The Lucifer Sanction (5 page)

American Interpol Division
Wilshire Boulevard
Los Angeles
March 22, 2015
12.55 P: M

Marcie Bryant buzzed through. “Mr. Danzig’s
associate has arrived.”
“Another fuckin’ nut case,” Dal whispered to
Patrice Bellinger.
Sam groaned, rested his head in his hands and
mumbled, “Goddammit, show him in.”
A smiling man with a mass of unruly gray hair
entered the room. Danzig grinned widely and said, “Hans
my friend, I trust your journey went well?”
“Pardon my tardiness, there was a delay in Zurich,
other than that the flight was pleasant.”
Danzig turned, faced the group and nodded at
the new arrival. “I would like you to meet Doctor Hans
Bosch.”
“I am so very pleased to meet all of you,” Bosch
said in an even heavier German accent than Danzig’s. “I
assume Paul has had sufficient time to acquaint you with
the seriousness of our situation?”
“I have briefed them on the involvement of Campion
and Moreau, and the introduction of the virus – yes.”
“And of the food situation also, I trust?”
“Of course . . . of that as well.”
“Very good,” the gray haired man said as he settled
into a chair. He placed an attaché case alongside Danzig’s,
opened it and gestured at the case: “United Nations figures
predict the world population will peak in excess of nine
billion people in the year 2075. The over-population
process is moving at an unsustainable rate of acceleration.
Discounting natural disasters we will outgrow this planet
in very short time. There will be insufficient food and too
few resources if the population explosion is left unabated.
We have conclusively established the fact that mankind’s
numbers must be forced into decline in order to maintain
parity with productivity.”
Sam groaned, “And how do your people see this
forced decline happening?”
“In a most unpleasant way I am afraid. You must
understand, Mr. Ridkin, there have been more people added
to our planet in the past fifty years than since the dawn of
creation. We cannot allow this growth rate to continue.”
Sam jumped to his feet, his eyes darting upward,
flickering across the ceiling as he searched for words. “Are
you suggesting we annihilate the excess, that we do another
of your 14th century culls?”
Blake shuffled about, sat on the edge of his chair
and wondered how long it would be before Sam’s blood
pressure peaked.
Bosch’s tone was insolent. “The cull was absolutely
necessary. How long do you believe man can endure the
destruction of the environment? The documentation of the
ruination of our oceans, our lands and the reckless pollution
of our skies is everywhere, yet still goes unheeded. We are
unable to keep up with the demand. We simply cannot feed
all of those people. Demand has exceeded the limits of the
carrying capacity of our planet.”
“We’ve got plenty of grain,” Blake retorted.
“Production numbers are up. So what’s the real deal
here?”
Bosch made a negative gesture and frowned. “Quite
correct, however the government sources are too quick to
optimistically inform us of grain surplus. Unfortunately the
same statisticians discount the effect of overpopulation on
those figures.” He reached in the attaché case and pulled
a folder. “Even though there is an increase in production,
we have an even greater growth in the number of people,”
and he waved the folder at Blake. “War, global warming,
topsoil deterioration, disease and other factors all play a
part in the balance of population.”
Dal interjected, “So why not let it play out that
way?”
Danzig read their faces, took in their level of discomfort. He needed a closing line, a line that would place an
indelible exclamation mark at the conclusion of his delivery.
“Unfortunately we cannot leave it to chance.” He wandered
to the window and scrutinized Wilshire Boulevard. “Look
at them,” he scoffed, “fighting for their piece of ‘the home
of the brave.’ Why do they go through this torture each
day? They work to earn a living, receive a salary and then
hand over a part of their earnings in taxes, taxes that pay the
‘
government of the people
’.” Danzig tapped on the window,
made a
tsk, tsk
sound, pointed, turned away from the traffic
and drifted to the table. “We were once on a precipitous
ride into the uncertainties of the present, however we are
now able to travel back in time and avail ourselves of the
opportunity to improve our world.”
No reaction.
“Although we cannot as yet move into the future,
we most certainly can chart the route on which the future
will travel. We have already sent our people back and took
the necessary steps to reducing the population of the 14th
century. AIDS, Ebola and cholera epidemics are reducing
the numbers further, but the toll is insufficient. Indications
are we must repeat the bacterium exercise. Libra’s decision
came about with extreme trepidation,” Bosch said in a
forceful tone. “We can argue the ethics of the situation all
day, or we can move forward with the Triumvirate’s request
for your organization’s involvement.”
Danzig interjected in a consolatory tone. “We have a
more immediate problem than your ethical belief. Our man
Moreau has refused to return as ordered. He delivered a
weak transmission threatening to spread a newly developed
bacterium. We believe he is suffering mental issues.”
“Mental
fuckin’
issues?”
Blake
groaned
in
disbelief. “And this guy, this Moreau, he’s carrying a new
bacterium?”
“Yes, it is known as Lucifer and is several times
deadlier than its predecessor and eh, most unfortunately,
there is no antidote. It is the ultimate cull,” Bosch replied. “Its
implementation has been sanctioned by the Triumvirate.”
He smiled broadly as though the creation of the
strain was a plus for medical science.
Sam hammered his fist down and stood in rage
causing his chair to bounce back across the room. Patrice
Bellinger sprung to her feet as Sam shouted, “This is
absurd!”
Sam clutched at his chest and collapsed to the floor.
Blake scrambled to his side as Bell quickly dialed 911.
Fifteen minutes later two medics monitored Sam’s vital
signs.
“How are you feeling, sir?” the younger medic
asked.
“Vitals look good,” the other said quietly.
“It’s not his heart,” the younger man added.
“Hyperventilation I’d say,” the other said. “His
vitals are fine.”
Sam groaned into Blake’s ear, “Just get me the hell
out of here.”
“He’s delirious,” the first medic said.
“Sure, Sam, sure,” Blake whispered. “Just take it
easy, Chief. Please – just take it easy.”
Bell sobbed and passed Blake a look of pessimism
as Dal glared at Bosch.

