The Lucifer Sanction (20 page)

“I don’t like this,” Hunter said as sweat beaded on
his face, “but I’m not gonna stay back and let Bell die. I’ve
wasted too many years thinkin’ about her, ain’t gonna let
her go like this, Blake too, ain’t gonna happen. Aw shit,
Dallas too.”

Sam realized Hunter’s anxiety, realized he might
not be able to convince his man to take the final steps.
Hunter repeated as if in a self-assuring exercise,
“I’ve gotta do it. Just gotta do it.”
Sam considered the possibility that Hunter was
clearly disposed to withdrawal. He speculated if Hunter
would have considered leaving Blake and Dal to their
demise had Bellinger not been involved.
Hunter gazed down at his hand. “Sam, I’m tremblin’,
look at this.”
“Gard, aren’t you curious about what it’s like back
there?”
“Fuck back there. I skipped a lot of history classes,
Sam,” and he forced a grin.
It was a futile attempt to shift Hunter’s focus.
Psychology was never Sam’s forte. After a minute had
passed they moved off in the direction indicated by Frober,
finally arriving at a dusty, dimly lit room that resembled a
movie set for Knights of the Round Table.
Shivering and cold, Hunter moved to a dust covered
burgundy upholstered chair. He looked at Sam and his voice
sank. “Don’t know that I’m too kosher about the prototype
shit.”
Sam hesitated and kept his eyes to the ground. He
asked Frober, “What are the chances the prototype doesn’t
get him back?”
“I am sorry. There are no guarantees, but I am
confident all will go to plan.”
“But if it doesn’t . . .” Hunter said, “. . . I’d be stuck
back in . . .”
“I am afraid so,” Frober said contemplatively. “You
would remain in the year 1356.”
Hunter gazed at the period dress hanging on racks
around the room. His eyes locked on the helm, a heavy
pointed piece with the narrowest of slits restricting vision.
“Sam, you know I’m claustrophobic.”
Sam took the helm from its shelf and gave a
pleading look to Frober. “Do you have anything less uh -
less confining?”
Twenty minutes later Hunter stood erect, hardly able
to move. His body was wet with sweat and suffocating in
the long sleeved under garment. He felt restricted and had
difficulty manipulating his arms. His shoulders sagged as
both Frober and Ziegman placed the heavy chain-mail over
his head and followed this by strapping on a breastplate. He
received a final inspection from both Ziegman and Frober,
and gave no acknowledgment to Sam Ridkin’s nodding
smile.
Another man entered, pulled along by a large
German Shepherd. The dog walked with a sense of purpose,
giving Sam a sideways glance as it passed. The man smiled
at Sam and gave Hunter an admiring half-nod. “Mon Dieu
- Sir Galahad,” he said in a sarcastic French accent.
Frober gestured warmly at the man. “Here we have
our third musketeer.” He made a sweeping gesture with his
right hand. “This is our d’Artagnan.”
The Frenchman made a saluting gesture, after which
he lowered himself onto one knee and stroked the dog’s
head. The shepherd’s collar had a malfunctioning fastener
clip and the man struggled with joining it to the leash.
“Are you having a problem?” Frober asked as he
and Ziegman continued adjusting Hunter’s body armor.
“Yes, it’s this collar. I’m going to replace it.”
“Be sure the transmitter is the most recent version,”
Frober said as he caught the look of concern on Sam’s face.
“A few of the collars ceased transmission,” he explained as
he placed a hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder. “Use one of
the red ones,” Frober said, “one of the RT6 units.”
The faulty collar was removed and replaced with
a bright red nylon version, with the transmitter being
clearly visible as a simulated tag, a small shiny disc. The
Frenchman leaned back and admired the dog. “Bruno is my
best boy,” he said. “The pick of the litter, he’s a very good
boy.” He kissed the dog’s cheek and said in a high pitched
voice, “Et le papa vous aime mon garçon”
Hunter said, “And you don’t mind kissin’ his ass
goodbye as well, huh?”
D’Artagnan grinned, wiped his lips, and tapped on
the collar. “We can bring him back, monsieur. We’ve done
so two times before with Bruno.”
“However, unlike you, Bruno has no choice,”
Frober added. “When we see you have transferred safely,
we will recall him to the chamber. He does not need a disc,
with his low weight ratio we are able to activate from right
