Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

Marduk looked shocked. He’d never intended for his actions to lead to the lovely lady’s death, but now it had become a reality. His hand covered the bottom half of his face as he listened to Margaret screaming in the background.

“Are you watching from a safe distance?” Sam provoked Schmidt. “Because if you are anywhere within my reach I will not do you the pleasure of sending a bullet through your thick Nazi skull.”

Schmidt laughed with arrogant exhilaration. “What are you going to do, paper boy? Write an article to voice your discontent, slandering the Luftwaffe.”

“Close,” Sam replied. His dark eyes met with Purdue’s. Without a word, the billionaire understood. With his tablet in his hand, he silently punched in a security code and proceeded to check the global positioning system of Margaret’s phone while Sam jousted with the commander. “I will do what I do best. I will expose you. More than anyone else you will be unmasked for the depraved, power-hungry wannabe you are. You will never be Meier, pal. The Lieutenant-General is the leader of the Luftwaffe and his reputation will serve the high opinion the world will have of Germany’s armed forces, not some impotent doormat who thinks he can manipulate the world.”

Purdue smiled. Sam knew he had located the callous commander.

“Sloane is signing that treaty as we speak, so your efforts are pointless. Even if you killed everyone you are holding, it would not change the edict from coming into effect before you even raise your gun,” Sam pestered Schmidt, secretly hoping to God that Margaret would not pay for his insolence.

Terrified, Margaret watched as her friend, Sam Cleave, infuriated her captor. She was tied to a chair and still lightheaded from the drugs he’d used to subjugate her. Margaret had no idea where she was, but from the little German she understood, she was not the only hostage kept here. Next to her was a heap of technological devices Schmidt had confiscated from his other hostages. While the corrupt commander pranced around arguing, Margaret put her childhood tricks to use.

When she was a little girl in Glasgow she used to freak the other children out by dislocating her fingers and shoulders for their entertainment. Since then, of course, she’d suffered some arthritis in her major joints, but she was pretty sure she could still manipulate the joints in her fingers. A few minutes before he’d called Sam Cleave, Schmidt had sent Himmelfarb to check on the trunk they brought with them. They’d salvaged it from the air base bunker, which had been all but destroyed by the intruders. He did not see Margaret’s left hand slip from her handcuff and reach for the cell phone that had belonged to Werner while he’d been in captivity at Büchel’s air base.

Stretching her neck to see, she extended her arm to take the phone, but it was just out of reach. Trying not to screw up her only opportunity for communication, Margaret nudged her chair every time Schmidt laughed. Soon she was so close that her fingertips almost touched the plastic and rubber of the phone cover.

Schmidt had finished stating his ultimatum to Sam and now all he had to do was watch the ongoing speeches before the signing of the treaty. He checked his watch, seemingly unconcerned about Margaret, now that she had been presented as leverage.

“Himmelfarb!” Schmidt shouted. “Bring the men in. Our time is short.”

Six pilots, dressed and ready for deployment, came marching into the room in silence. Schmidt had his monitors displaying the same topographical maps as before, but since the destruction had Marduk left in the bunker, Schmidt had to make do with just the basics.

“Sir!” Himmelfarb and the other pilots exclaimed as they filed between Schmidt and Margaret.

“We have little to no time to blow up the German air bases marked off here,” Schmidt said. “The signing of the treaty appears to be inevitable, but we shall see how long they maintain their agreement once our squadron of Operation Leo 2, blows up the W.U.O. HQ in Baghdad and the palace in Susa simultaneously.”

He nodded to Himmelfarb, who retrieved the defective duplicate masks of the Second World War from the trunk. One by one, he gave each of the men a mask.

“Now, here on this tray we have the preserved tissue of a failed airman, Olaf Löwenhagen. One sample per man to be placed inside each mask,” he ordered. Like machines, the uniformly dressed pilots did as he said. Schmidt checked how each man obliged before giving his next order. “Now remember, your fellow airmen at Büchel have already embarked on their mission to Iraq, so Operation Leo 2’s first phase is complete. It is your duty to fulfill the second phase.”

He flicked through the screens, bringing up the live broadcast of the Susa signing. “Right, sons of Germany, put on your masks and wait for my order. The moment it happens live on my screen here, I will know that our boys have bombed our targets in Susa and Baghdad. I’ll then give you the order and activate Phase 2 — the destruction of Air Bases Büchel, Norvenich and Schleswig. You all know your designated targets.”

“Yes, sir!” they answered in unison.

“Good, good. The next time I intend to assassinate an opinionated slag like Sloane, I will have to do it myself. Today’s so-called snipers are a disgrace,” Schmidt complained as he watched the pilots leave the room. They were on their way to a makeshift hangar, where they’d been concealing decommissioned flying machines from the various air bases Schmidt presided over.

On the outside of a hangar, a figure was cowering under the shade roofs of the parking area situated outside the giant discontinued factory yard on the outskirts of Berlin. He was briskly moving from one building to another, disappearing into each to see if there was any occupancy. He had reached the next-to-last working levels of the decrepit steel factory, when he saw several pilots emerge on their way to the only structure that stood out in the background of rusted steel and old, red-brown brick walls. It was odd and out of place thanks to the silver glimmer of the new steel material it had been erected with.

Lieutenant Werner held his breath as he watched half a dozen Löwenhagen’s discuss among themselves the mission that would commence within minutes. He knew this was the mission Schmidt had chosen him for — a suicide mission in the vein of the Leonidas Squadron of WWII. When they mentioned the others going for Baghdad, Werner’s heart stopped. He rushed to a place where he hoped nobody could hear him and made a call, checking his surroundings the entire time.

“Hello, Sam?”

Inside the office, Margaret pretended to be asleep while trying to ascertain if the treaty had been signed yet. She had to, because according to previous narrow escapes and experience with military villains during her career, she’d learned that once a deal is made anywhere, people start dying. It was not called ‘tying up loose ends’ for nothing and she knew it. Margaret wondered how she could possibly defend herself against a career soldier and military leader with one hand tied behind her back — literally .

Schmidt was fuming, tapping his boot incessantly as he waited in agitation for his explosion to take place. Again he lifted his watch. Ten more minutes, according to his last estimation. He thought how brilliant it would have been if he could see the palace explode onto the high commission of the W.U.O. and the Sultan of Meso-Arabia just before sending out his local imps to implement the supposed revenge bombing of the Luftwaffe air bases by the enemy. The captain watched the proceedings, breathing hard and uttering his disdain with every passing moment.