The Lucifer Sanction Read Online Free Page B

walking feebly from a confessional, head lowered, blessing
herself – leaving the building.
Moreau slips the disc from his pocket and glances
at the small monitor, verifies coordinates. Satisfied he’s
not mistaken he raises his eyes and continues scouting the
congregation. Denis Campion was nowhere to be seen.
Moreau curses as time slips on by. Ten minutes, twenty.
Annoyed, he murmurs, “Your coordinates Campion. Check
your fuckin’ coordinates.”
*****
    American Interpol Division Headquarters
Los Angeles, California
Ten Days Earlier
March 22, 2015
8: 42 A: M
    Samuel Noah Ridkin hadn’t slept much the previous
evening. His position within the American Interpol Division
often compensated him with such nights. He stared from the
twelfth story window of the Interpol Division’s Wilshire
Boulevard location. Sam was in his late sixties, had a full
head of Afro hair lightly streaked with gray, and resembled
actor, Morgan Freeman. To those who didn’t know Sam,
the flared nostrils added an illusion of fierceness intensified
by bloodshot eyes, demonic in a tranquil way along with a
pedantic frown and deep furrowed forehead resulting in his
assiduous expression of ferocity. The combination of these
attributes resulted in an authoritarian charm that was the
Interpol chief – Sam Ridkin.
    Sam thought something isn’t right as he watched the
congestion of Los Angeles traffic twelve floors below. The
previous day’s call from Admiral Bates still hung heavily on
his mind. Bates was a founding member of the Triumvirate
Board whose sole function was handling assignments and
‘non-existent issues’ around the globe.
    The call to set up the meeting with a member of an
unidentified Zurich organization added another sleepless
night to Sam’s resume. As with most Interpol meetings, this
too was ‘off the record.’ Each telephone communication
was secure and encrypted.
    Sam Ridkin’s prior history with the Central
Intelligence Agency was marked with repetitive praise
and presidential accolades. In 1996 the Secretary of State
and the Triumvirate Board whittled their way through a
preponderance of candidates for the top position of the
fledgling agency, thus Sam became American Interpol
Division’s chief. Its first duty was to search out the highest
qualified operatives ranging from distinguished members
of the Secret Service, the navy SEALS and Sam’s previous
employer – the CIA. In short time the AID totaled in excess
of fifty operatives covertly positioned throughout four
continents. Officially however - the division didn’t exist.
    When he heard the door close, Sam raised his eyes
from the crawling traffic and half turned. Drew Blake
ambled to the conference table in the center of the room
and placed his valise on the laminated surface. A near
threadbare carpet square reached from one base-board to
the other. It had been resurrected from a Thrift store and
had seen better days. Its faded burgundy and gold brocade
design was blessed with spilled coffee, splashes of Jim
Beam and a few other stains of questionable origin. Sam
refused to replace ‘the piece’’ as he called it, claiming the
stains added character.
    The interior of the office matched the reception
area, scant in décor with furnishings neither fashionable nor
functional, possibly originating from the same thrift store
as the carpet square. Sam didn’t care what others thought.
This was his pseudo place of dwelling and his taste in décor
was of no consequence. His two most prized pieces were
an oriental liquor cabinet stocked with an ample supply
of Jim Beam, and a baroque framed mirror of massive
proportion hanging above it. The mirror was a thank you
gift from China’s President Hu Jintao, recognition of a
recent Chinese assignment known only as Black Sabbath.
    Sam considered the gift psychological point scoring
by the president. The next week a life-sized replica of
Barack Obama holding a small