here. His return will be confirmation that all is working as
it should. Obviously we would prefer to use the chambers
in the main facility; however that is out of the question.”
“Yeah,” Hunter groaned, “so is dyin’.”
“Agent Hunter, you will have your weapons. All we
ask is that you locate and dispose of Neuberg. This is your
prime objective. After he is eliminated you must secure his
broadsword containing the device, find your friends, give
each a replacement disc and we will affect their return to
the chambers above. You will return simultaneously to the
unit here below.”
“Doesn’t sound too difficult, wha’dya think,
Chief?”
“Piece of cake, Gard. You’ll do it in a sleep walk.”
Sam tried to smile but the expression came across as
a grimace. Hunter saw the look and sensed Sam was feeling
bad about his chances. He placed the silver helm slowly
over his head and lowered the visor. Ziegman swiveled the
helm a little left, a little right, and aligned Hunter’s eyes
with the narrow slit.
“I feel like a fuckin’ Zippo,” Hunter groaned.
Frober placed a hand inside the breastplate and felt
around Hunter’s waist.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Hunter moaned, unable to turn and
eyeball Frober.
“Your two weapons, you must be able to remove
a glove and reach your handguns. If Neuberg senses you
have been sent to apprehend him, he will terminate you
before you have time to react. Agent Hunter, time will not
be on your side. Neuberg is well skilled in the ways of
medieval warfare, moving about with a broadsword while
wearing armor is his forte.”
The Frenchman with the dog said, “We should get
you to your chamber.”
The shepherd pulled anxiously, followed by
d’Artagnan, Frober and Ziegman. Sam stood in disbelief
for a moment and then called to Frober, “I really have bad
vibes about this.”
Hunter clanged his way toward the raised chamber
and came to a stop as he tried looking through the narrow
visor. He froze on the top step and groaned, “I can’t do
this.”
Frober gave Sam a hard look and Sam nodded,
disappointed, but not surprised.
“Way too claustrophobic,” Hunter called aloud. “I
gotta take the fuckin’ tin can off.”
Frober was unemotional. “That is fine; do not be
concerned. I realize it is most uncomfortable.”
The two men eased the knight back from the
chamber as Bruno lay comfortably in his confined space,
looking content, looking at ease.
Sam whispered, “The dog looks really relaxed.
What’s with that?” He flicked a thumb at Bruno. “He went
into the chamber so willingly.”
Hunter, oblivious to the discussion, was in the
process of removing his helm as Sam gave him an annoyed
scowl. The three men sniggered as d’Artagnan explained
with a half-smile. “The dog,” and he lowered his voice to
avoid Hunter’s eavesdropping. “Bruno is in his house. That
chamber is where he sleeps each evening.”
Five minutes later and feeling around a hundred
pounds lighter, Hunter smiled and bounced about in an
impromptu Irish jig. “You see,” he said as he bowed, “much
better. Now I can move.”
He repeated some quick steps and for a few moments
the reality of the task at hand slipped his mind. But all eyes
were on Bruno stretched out in the comfortable confines of
‘his house.’
Hunter’s soft-shoe shuffle went ignored. He froze
mid-step; his eyes moving to the dog then back to those
around him. He shrugged and asked, “What’s with the
fuckin’ dog?”
Frober and Ziegler guided Hunter into position as
he wriggled his body into the most comfortable position,
uneasy as he lay in the chamber. Frober’s face, now
illuminated by the green lights of the control panel, took on
a sinister demeanor.
Hunter lay staring at the two men either side of the
chamber, their faces holding contrived smiles, poor efforts
at reassurance. In less than two minutes they’d secured the
lid to the chamber as Hunter entertained pleasant thoughts
in an effort to fight off claustrophobia.
Frober raised one finger and mouthed the words,
one minute
. He placed the tip of his index finger to his
thumb-tip and made an okay gesture.
Hunter was on edge. He thought of how Bell had
gone through a similar feeling of discomfort. The thought
did little to diminish his fear. He felt confined, a caged
animal. Like that. His eyes moved to his left, to the chamber
alongside of him. He muttered, “fuckin’ dog.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Lascaux Caves
September 18, 1356

