The Lucifer Sanction (7 page)

confidential
more
than proprietary,” Bosch shrugged. “Gentlemen, we are
supported by a world governing group who meet annually
to discuss the world and the direction in which it is heading.
They set people into seats of power, and those people
determine who will live . . . and who will not.”
Le Blanc placed a hand to his mouth and said
quietly to Bosch, “Vous ne les direz pas de la Société,
n’est-ce pas?”
Bell picked up the comment and relayed it to Blake.
“From my high school French skills, I believe he said
something about a society.” She half turned to le Blanc.
“Am I close?”
Le Blanc blushed and made an apologetic shrug.
“Pardonner mes manières. Je suis parler si confortable ma
propre langue. My apology.”
Dal made a coughing sound, dismissing the
Frenchman’s pathetic display. “You mean to say you guys
are run by the fourth Reich, is that it Hans? Are you guys
like . . . sieg heil?” And he made a snappy Nazi salute.
Bosch replied, forcing a contrived version of
his former grin. “On the contrary, Agent Dallas, we are
under the auspices of the Bilderberg Society, they are
hardly admirers of the German war machine. They are
a compilation of world leaders who determine through
scientific and economic resources, what is good for the
planet, and conversely what might adversely affect the
planet. Do I make myself quite clear? They smooth out the
road bumps, so to speak.”
“Yeah, sure – quite clear,” Dal said raising a hand
to cover his mouth and mumbling to Blake, “Ja, mein
Kapitän.”
Bosch caught the comment, turned away, and stared
at the panorama.
“This is just too surreal,” Blake whispered.
“Surreal?” Dal queried, his head tilted at Blake.
“You think so, huh?”
“Congratulations,” Francois le Blanc said with a
smile. “You three are about to lay to rest all of those who
dispel our illustrious Einstein’s Unified Field Theory. You
are to travel to a very nice region of Southern France -
to the Dordogne. The people may appear a little strange
and perhaps even eh - somewhat hostile. However I rest
assured all three of you are up to the task. We will need
to acquaint you with the dress of that period, familiarize
you with customs of the era, mannerisms, all of the usual
requisites.”
“Why the education,” Blake asked with a querulous
face. “Haven’t we traveled enough to skip that part of the,
eh . . . inauguration? I mean to say, if we haven’t already
seen it, it probably isn’t worth visiting, right?”
Silence.
“To the Dordogne, huh,” Blake said with a wry
grin. “That isn’t too far from here, right?”
“Too far, Agent Blake? Well now that would depend
on your perception of distance as a quantum measure. I
would say it is exactly six hundred and fifty-three years
from today’s date.”
Beckman lifted a hand and spoke slowly, deliberately.
“You see, Agent Blake, Einstein showed mass and energy
is one and the same. We at Libra have in our possession the
means to safely tele-transport all three of you to any past
era we so choose. The device we have designed employs
light in the form of circulating lasers with the capacity
to warp time, or perhaps you might understand it better
if you visualize time as being looped.” He paused, passed
Bosch a subdued snigger and chortled as if in ridicule.
“Conventional thinkers believe a time machine must
consist of some massive object.” The snigger increased and
his chin raised a little as he added proudly, “This we have
proven wrong.”
“As Gerhardt is saying . . .” Bosch interjected, “. . .
to prove and consequently successfully utilize time loops,
we have designed this desktop pad.” He ran a finger along
the top of the screen. “This controls our reassignments.”
Dal squinted at Bosch and leaned across to look
more closely at the flat paneled screen. “But this has got to
connect to a main facility. Like - this isn’t the whole deal,
right?”
“Intuitive of you, Agent Dallas,” Beckman said. “We
have a mother unit containing a series of mirrors. Within
the unit a light beam circulates resulting in the warping
of surrounding space. Initially sub-atomic particles were
restricted to a very short lifetime. However, we at Libra
have expanded that lifetime by exposing the particles
directly to the circulating light beam, realizing after several
laboratory tests that this ‘extended particular lifetime’
clearly indicates that particles do in fact flow through a
time loop and into the past.”
Bosch interjected. “As Einstein theorized, time is
directly affected whenever you do anything to space. We
can twist time simply by doing the same to space. Just
as man can walk through space, Libra can walk through
time.”
“Your concept of time has me confused,” Blake said,
holding up a hand. “It’s far different to my understanding
of time. You know, time is this,” and he tapped on his
wristwatch. “What specifically is your perception of
time?”
Dal clapped softly and Bell gave an approving
nod.
“That question requires a most complex reply, Agent
Blake,” Beckman said. “My perception of time divides
events - moves them apart from each other. Things around
us are continually changing. People around us change,
weather patterns change. These changes are all beyond our
control. We are unable to meddle with changes that take
place around us each day, whereas physical events are
real, they are intrinsic. Your reference to measuring time
by using your wristwatch is valid. You can change time
simply by changing the settings, which alters the pace a
person may arrive at a point. They can arrive five hours late
or even an hour early, but that’s not physical transference.
Only motion affects time.”
A sense of doom swelled inside of Blake as he
waited for continuance. Beckman took a seat alongside of
Bosch. He nodded at Dal and said, “Einstein proved this
very theory by showing that the time on an atomic clock
when sent around the earth on a jet is slower than a clock
that remains on earth. The clock on board the jet cannot
catch up with the earth bound clock.”
Dal, appearing to follow along, asked, “How dangerous is this time travel?”
“It presents no danger, Agent Dallas,” Bosch said.
“As long as you do not confront your grandfather and
kill him. That is known as the Grandfather Paradox. Of
course, in the event of such an unlikely event, we would
not be sitting here having this discussion, would we? The
Grandfather Paradox is not an issue. You will be traveling
back into a different universe. Your arrival in September
of the year 1356 cannot affect your existence in our 2015
universe.” Bosch gave an assuring series of quick nods.
“Do not be concerned with your safety, you will all safely
return.”
“How can you be sure?” Blake asked, studying
Bosch’s face for a long ten seconds. “I mean, that thing,
that uh, Particle Accelerant Chamber, how do we know for
sure that it’ll get us back here?”
“Quite simple, Agent Blake, because you are all
here now – are you not?”

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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’
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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’ 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 fuckin’
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.”