Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

Communication devices lined the corners of the chamber. Red and green digital numbers flashed monotonously on the panels, in between two flat computer screens with one keyboard between them. Upon the right screen Werner saw the topographical rendition of the strike zone, the C.I.T.E. headquarters in Mosul, Iraq. Left of that screen was an identical monitor with satellite surveillance.

But it was the rest of the room that told Werner that Schmidt was dead serious.

“I knew that you knew about the Babylonian Mask and its makings before you even came to report to me, so that spares me all the time it would have taken to explain and describe all the “magical powers” it possesses,” Schmidt boasted. “I know by some reach of cellular science that the workings of the mask is in fact not magical, but I’m not interested in how it works — just that it does.”

“Where is it?” asked Werner, pretending to be psyched up by the relic. “I’ve never seen it? Will I be wearing it?”

“No, my friend,” Schmidt smiled. “ I will.”

“As who? With Prof. Sloane dead you’ll have no reason to assume the face of anyone involved with the treaty.”

“It’s none of your concern who I will be impersonating,” Schmidt responded.

“But you know what will happen,” said Werner, hoping to discourage Schmidt so that he could get his hands on the mask himself and get it to Marduk. But Schmidt had other plans.

“I do, but there is something that can remove the mask without incident. It is called The Skin. Regrettably, Neumand did not bother to lift this very important accessory when he stole the mask, the idiot! So I’ve sent Himmelfarb to breach air space and land on the secret strip eleven clicks north past Nineveh. He’s to procure the Skin within the next two days so that I can remove the mask before…” he shrugged, “the inevitable.”

“And if he fails?” asked Werner, amazed at the risk Schmidt was taking.

“He will not fail. He has the coordinates of the location and…”

“Excuse me, Captain, but did it occur to you that Himmelfarb could turn on you? He knows the worth of the Babylonian Mask. Aren’t you afraid that he will kill you for it?” asked Werner.

Schmidt switched on the opposite light from the side of the room where they stood. In its glare Werner was met with a wall full of identical masks. Turning the bunker into what looked like a catacomb, the wall of masks hung in their skull-shaped likenesses.

“Himmelfarb has no idea which one of these is the real one, but I do. He knows that he cannot claim the mask unless he takes his chances while applying the skin to my face to remove it, and to ensure her performs I’ll have a gun to his son’s head all the way in Berlin.” Schmidt grinned as he admired the pieces on the wall.

“You made all these to confuse anyone trying to steal the mask from you? Genius!” Werner remarked sincerely. With his arms folded across his chest he slowly walked along the wall, trying to find any discrepancy between them, but it was practically impossible.

“Oh, I did not make them, Dieter.” Schmidt abandoned his narcissism momentarily. “They were attempted replicas made by the scientists and designers of the Order of the Black Sun sometime in 1943. The Babylonian Mask was acquired by the Renatus of the Order while he was deployed in the Middle East on a campaign.”

“Renatus?” Werner asked, not familiar with the rank system of the clandestine organization, as very few people were anyway.

“The leader,” Schmidt said. “Anyway, discovering what it could do, Himmler immediately ordered a dozen to be engineered in similar fashion and experimented with it in the Leonidas Squad of the KG 200. They were supposed to attack two specific units of the Red Army and infiltrate the ranks by means of assuming the identities of the Soviet soldiers.”

“These very masks?” Werner marveled.

Schmidt nodded. “Yes, all twelve of these. But it proved to be a failure. The scientists who had replicated the Babylonian Mask miscalculated or, well, I don’t know the details,” he shrugged. “The pilots instead became psychotic, suicidal and crashed their machines into various Soviet unit camps instead of performing the mission. Himmler and Hitler could not give two shits, since it was a failed operation. So the Leonidas Squad went down in history as the only Nazi kamikaze squadron ever.”

Werner took it all in, trying to formulate a way in which to escape that same fate, while deceiving Schmidt into dropping his defenses for a moment. But quite honestly, with it being two days before the plan went live, it would be nearly impossible to avert catastrophe now. He knew a Palestinian pilot in the W.U.O. flying core. If he could reach her, she could stop Himmelfarb from leaving Iraqi airspace. That would allow him to concentrate on sabotaging Schmidt on the day of the signing.

The radios crackled and a big red spot appeared on the topographical map.

“Ah! There we are!” Schmidt exclaimed happily.

“Who?” asked Werner curiously. Schmidt patted him on the back and led him to the screens.

“Us, my friend. Operation Leo 2 . You see that spot? That is the satellite lock-on of the C.I.T.E. offices in Baghdad. Confirmation for the ones I am waiting for will pinpoint the lock-on for The Hague and Berlin, respectively. Once we have all three in place, your unit will fly to the Baghdad point, while the other two units of your squadron will attack the other two cities simultaneously.”

“Oh my God,” Werner muttered, as he watched the pulsing red button. “Why those three cities? I get The Hague — the summit is supposed to be held there. And Baghdad is self-explanatory, but why Berlin? Are you priming the two countries for mutual counter attacks?”

“That is why I chose you as commander, Lieutenant. You are a strategist by nature,” Schmidt said triumphantly.

The commander’s wall mounted intercom speaker clicked and a sharp, agonizing tone of feedback ripped through the airtight bunker. Both men plugged their ears instinctively, wincing until the noise subsided.

“Captain Schmidt, this is Base Guard Kilo. There is a woman here to see you, along with her associate. Credentials say she is Miriam Inkley, British legal liaison of the W.U.O. branch in Germany,” said the voice of the gate guard.

“Now? Without an appointment?” Schmidt shouted. “Tell her to get lost. I’m busy!”

“Oh, I would not do that, sir,” Werner urged convincingly enough that Schmidt believed he was dead serious. Under his breath he advised the captain, “I heard she works for Lieutenant-General Meier. It’s probably about the murders Löwenhagen committed and the press trying to make us look bad.”

“God knows, I don’t have time for this!” he replied. “Bring them to my office!”

“Should I accompany you, sir? Or do you want me to make myself invisible?” asked Werner, scheming.

“No, you have to come with me, of course,” Schmidt snapped. He was annoyed with the interruption, but Werner remembered the name of the woman who’d helped them divert attention when they needed the police off their backs. Sam Cleave and Marduk must be here then. I must find Marlene, but how? As Werner trudged along with his commander on their way up to the office, he wracked his brain to figure out where Marlene could be held and how he could get away from Schmidt undetected.

“Hurry, Lieutenant,” Schmidt ordered. Every sign of his previous pride and cheerful anticipation had now vanished and he was back in full tyrant mode. “We don’t have time to waste.”Werner wondered if he should not just overpower the captain and raid the chamber. It would be so easy right now. They were between the bunker and the base, underground, where nobody would hear the captain’s cry for help. On the other hand, he knew by their arrival at the base that Sam Cleave’s friend was upstairs and that Marduk probably knew by now that Werner was in trouble.