The Lucifer Sanction (15 page)

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 fuckin’ 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
fuckin’ cool.”
“Cool? Fuck cool? I feel the compulsion to end this
call.”
Hunter stayed silent.
The man laughed. “I’m like, bro, don’t even go
there!”
“Fuck 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 fuck with us, we’ll find you,” Hunter said
and wondered why he’d said something so senseless.
“You’re in East fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ alley. I need
to feel good about handin’ stolen property over to a fuckin’
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
fuck’. 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 fuck.

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 fuck
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 fuckin’ bus back of us.”
More bullets shredded through the headlining of
the Continental.
“We’re getting a fuckin’ 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
fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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 fuck just
happened? We were right there, then some motherfucker in
a bus cut in front of us and blocked the alleyway.”
“Most nerve-racking time of my fuckin’life,” White
said. “I ain’t cut out for this shit. I gotta stay in the office.
Lemme out, I gotta pee like a fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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,
“fuckin’ 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 motherfucker.
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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’
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 fuckin’ 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.
Fuckin’ White . . . the guy spent the night under your
dash.”
“Narcolepsy?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that. Narcoleptic little fuck.”
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 fuck, 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.