight, what do we do now?”

The woman gave it some thought then huffed in an exasperated manner, “You will be on horseback and...” She paused, stood hands on hips and shook her head as she gave Bell a top to toe inspection. “Just look at you,” she said, “You will be flopping all over the place. Dear me, this just won’t do now, will it?”

Bell stood in front of a full length mirror and gave herself a head to toe inspection as the woman fussed about her like a mother hen.

“We will just have to remove the surcoat. I will bind your bosom and find a larger coat to drop over the binding.”

Bell grinned at the woman’s use of the word ‘bosom.’ With the surcoat removed and after several more minutes of grunting, the assistant encircled Bell as though she were wrapping a mummy, flattening her chest a little more with each circumnavigation. When the wrapping was done, she sat back, admired her handiwork, wiped sweat from her brow and gave her victim a victorious nod of approval. With the larger surcoat now uncomfortably in place, Patrice Bellinger strutted out of the dressing area to find Dal sitting on a settee, complaining as he adjusted his black hose, much to Bell’s amusement.

He pretended not to see her. As she drew nearer he groaned, “Not a f*ckin’ word.”

She touched his arm and fought back a grin. A Kodak moment, she thought and just had to extrapolate for all it was worth. With her hand firmly squeezing his arm, she said, “Would you like an experienced hand?”

He gave a quick annoyed nod to his right palm. “I already have an experienced hand – leave me alone.”

The wardrobe assistant knelt by Dal as he continued his struggle. She went about smoothing his loosely fitting hose, running her hands tightly up each leg, pushing the hose upward to his crotch.

Dal lifted his eyes to Bell. “She has skills, huh,” he sniggered.

Bell quipped, “She’s got a daughter my age, so those are, um – very experienced hands.”

Dal took in the woman’s satisfied expression. He asked, “You enjoy your work, don’t you?”

“Always,” she replied working the hose up his legs as Bell coughed and placed a hand over her grin. The wardrobe assistant’s solemn demeanor added humor to the situation as Dal experienced arousal. He shook his head, looked around searching for anything to take his mind off the sensation. He thought about his last visit to the dentist and ran his tongue over his rear crown. But her hands were nearly there. He grimaced. She caught the look and pulled away.

“They are not dress hose,” she said, “they are not meant to be too tight, do they feel comfortable?”

“A little stiff, it’s been a while.”

“Since you last wore hose?”

“He hasn’t actually worn...” Bell said, thinking of something to say, but not say it so as to embarrass Dal. “He was much younger – must have been about twenty years since I last saw Dal in tights. Right, Dal? If memory serves me correct - you were playing Tinkerbell.”

He shifted his eyes to Bellinger. “You know your problem, Patrice?” He allowed a timely pause, gave a dismissing glance to the wardrobe assistant and pondered his words carefully. He ran a slow hand up the length of his right thigh. “Your problem is you need to go someplace nice and private and have intercourse with yourself!”

Blake entered from another of the wardrobe rooms as the woman tried to disguise her sniggering, much to Dal’s embarrassment.

Drew Blake carried a shield of white with a large red cross and wore a silver helm with two narrow horizontal slits trimmed in gold. He wore chain-mail, red leggings and a blue flowing cape. He was accompanied by Beckman, le Blanc and Bosch. He made his way to the mirror, posed in a knightly fashion and made a slow circling turn.

“He looks quite resplendent, do you not agree?” Beckman asked, as Bell wiped tears from her eyes, further adding to Dal’s annoyance.

Dal gestured at his attire and glared at Bosch. “So what’s the deal here, Hans? What’s with Sir f*ckin’ Lancelot in his blue cape? I look like a peasant.” He turned his attention to Bell. “And little Lord Fauntleroy here, she ain’t much better.”

Bosch hesitated before stepping in with a reply. “Please allow me to explain. We need to add a little respectability to the group’s appearance. Agent Blake will travel as a knight, while both you and the young man here...” and he gave an apologetic nod to Bell, “...you will be his serfs, his servants as such.”