Bell steered the frothing mount between large trees
until she reached the edge of a precipice. A white cliff rose
steeply skyward along one side of her. She sat tall in the
saddle, looked back, couldn’t hear the pursuing riders. She
touched the damp white surface and thought,
the cave has
gotta be somewhere here.
She felt comfortable with the
absence of the French horsemen, absence of their rattling
armor. She thought
Dumaurier could have Dal safely in
Brantôme by now.
She dropped her eyes to the left, realized
the sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the river below, she
thought,
reason enough for those guys to stop chasing me
.
She looked ahead, looked for sufficient width of trail – felt
she could make it and spurred her mount.

The warhorse veered off as she reined the mare
away from the deadly drop, skidding into the side of the
limestone precipice, its rear hooves digging grooves in the
damp dirt. Bell misjudged the nearness of the slope and the
horse’s rump slid to a painful halt as it slammed against the
edge.

She was near paralyzed with fear as she dismounted.
She strained to inhale short sharp breaths and the thought of
a cardiac event flashed through her mind. “Not now, please
not now.” She sighed as she struggled to gain control of her
body, of her mind, and her chest pounded.
Come on Patrice
– get it together
, she thought.
You’ve gotta get to Dal, see
that he’s okay. It’s gonna take both of us to get Drew out of
Castelnau.

She looped the rein loosely around a tree and moved
into a deep, dark recess in the side of the cliff. Paintings of
large animals decorated the walls. She mumbled between
breaths, “I’ve seen this place in a book, these prehistoric
paintings. If memory serves me correct this place is
Lascaux, so these paintings are the real deal, not the replica
tourists see back home. That river down there has to be the
Vezere.”

The cave was carved from soft limestone, not
by man but by the action of the Vezere River. Discarded
clothing and stale food littered one area and odor of human
excrement reeked from further inside. Fear of the Black
Death had caused villagers to inhabit the Lascaux cave in
hope the disease would pass them by.

She froze as a black rat scuttled on by, annoyed by
her presence. She took a few quick steps back toward the
entrance, then realized the rodent was more scared of her
than she of it. She recomposed and raised her eyes upward
at the cliff that climbed a steep three hundred feet above
her.

Fifty-five thousand years had passed since the first
dwellers decorated the walls with paintings of prehistoric
animals. She looked back out along the ridge and spotted
a scattering of huts built against the cliffs. She cautiously
made her way along the trail, rounded a bend and spotted a
village built into the side of the incline.

A plethora of thoughts flashed through her mind as
she cautiously moved toward the nearest hut. The sound of
running water caught her attention. She paused, moved to
the left, parted a hedge of rhododendrons, saw the stream
and fell to her knees by the water’s edge. She cupped her
hands and scooped its freshness onto her face. Thoughts
of Gardner Hunter flashed through her mind. She didn’t
need a session on a shrink’s couch to realize her flame for
Hunter still flickered.

Visions of how close she’d come to capture by the
pursuing French riders flashed through her mind.
They
would’ve had their way with me,
she thought. She blocked
that horror from her mind and returned to pleasant thoughts
of Hunter, to romantic evenings and hazy summer days
watching children at play by the Santa Monica pier.

She wiped her face dry and focused on the village
ahead, couldn’t make out any soldiers, a good enough
reason to head in that direction. She watched two men
grooming a white destrier and pondered if the groomers
were French. Another man sat whistling, working on a
saddle. She moved a little nearer, closed her eyes as though
doubting the medieval setting. She refocused; the setting
was still there. She saw an old signpost with the word
Brantôme. The township was a rabbit’s warren of lanes,
with fine architecture, hidden courtyards, stone huts and an
impressive church at the far end of a courtyard.

It appeared from nowhere. The dog scrambled
through the creek and cowered at Patrice Bellinger’s
side. She caught a flash of red, lowered to one knee and
stroked the animal’s head. The red vinyl collar held two
identification tags: a green disc similar to that given to her
in Zurich and a tag engraved with the name, Bruno.