American Interpol Division
Wilshire Boulevard
Los Angeles
March 22, 2015
3.48 P: M

Two hours and twenty minutes later, Sam had
sufficiently recovered and returned to the meeting. Danzig
passed an unconvincing look of concern to Sam and
remorselessly continued the briefing as though nothing had
happened.

“You must understand that the Lucifer sanction is
for the good of humanity. Libra has gone to great lengths
in transferring Campion and Moreau to a parallel universe.
We can access past years just as we can open pages of a
book, a novel that has already been written. However we
are unable to move forward because, well . . . because
those pages are yet to be written, but we can certainly move
back.

“Whatever lay ahead of us consists merely of
possibilities. But the past, well now, the past is a manuscript
we can peruse, a story we can alter – the same manner in
which a writer can alter the completed paragraphs of a
novel. The writer has the ability to direct where his story is
heading, the ability to affect the outcome.

“We at Libra are able to correct past misgivings
so long as we do not infringe on what has already been
recorded by history. Recorded history has happened, but
we have the power and technology to assist history in most
satisfactorily arriving at that end.”

Blake asked, “So where are we involved in the
scheme of things?”
Bosch raised himself from the chair amidst a
shuffling of feet as anxiety in the room peaked. “I will make
this as simple as possible. Libra will transport your team to
the coordinates we transported Moreau and Campion. The
assignment is quite simple – you must locate the ampoules
containing the Lucifer virus and return them to us.” He gave
a cursory glance to Sam, and then quickly scanned Blake,
Dal and Patrice Bellinger. “Enough for now,” Bosch said.
“You will be briefed further upon your arrival in Zurich.”
“What about your two guys,” Dal asked. “What’s
happening with Moreau and Campion?”
“They are not your concern,” Bosch replied almost
indignantly. “We will see to their return.”
“Will see?” Dal inquired suspiciously.
Blake knew there was something Bosch and Danzig
were withholding. He shook his head, cast a sterner look
into Bosch’s eyes and spoke through clenched teeth. “You
guys are all fuckin’ nuts.”
Bosch glanced at Danzig. Both remained silent.
Sam’s shirt was still unbuttoned and sweat was
beading on his chest. He raised a slow hand and said to
Blake, “Let it go. Their level of sanity’s best discussed
between us later. Let it go, Drew.”
Blake gnawed on his lower lip and discontinued his
outburst. He paced back to the view of Wilshire and lit up
another Marlboro.
“Your flight to Switzerland will be arranged this
evening,” Bosch said. “You will be met at the Zurich
terminal and taken to our Libra facility.”
“Like you said,” Blake groaned, exhaling a plume
of smoke, “you’re gonna discuss this in more detail once
we get to your facility, correct?”
Bosch maintained his grin. “But of course.”
“I can’t take any more tonight,” Sam interjected.
“If I do, I’ll need a defibrillator.” He paused and took a
long shaky breath. “It’s almost six-thirty. I need rest and
food while there’s still enough on this planet to be had.”
He forced a sardonic grin. “Can we resume this meeting
tomorrow; say around ten o’clock or so?”