Dal collapsed into a nearby chair, hung his head and groaned, “Please!” His self-esteem had reached a new low.

Bell smiled up at Blake. “If nothing else it’s gonna make a great Halloween outfit.”

Blake took three awkward paces backward and made a circling move. He looked at Bell for a few long moments and sighed, “Thank you, Tinkerbell.”

They were perfect candidates for a medieval fair, the knight, the knave, and Tinkerbell.

Dal felt he was having a bad day but it was nothing in comparison to what lay ahead. They followed Bosch along a passageway and into a small darkened room where Francois le Blanc stood by a table covered with an assortment of weaponry, broadswords, daggers, and five circular discs, each no larger than a quarter. Blake glanced at the table as le Blanc pointed from one weapon to another.

“This is our familiarization area. We are about to undergo a quick training session,” he said smiling at Bell. “It is most important you appear to be a man. Your length of hair, it could prove dangerous should you remove your chain-mail. Under no circumstances are you to remove your clothing. If you are found out, you will be put to death. In that century it was against the law for a woman to impersonate a man. Have no doubt of what will happen prior to your death. I need not tell you the ways men act in times of war, unspeakable atrocities.”

Dal glanced at the others. His ears pricked up and he made a shrugging gesture to Bosch. “War? You didn’t mention a f*ckin’ war. I thought the aftermath of the Black Plague is all we are buying into - what’s with this war shit?” And he crossed himself.

Bosch hesitated. “It’s the, eh, the war between England and France, known as the One Hundred Year War. But it began in 1337 and raged until 1356.”

Dal made quick mental calculations. “So it was the, eh – the nineteen year war?”

“To that point, yes,” Bosch replied. He held a long smile, acknowledging Dal’s quick math skills. “However it continued spasmodically until 1453.”

Dal again rose to the occasion. “1453? Hmm, that would make it the, eh - the one hundred and sixteen year war.”

Bosch caught the grin from le Blanc. The two men took it in with a sense of amusement.

“During those years,” Bosch said, “there were several cease fires.” He smiled at Bell, at Blake, and then turned to face Dal. “The war consisted of a series of conflicts made up of three or four phases. The actual time was...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dal groaned. “They add up to one hundred years. I don’t give a damn about how long this extravaganza played; I want to know if we’re on the winning side. I mean like - when we get there, the English, are we on their side?”

Le Blanc nodded, “Fortunately, yes. The English handed my French ancestors a sound thrashing. In 1348 the Black Death ravaged Europe and had passed on by the end of 1356. England was able to recover financially and Edward’s son and namesake, the Prince of Wales, led his well-trained army into France where they defeated the forces of King John at Poitiers.”

“And that’s the war you’ll be dropping us into?” Blake asked shaking his head disapprovingly and burying his face in his hands.

Le Blanc felt his smile dissipate. “You will arrive at a time we believe hostilities were in one of the, eh ...” he paused, glanced at Bosch who avoided his gaze. Le Blanc cleared his throat and added, “In one of the intermittent ceasefire stages.”

“This is insane,” Blake scoffed in a muffled voice, his face deeply buried in his hands.

Dal felt dizziness coming on. A half-minute passed by and Dal groaned, “Wonderful, just f*ckin’ wonderful!” Then with another nod at the assortment on the table, “These weapons here, do we get something a bit more advanced to take along? You know, a few grenades, an M f*ckin’ 16, shit like that?”

Bosch shook his head. “No. You can only take weapons that already exist. No advanced technology can be allowed to influence what is already in place. But you each have your skills, skills for which each of you is renowned.”

Dal stared at Bosch and began scrubbing at his unruly blonde hair. “Oh that’s rich, Hans. I’ll take a f*ckin’ long-board, that’s what I’m pretty renowned for, right?”