Hunter’s coordinates had him materializing on a
rocky slope. He stumbled headlong into a tree trunk, felt
on the verge of blacking out, staggered, and slid down an
incline. His head struck something hard. Barely conscious
and suffering severe concussion, he shielded his eyes from
the glare, squinted, and faded back into delirium.

Consciousness greeted him sometime later. He
pushed the chain-mail hood from his head until it hung
loose around his neck. He heard movement nearby.

“My God, Bell,” he groaned to himself. She was
some fifty yards off. He stayed out of sight and a moment
later realized Bruno was sitting alongside her, enjoying her
affection. He took advantage of the distraction and quietly
crawled to a tree nearer the stream, rolling on a twig as he
went. Bell heard the snap, looked about. She stared, waited
- heard no more movement. She looked at the dog and
while giving the animal a comforting hug took a long few
seconds to examine the tags. Hunter risked another glance,
saw her inspecting the tags and knew she was querying the
red collar.

“Bruno, you poor baby,” she sighed and gently
stroked his head. She secured Bruno’s snout to safeguard
against his barking, stared into his brown eyes and waited
- heard nothing. She turned from the dog’s sad stare and
scanned trees behind her – still nothing. But she had this
subliminal feeling that someone was watching. She stayed
quiet, smiled at Bruno and gave him an appreciative nod.
She created visions of Gardner Hunter and thought
yeah,
they’ve transported him to help us, Libra’s come through.

Again, the sensation someone was moving in the
thickets. She allowed a minute to pass, placed her hand
back around the dog’s mouth and held its collar with the
other and asked, “Did you come alone, big boy?”

“Looks like it’s just you and me, so what do you
say, shall we?”
She straightened up, brushed off her hose, and
tenuously released hold of the collar. As she did, Bruno
appeared to digitize – and in a nanosecond, the dog
vanished.
Bell sat dumbfounded.
They’ve taken him back
,
she thought.
Maybe they’re checking to see if the system’s
working.
Her eyes shifted back to the village, to a stately
man stepping from a nearby hut, his head lowered to avoid
striking the lintel. He caught her staring eyes and gave a
friendly wave, a ‘come here’gesture. She smiled a masculine
smile and strode awkwardly toward him – cognizant of her
mannish disguise. She kept a low voice, a deep masculine
tone. “I’m a visitor and am lost. I’m searching for some
friends. We are Irishers. Can you –“
The handsome Frenchman extended a hand and
halted her mid-sentence as the sound of thundering hooves
approached from the far end of the village. Five riders split
the center of the main street causing villagers to scatter.
The handsome Frenchman spoke in a panicked
tone, “Les soldats du roi, rapidement nous devons cacher.”
His look of fear precluded translation, his actions sufficed.
He took Bell’s arm, pulled her into the dwelling. Hoof
beats fired down the street as he moved quickly to the small
trapdoor beneath a table. Bell turned to him and asked,
“What is it? Why are you hiding from your own people?”
The question went unanswered.
They crammed their bodies tightly into the darkness
of the hole as horses bolted by causing the ground to shake.
When the riders were no longer audible, the Frenchman
climbed from the hole, cautiously looked about, extended a
helping hand and hauled Bell out. He pushed a mat in place
to conceal the opening and paced to a window. He peered
in the direction of the five horsemen now thrashing about
in foliage at the far end of the village.
Bellinger could hear the commotion and didn’t
quite know what to make of it. She was mystified as to
why this Frenchman avoided the French riders as though
they were the enemy.
He gestured for Bell to sit. “Vous n’êtes pas d’ici.
Pas de la France?”

Bruno materialized and leaped from his chamber
into d’Artagnan’s waiting arms. The dog had been gone for
precisely three minutes.

“Your man, he has arrived safely,” d’Artagnan said
victoriously.
“And the dog, any issues?”
“No problems, Bruno is magnifique.”

Hunter’s hard landing had left him with a slight
concussion. He tried to stand but was floundering. He
thought
safer for me to lay low until I’ve regained balance
and strength.
He watched Bell as she moved into the
village, squinted as the tall man moved from the cottage.
He gazed at his Sig, slipped a finger on the safety, could
have intervened but his vision was still blurred, his balance
- unsteady
. I can be more of a liability than an asset
he
thought.