CHAPTER FOUR
Santa Monica, California
March 23, 2015
8:22 A: M

“You ain’t looking too good, Sam,” Blake said with
trepidation. “You feel okay?” He placed a cigarette between
his lips and caught Sam’s look of disapproval. “I’m not too
keen on meeting with these guys again this morning . . .”
Blake said, “. . . what with all of that pandemic shit. Surely
there’s someone else they can send to wherever the hell it
is?”

“Order me a coffee and French toast,” Sam
groaned, failing to camouflage his concern. “I’ve gotta hit
the John.”

“Uh oh, big chief ain’t looking too good,” Dal
quipped, and caught a sickly backward glance from Sam
as he exited.

Breakfast passed with little conversation. Sam
checked his watch and within minutes all four headed back
to the Marriott. They stepped from the elevator and made
their way single file to the SoCal Exports office.

“No calls,” Marcie replied. “But there was a note
under the door. I put it on your desk.”
Bell hung back for a chat with Marcie as Blake and
Dal followed Sam into his office.
Sam eyed the envelope with hesitancy and then
raised his eyes to Blake and said, “Why am I feeling
paranoid about opening this?”
He slit the envelope open, peeked down and pulled
three airline tickets.
“Sam?” Dal probed.
“Sam, you okay?” Blake queried.
“Yeah.”
Blake asked, “Danzig’s little vacation package,
huh?”
“Yeah, three airline tickets,” and he passed one to
each.
“Well, well, well,” Blake sighed, “and I thought it
was all a fuckin’ nightmare.”
Sam unfolded a foolscap page and read in silence.
“What’s up?” Dal inquired. “It’s from one of those
two crazy motherfuckers, right?”
Blake sat on the edge of Sam’s desk and rubbed
both palms hard into his eye sockets.
“Los Angeles International at ten o’clock tonight,”
Sam said. “You fly out for Zurich, arrive tomorrow at four.
Not too bad – a five star hotel.”
“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Blake said cynically. “They
put all this together overnight?”
Sam studied the note further then raised his eyes
to the ceiling. “Overnight?” he chuckled. “These people
transport humans through wormholes in the universe. You
really think booking flights to Switzerland while we’re
sleeping would be a stretch?”
Blake and Dal glanced at Bellinger who was also
staring at the ceiling.
“At eight tonight,” Sam groaned. “I’ll have the
three of you at LAX.”
Marcie tapped on the door. “Excuse me, Sam, I just
had the weirdest call, a Doctor Drummond. He was asking
for you. He wouldn’t stop rambling, didn’t take a breath. I
tried to say
can you hold
but I couldn’t slide the words in
edgeways.” Her hand covered her mouth as she suppressed
a slight giggle. “He had a heavy accent, Scottish I believe.
I could hardly follow what he was saying. To make matters
worse we had a bad line.”
Sam tilted his head, parrot fashion. “Was he calling
from LA?”
She gave him an inquisitive look. “It’s the strangest
thing. He said he was calling from Zurich, something
about finding a note, a note written to you from Drew. He
mentioned something about the pier, the pier here in Santa
Monica.”
Sam threw Blake a quizzical face. “You recall
leaving a note for me in Switzerland?”
“Hmm. I was skiing in Geneva about eighteen
months back,” Blake replied. “But no, I didn’t leave any
note.”

CHAPTER FIVE
Zurich, Hotel Baur Au Lac
March 24
8.07 P: M