Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

Schmidt felt his heart jump at the mention of his supposedly clandestine plan, but his face remained straight, sheltering all worry inside its steel expression.

“Spitting your name, Schmidt , he saluted and said he was going to visit you on a little suicide mission of your own.” Löwenhagen’s voice pierced through his smile. “He stood there laughing like a mad animal, screeching for relief from what he was. Still dressed like the dead biker, he went for the jet. Before I could get to him, the guards burst in. I just ran to keep from being arrested. Once outside the base, I got into my truck and raced to Büchel to try to warn you. Your cell phone was off.”

“And that’s when he crashed the plane outside our base,” Schmidt nodded. “How am I supposed to explain the true story to Lieutenant-General Meier? He is under the impression that it was a legitimate counter-attack after what that Dutch idiot did in Iraq.”

“Neumand was a first class pilot. Why he missed the target — you — is as much a pity as it is a mystery,” growled Löwenhagen. Only Schmidt’s silhouette still indicated his presence next to him.

“He missed because like you, my boy, he had gone blind,” stated Schmidt, relishing in his victory over those who could expose him. “But you did not know about that, did you? Because Neumand wore sunglasses you did not know about his poor eyesight. Otherwise you would never have used the Babylonian Mask yourself, would you?”

“No, I would not have,” grated Löwenhagen, feeling defeated to a boiling point. “But I should have known you would send someone to burn me up and get the mask back. After I drove to the crash site, I found Neumand’s charred remains flung far from the fuselage. The mask had been detached from his scorched skull, so I took it to bring it back to my dear commander whom I thought I could trust.” At this point his yellow eyes had gone blind. “But you already took care of that, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” he heard Schmidt say next to him, but he was done with the commander’s deceit.

“You sent someone after me. He found me with the mask at the site of the wreckage and chased me all the way into Heidelberg until my truck ran out of fuel!” snarled Löwenhagen. “But he had enough petrol for the both of us, Schmidt. Before I could see him coming, he poured petrol all over me and set me on fire! All I could do was run to the hospital a stone’s throw away, still hoping that the fire would not catch and maybe even extinguish as I ran. But no, it only got stronger and hotter, consuming my skin and my lips and my limbs until I thought I was screaming through my flesh! Do you know what it is like to feel your heart explode under the shock of smelling your own flesh burning like a steak on a grill? DO YOU?” he screamed at the captain, wearing the vicious expression of dead man.

As the manager jogged hastily to their table, Schmidt raised his hand dismissively.

“We’re going. We’re going. Just charge it all to that credit card,” Schmidt ordered, knowing that Dr. Hilt would soon be found dead again, while his credit card statement would show that he’d lived a few days longer than initially reported.

“Come, Löwenhagen,” Schmidt said urgently. “I know how we can get that mask off your face. I have no idea how to reverse the blindness, though.”

He led his companion to the bar where he signed the slip. As they left, Schmidt slipped the credit card back into Löwenhagen’s pocket. The staff and patrons all gave a sigh of relief. The unfortunate waiter who’d received no gratuity clicked his tongue, saying “Thank God! I hope that is the last we see of him.”

Marduk watched the clock and the small rectangle on its face with the flip-type date panels arranged to announce that it was the 28th of October. His fingers tapped on the counter while he waited for the receptionist at the Swanwasser Hotel, where Sam Cleave and his mysterious lady friend were also staying.

“There we go, Mr. Marduk. Welcome to Germany,” the receptionist smiled kindly and returned Marduk’s passport. Her eyes dwelled on his face for a moment too long. It made the old man wonder if it was because of his unusual face or because his identification documents stated Iraq as his country of origin.

“Vielen Dank,” he replied. He would have smiled if he could have.

After checking into his room, he went downstairs to meet Sam and Margaret outside in the garden. They were already waiting for him when he stepped out onto the deck overlooking the swimming pool. A small, smartly dressed man had been following Marduk at a distance, but the old man was far too astute not to know.

Sam cleared his throat in a suggestive manner, but all Marduk said was “I see him.”

“Of course you do,” Sam said to himself, motioning to Margaret with his head. She looked up at the stranger and recoiled somewhat, but she kept it from his view. Marduk turned to look at the man following him, just enough to assess the situation. Apologetically, the man smiled and disappeared into the corridor.

“They see a passport from Iraq and they lose their bloody minds,” he snapped irately as he sat down.

“Mr. Marduk, this is Margaret Crosby of the Edinburgh Post,” Sam introduced them.

“Lovely to meet you, Madam,” said Marduk, again using his polite nod instead of a smile.

“And you also, Mr. Marduk,” Margaret replied cordially. “It’s wonderful to finally meet such an informed and travelled man such as yourself.” Is she actually flirting with Marduk? Sam wondered in amusement, as he watched the two of them shake hands.

“And how do you know this?” Marduk asked in mock surprise.

Sam lifted his recording device.

“Ah, all that business in the doctor’s office is on record now.” He gave the investigate journalist a stern eye.

“Not to worry, Marduk,” said Sam, intending to dismiss all concern. “This is just for me and those who are going to help us track down the Babylonian Mask. As you know, Ms. Crosby here has already done her part in getting the police commander off our backs.”

“Yes, some journalists have the common sense to be selective about what the world should know and…well, what the world is better off never knowing about. The Babylonian Mask and its abilities fall into the latter category. You are assured of my discretion,” Margaret promised Marduk.

His image fascinated her. The British spinster had always had an affinity for the unusual and unique. He was not nearly as monstrous as the staff of Heidelberg Hospital had described him. Yes, he was clearly deformed by normal standards, but his face only added to his intriguing personality.

“That is a relief to know, Madam,” he sighed.

“Please, call me Margaret,” she said quickly. Aye, some geriatric flirting going on here, Sam decided.

“So, to the business at hand,” interrupted Sam, starting into the more serious conversation. “How are we going to start looking for this Löwenhagen character?”

“I think we should discount him from the game. According to Lieutenant Werner, the man behind the procurement of the Babylonian Mask is Captain Schmidt of the German Luftwaffe. I’ve instructed Lieutenant Werner to go under the pretense of reporting and steal the mask from Schmidt by noon tomorrow. If I have not heard from Werner by then, we’ll have to assume the worst. In that case, I myself will have to get inside the base and have a word with Schmidt. He is at the root of this whole deranged operation, and he will want to be in possession of the relic by the time the signing of the great peace treaty takes place.”

“So you think he is going to impersonate the Meso-Arabian Commissioner for the signing?” asked Margaret, aptly using the new term for the Middle East since the merging of the flanking, smaller lands under one government.