The Lucifer Sanction Read Online Free Page A

bastards
upstairs.”
“Like Campion and Moreau,” Fellini mumbled,
glancing at his notes.
“Looks like the dog was a wee bit more fortunate
than his compatriots,” Drummond hypothesized.
“Maybe they were participants in some kind of
weird experiment,” Fellini said, waving a hand at the empty
chamber, “one that went dreadfully wrong.”
Excitement made an abrupt shift to melancholy.
Portman: “Maybe we’ll never know.”
Drummond moved nearer Bruno’s chamber. In a
whisper he alone could hear he sighed, “Might be better if
we never know.”
    CHAPTER TWO
Venice, Italy
April 1, 2015
12 A: M
     
    Midnight, heart of Venice.
Asolitary figure materializes in the picturesque quiet
Sestiere of San Polo. He rubs his face as his eyes adjust to
the darkness. He focuses on a gondola as its meager bowlight illuminates the murky water of The Grand Canal. The
stranger raises a match to a cigarette and the glow allows a
sinister glimpse of his weathered features.
Dom Moreau had been ‘ear-marked’ by Libra
during his early years at Midwestern State University, a
public liberal arts college in Wichita Falls, Texas. Two years
following graduation and with a questionable sabbatical
behind him, Moreau joined the Zurich based research
facility. He is familiar with the renowned landmarks of
Venice, St. Marks Basilica, the Rialto, the Doge’s Palace
and the Bridge of Sighs. He’d visited the piazzas and the
silent palazzos and had browsed Venetia’s quaint churches
on many occasions. His French father, Francois Jean
Moreau, had inflicted Dom with a scattering of French
speaking skill, perhaps sufficient to suffice ordering from
a menu, but insufficient to converse fluently. Had he been
born a girl his name would have been Dominique. Dom
had suffered more than his share of ribbing over the name
issue during his early years at M.S.U.
A smile flashes over Moreau’s face. His eyes
wander the length of the canal, the chain-mail hood barely
revealing his grin as he huddles and waits for the Venetian
sunrise. With the last cigarette spent, he wraps his arms
about his shoulders and briskly rubs at the heavy medieval
surcoat he wears over a sleeved tunic and burgundy hose.
To those around him his appearance is one of a medieval
period street performer. He scans about, his eyes searching
out a face. He ponders better times, begs his God for the
smallest morsel of forgiveness for his instigating such a
horror – for the pandemic.
For accountability.
He’d searched Calais and Venice yet his associate
Denis Campion had eluded him. As with his previous visits,
Moreau feels at ease in Venice.
“My beloved Venetia,” he mumbles softly. “How
well you’ve stood the test of time.” He nods politely at
passersby curiously questioning his attire.
A smile flickers across his face as he catches the
aroma of brewing coffee as it floats from a nearby fondaco.
His eyes leisurely close and he inhales deeply – savors the
brew, thinks thank God coffee has survived the passing of
time .
Moreau slips a metallic disc from his pocket and
strokes one finger around its edge. A small glow emanates
from the disc and an alphanumeric readout appears:
Forty-five degrees, twenty-six feet, nineteen seconds
north – twelve degrees, nineteen feet, thirty-six seconds
east.
He mentally confirms his scheduled meeting and
makes his way to the basilica of Santa Maria della Salute.
He peruses the scattering of worshipers, steel-gray eyes
darting predator-like from one parishioner to another.
He fears the worst. Several days have passed since
he has seen Denis Campion. He admires the beauty within
the basilica while remaining aware of the importance of
blending with the parishioners.
The air around him contains a dank odor reminiscent
of the medieval stench from the period from whence he’s
traveled. A squeaking sound distracts him. He instinctively
steps behind a pillar, eyes following an elderly woman