Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

“Thank you so much, Purdue,” Sam said, looking exhausted, but grateful.

“No problem, Sam. Give the Fury a kiss for me and try not to get your eyes scratched out.” Purdue smiled as Sam chuckled mockingly back at him before disappearing in a blink of blackness. Purdue was still smiling well after the screen had gone blank.

Even though the media broadcasting satellites were mostly dysfunctional across the board, there were still some radio signals and internet sites that had managed to infect the world with the plague of uncertainty and exaggeration. On the remaining social media profiles that could not yet be locked, people conveyed the panic of the current political climate, along with the reports of assassinations and threats of World War III.

By the corruption of servers in the major centers of the planet, people everywhere naturally came to the worst conclusions. According to some, the internet was under assault by a mighty faction of everything from aliens about to invade earth to the Second Coming. Some of the more dimwitted thought that the FBI was responsible, somehow deeming it more helpful to national intelligence to ‘make the internet crash’. And so every country’s citizens took to all that was left to show their discontent — the streets.

Major cities were inundated with riots, and mayoral offices had to account for the communication embargo, which they could not. At the top of the W.U.O. tower in London, a distraught Lisa looked down on a bustling city full of discord. Lisa Gordon was second in command of the organization that had recently lost its leader.

“My God, just look at that,” she said to her personal assistant as she leaned against the window pane of her 22nd Floor office. “Human beings are worse than wild animals as soon as they have no leaders, no teachers, nor any emissary with authority. Have you noticed?”

She watched the looting from a safe distance, but still wished she could talk sense into them all. “Once the order and leadership of countries falters even slightly, citizens think that destruction is the only alternative. I’ve never been able to understand that. There are just too many different ideologies begotten by fools and tyrants.” She shook her head. “We’re all speaking different languages while at the same time trying to live together. God help us. This is Babel all over.”

“Dr. Gordon, the Meso-Arabian Consulate is on Line 4. They need confirmation for Professor Sloane’s appointment at the Sultan’s palace in Susa tomorrow,” the personal assistant said. “Shall I still use the excuse that she is ill?”

Lisa turned to face her assistant. “Now I know why Marta used to bemoan having to make all the decisions. Tell them she will be there. I’m not shooting this hard-earned endeavor in the foot yet. Even if I have to go there myself and beg for peace, I will not let this pass because of terrorism.”

“Dr. Gordon, there is a gentleman on your main line. He has a very important proposal for us regarding the peace treaty,” the receptionist said, peeking around the door.

“Hayley, you know we do not take calls from the public here,” Lisa reprimanded.

“He says his name is David Purdue,” the receptionist added reluctantly.

Lisa swung around. “Put him through to my desk immediately, please.”

After hearing Purdue’s suggestion that they use an impostor to take the place of Prof. Sloane, Lisa was more than a little taken aback. Of course, he had not included the ludicrous use of a mask to assume the woman’s face. That would have been a tad too macabre. Still, the suggestion of a changeling rattled the sensibilities of Lisa Gordon.

“Mr. Purdue, much as we at the W.U.O. Britain appreciate your ongoing generosity toward our organization, you have to understand that such an act would be fraudulent and unethical. And as I am sure you understand, those are the very methods we oppose. It would make hypocrites of us.”

“I do, of course,” Purdue replied. “But think about it, Dr. Gordon. How far would you bend the rules to achieve peace? Here we have a sickly woman — and have you not been using illness as a scapegoat to avert confirmation of Marta’s death? And this lady, who has an uncanny resemblance to Marta, is offering to mislead the right people for but a moment in history to establish your organization within its chapters.”

“I–I w-would have to…think about it, Mr. Purdue,” she stammered, still unable to make up her mind.

“You had better hurry, Dr. Gordon,” Purdue reminded her. “The signing is tomorrow, in another country, and time is running out.”

“I shall contact you as soon as I have spoken to our advisers,” she told Purdue. Internally, Lisa knew it was the best solution; no, the only one. The alternative would just be far too costly and she had to forcefully weigh her morals against the greater good of all. It was really no contest. At the same time, if she were to be discovered plotting such deception, Lisa knew she would be held accountable and probably indicted for treason. Forgery was one thing, but to be a knowledgeable accessory to such a political travesty — they would have her tried for nothing short of a public execution.

“Are you still there, Mr. Purdue?” she cried out suddenly, looking at her desk phone system as if it displayed his face.

“I am. Shall I make the arrangements?” he asked cordially.

“Yes,” she affirmed firmly. “And this must never, ever surface, do you understand?”

“My dear Dr. Gordon. I thought you knew me better than that,” Purdue replied. “I will send Dr. Nina Gould and a body guard to Susa on my private jet. My pilots will use W.U.O. clearance under the assumption that the occupant is indeed Prof. Sloane.”

After they ended the call, Lisa found her demeanor somewhere between relieved and terrified. She paced around her office with her shoulders hunched and her arms folded tightly, contemplating what she had just agreed to. Mentally she was checking all her bases, making sure each was covered with a plausible excuse in case the charade came to light. For the first time was happy about the media delays and persisting blackouts, having no idea that she was in cahoots with the people responsible.

Lieutenant Dieter Werner was relieved, apprehensive, but nonetheless elated. He’d contacted Sam Cleave from a prepaid phone he’d acquired while on the run from the air base, marked as deserter by Schmidt. Sam had given him the coordinates of Marlene’s last call and he was hoping she was still there.

“Berlin? Thank you so much, Sam!” said Werner, standing in the cold Mannheim night, away from the earshot of the people at the gas station where he was filling up his brother’s car. He’d asked his brother to lend him his vehicle, as the military police would be looking for his issue Jeep since he’d escaped Schmidt’s clutches.

“Call me the moment you find her, Dieter,” Sam said. “I hope she is alive and well.”

“I will, I promise. And tell Purdue a million thanks for tracing her,” he told Sam just before he hung up the call.

Still, Werner could not believe Marduk’s deceit. He was upset with himself for even thinking he could trust the very man who had deceived him when he’d interviewed him at the hospital.

But for now he had to drive like hell to get to a factory called Kleinschaft Inc. on the outskirts of Berlin where his Marlene had been held. With every mile he drove, he prayed that she would be unharmed, or at the very least, alive. The holster on his hip held his private firearm, a Makarov he’d received as a gift from his brother on his twenty-fifth birthday. He was ready for Himmelfarb, if the coward still had the gall to stand and fight when he was up against a real soldier.