Bell reached for one of the broad swords and felt its weight. “I’m umm; I’m renowned for my work with a foil,” and she clanged the broadsword down on the tabletop. “But not with one of these things - this weighs a ton.”

“We will make an exception for you, Miss Bellinger; we will accommodate you with a foil of French vintage. It will not be breaking the rules so to speak, just a slight deviation.”

He sniggered and flashed a smile at Dal.

Dal groaned at Blake, and Blake, whose face was still buried in his hands made a farting sound. Bosch raised a finger and leaned toward another small flat panel. He touched the screen and an image of a peaceful setting showing hills skirting a dense forest appeared on the opposite wall.

A commentary began: “In early September of 1356, France’s King John reached the Loire with a huge army of seventeen thousand foot soldiers, three thousand crossbowmen and five hundred knights. The French army marched hard and overtook the unsuspecting English force at Poitiers.”

Images appeared as the commentary continued, men on horseback, infantry-men carrying bows along with knights in armor. It was a movie of epic proportion - or so it appeared.

The commentary continued: “King John believed the English would have little chance against his overwhelming army and subsequently rejected a peace agreement, demanding the Prince of Wales surrender himself and his army. Edward refused and the opposing forces prepared for battle. The English were experienced; many of the archers were veterans of Crecy - the last major battle that took place ten years earlier.”

Bosch pointed at the screen. “That is precisely where you will materialize. Take note, you will need to reach those trees as quickly as possible. It is only three miles from your final destination – Poitiers.”

La Blanc turned up the volume.

“The inferior French army quickly broke up. Fugitives made their way to Poitiers pursued by the mounted Gascons, only to be slaughtered upon reaching the closed city gates. King John found himself alone with his younger son, Philip, fighting an overwhelming force of Gascons and English. Eventually the king agreed to surrender. The English army set about pillaging the vanquished French knights and the lavish camps of the French. King John surrendered to a French knight, Sir Denis de Campion, who personally handed him over to Edward, the Black Prince.”

The commentary faded, and soft music played as the picture dissolved from the screen.

They moved into a large stainless steel room containing five caskets, each with its lid slid open. The two nearest caskets were connected to a plethora of wires, computerized readouts and tubing. Each was filled with a strange white haze. Bosch touched a control panel and the white haze dissipated, exposing two men wearing medieval dress – seemingly two sleeping figures.

“I would like you to meet Dominic Moreau and Denis Campion. These...” and he waved a hand over the caskets, “are particle accelerant chambers. The occupants you see here are in suspension.”

Blake placed a reluctant hand on top of the nearest casing and moved within two feet of the red-headed man’s face.

Francois le Blanc spoke in a somber voice. “This is Denis Campion,” and he tapped on a silver nameplate as he spoke. “He will remain physically encased until his return.”

Denis Campion wondered into the clutches of Libra shortly following Moreau’s move to Zurich. He’d also attended MSU, but unlike Moreau, he carried a slight Texas drawl along with his French surname and Mediterranean good looks. The pair had been referred to as Denise and Dominique by the frat boys at MSU, a sexual slur that only served to further galvanize the two handsome young men.

Bosch threw Blake an annoyed glance. “We had a problem with Denis. We fear things are not going well for him.”

“Had a problem?” Blake queried. “That’s past tense; past tense isn’t what I want to hear!”

Dal moved closer, peered at Campion and said, “This guy looks like he’s anesthetized.”

“So it appears. He is actually in a suspended state,” Hans Bosch said unconvincingly. “As such we cannot intervene in his particle suspension.”

Le Blanc added, “Our intervention at this time would most certainly prove fatal.”

As Blake hovered over the second container, Francois la Blanc placed a hand on his shoulder. “And here we have our second traveler, Dominic Moreau.”

Blake leaned in a little nearer, swallowed hard and read the nameplate affixed to the chamber. “Yeah, that’s what it says here, Dominic Moreau.”