He relaxed his grip on the Sig, made a quick
summation, one of his so called ‘field decisions.’ He
moved clumsily about the perimeter for several minutes,
taking rest stops, blacking in and out of consciousness.
His need to locate Blake and Dal had precedence over the
temptation to call out to Bell. An engagement in this village
could complicate his assignment. He thought,
gotta assume
Bell’s in control of her situation.
Then he thought
where’s
the dog?

Patrice Bellinger considered the Frenchman’s next
move. She spent a few long moments awaiting comment.
None came and she opened with, “I’m an Irisher. My
French is not good. Je suis désolé.”

Ecossais vous êtes? Ceci est alors une bonne chose.”
Bell asked, “What is your name?”
“I am Maurice of Brantôme.”
He made a waving gesture. “This is where I have

lived since a child. This village is Brantôme.”
“Maurice, the soldiers have taken my friend, a
fellow traveler from Ireland. Do you understand me?”
The Frenchman nodded.
“Good. It is most important that he is set free. We
have a mission that will save many lives, without him we
cannot save them.” She thought over what she’d said and
felt good about it.
The English had ravished Ulster and the Irish were
continually attacking English strongholds. Consequently
it was quite conceivable that Bell, Dal and Blake could
actually be in France as Irish observers.
“Where is your friend?”
“In Castelnau, if you’re able to help free him you’ll
have served us well in our plight to inflict serious damage
on the tyrant who rules your land.”
“What name do you go by?”
“My name is Bell.”
He glanced at her curiously. “You desire my
help?”
“Yes – can you please help me?”
“We are not fond of John and his murderous scum.
I have many friends in the nearby towns of Mareuil and
Issigeac, some work at the Mill, others at the farms that
supply the soldiers. I have six very trustworthy friends here
in Brantôme who have no love for John and his murderers.
They make sport of the soldiers and will welcome helping
to free your friend from the clutches of Jean le Maingre’s
Castelnau. We have sympathetic ears across the Dordogne
in Castelgard. Each and every man, woman and child can
be relied upon in times of need. They too make sport of the
crossbowmen of Castelnau.”
He swallowed hard, took a deep settling breath,
and flicked a thumb toward the window. “These people,
they have no love lost. Le Maingre bleeds them dry of
their produce so he can place fine food on the tables of
Castelnau. Le Maingre’s men pillage our villages, taking
women when they have need of companionship; such are
all of the pigs that serve this king. English or French, they
differ not in their lust and deviances. You understand what
I am saying?”
“Yes, Maurice, I’m sorry.”
“There are many items abandoned by John’s men
when they sought refuge in the cave fortresses. They
abandoned their armor, their shields and their helms in
their effort to blend with surrounding villagers.” He paced
about the room for a minute as Bell awaited his next words.
“We shall dress as French knights and ride into Castelnau
escorting our prisoner.”
“Prisoner?”
“Yes, their eyes will see you dressed as one of
Edward’s men. Your arrival will bring cheers. Their minds
will not question our escorting a prisoner into Castelnau.
They will welcome us. English and Irish prisoners are well
received guests of King John. Once inside we will see
what destiny has in hand. Remain here, rest easy my young
friend. I shall return shortly.”
Twenty minutes passed.
Maurice sauntered back, followed by six young
men, none of shaving age. They exchanged glances as
Maurice explained Bell’s predicament. She was a silent
observer during the discussion, exchanging occasional
smiles with the group. Maurice gestured at Bell. “So then,
it is agreed, we are yours. We share common dislikes of le
Maingre.” He waved a palm across the six friendly faces.
“The soldiers have twice taken liberties with his sister,” and
he pointed at a blonde haired kid who nodded and lowered
his watery eyes in a saddened way.
The blonde haired kid raised a hand.
“What is it, Andre?”
“I want the pig to myself.”
Maurice turned to Bellinger. “One of le Maingre’s
swine took the sister of Andre. This man is stationed on
the main tower. The sister has never recovered from the
brutalizing. She’s not spoken to this day.”
“What does he want?”
Maurice let the question go unanswered. He placed
a hand on the kid’s knee and nodded. The watery eyes
understood.
“We will go to the cave. Uniforms and weapons
lay there. Come along, when we are wearing le Maingre’s
colors we will ride to Castelnau.”