Preston Child - The Babylonian Mask

“Look at that bitch!” he sneered, as they showed Sloane declining her speech as the same message slid from right to left across the CNN screen. “I want my mask! The moment I have it back I will become you, Meier!” Margaret looked for the 16th Inspector or commander of the German Air Force, but he was absent — at least from the office she was being kept.

At once she noticed movement in the hallway outside the door. Her eyes widened abruptly when she recognized the lieutenant. He was gesturing for her to hush and keep playing possum. Schmidt had something to say for every image he saw on the live news feed.

“Enjoy your last moments. Once Meier has claimed responsibility for the Iraqi bombings, I will discard his likeness. Then we’ll see how much you can do with that ink-made wet dream of yours!” he cackled. As long as he went off on his rants he would not pay attention to the lieutenant sneaking in to overpower him. Werner crept along the wall where there was still some shadow cover, but he had a good six meters to go in white luminescent light before he could get to Schmidt.

Margaret thought to lend a hand. Pushing hard to the side, she suddenly toppled over and fell hard on her arm and hip. She let out a horrifying cry that gave Schmidt a serious start.

“Jesus! What are you doing?” he yelled at Margaret, about to put his boot to her chest. But he was not fast enough to avert the body propelling toward him and ramming him into the stacked table behind him. Werner slammed against the captain, instantly thrusting his fist into Schmidt’s Adam’s apple. The malicious commander tried to stay coherent, but Werner was taking no chances with how tough the veteran officer was.

Another swift blow to the temple with the butt of his gun finished the job and the captain fell limply to the floor. By the time Werner had disarmed the commander, Margaret was up on her feet, struggling to remove the chair leg from between her body and her arm. He rushed to help her.

“Thank God you’re here, Lieutenant!” she gasped heavily as he freed her. “Marlene is in the Men’s Room, tied to the radiator. They drugged her with chloroform, so she is not going to be able to run with us.”

“Really?” his face lit up. “She is alive, and okay?”

Margaret nodded.

Werner looked around. “After we tie this swine up, I’ll need you to come with me as quickly as you can,” he told her.

“To get Marlene?” she asked.

“No, to sabotage the hangar so that Schmidt cannot send his wasps to sting anymore,” he replied. “They’re just waiting for the order. But without fighter jets they can do absolutely fuck-all, can they?”

Margaret smiled. “If we survive this, can I quote you for the Edinburgh Post?”

“If you help me, you get an exclusive interview of this whole debacle,” he grinned.

When Nina laid her moist hand on the decree, it occurred her just what an impact her scribble on this piece of modest paper was about to make. Her heart skipped a beat as she looked up at the Sultan one last time before putting her autograph on the line. In a split second of meeting his black eyed gaze she felt his genuine amity and honest kindness.

“Go on, Professor,” he encouraged her with a slow blink of reassurance.

Nina had to pretend that she was just busy practicing the signature again, otherwise she would be too nervous to do it correctly. As the ballpoint slid under her guidance, Nina felt her heart race. Just for her, they waited. The whole world held their breath just for her to finish signing. There would never be a greater honor in the world for her, even if this moment was begotten in deceit.

The moment she gracefully placed the point of the pen on the final dot in the autograph, the world applauded. Those in attendance cheered and rose to their feet. At the same time, millions of people watching via the direct feed prayed that nothing bad would happen. Nina looked up at the sixty-three-year-old Sultan. He shook her hand gently while staring deep into her eyes.

“Whoever you are,” he said, “thank you for doing this.”

“How do you mean? You know who I am,” Nina asked with a refined smile, while actually being quite terrified of discovery. “I’m Professor Sloane.”

“No, you are not. Professor Sloane had very dark blue eyes. But you have beautiful Arabian eyes, like the onyx in my royal ring. It’s as if someone caught a pair of tiger eyes and put them in your face.” Wrinkles formed around his eyes and his beard could not smother his smile.

“Please, Your Grace…” she implored, keeping her pose for the sake of the onlookers.

“Whoever you are,” he spoke over her, “the mask you wear to me does not matter. It is not our masks that define us, but what we do with them. To me, it is what you did here that matters, you see?”

Nina swallowed hard. She wanted to cry, but it would tarnish Sloane’s image. The Sultan led her to the podium with him and whispered in her ear, “Remember, my dear, what matters most is what we represent, not what we resemble.”

During the standing ovation that lasted well over ten minutes Nina fought to keep upright, holding firmly onto the grip of the Sultan. She stepped up to the microphone where she had earlier declined to give a speech and everything died down gradually to a sporadic cheer or clapping. Until she started speaking. Nina kept her voice hoarse enough to remain mysterious, but she had to make the announcement. It had occurred to her that she only had mere hours to wear someone else’s face and do something useful with it. There was little to say, but she smiled and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests and all of our friends throughout the world. My illness is impeding my voice and speech, so I shall make this quick. Due to my dwindling health issues, I would like to publicly step down…”

A grand bustle ensued throughout the makeshift auditorium in the Susa Palace from astonished spectators, but they all respected the leader’s decision. She’d led her organization and most of the modern world into an era of better technology, efficiency, and discipline, without the robbing of individuality or judgment. For that she was revered, no matter what she elected to do with her career.

“…but, I am sure all my efforts will be flawlessly advanced by my successor and new commissioner of the W.U.O., Dr. Lisa Gordon. It has been a pleasure to serve the people…” Nina continued to end the announcement while Marduk waited in the change room for her.

“My goodness, Dr. Gould, you are quite the diplomat yourself,” he remarked as he watched her. Sam and Purdue had left in a hurry after receiving a frantic phone call from Werner.

Werner had sent Sam a text with details on the incoming threat. With Purdue in tail, they’d rushed to the Royal Guard and showed their clearance identification to have a word with the Meso-Arabian wing commander, Lieutenant Jenzebel Abdi.

“Madam, we have urgent intel from a friend of yours, Lieutenant Dieter Werner,” Sam told the striking woman in her late thirties.

“Oh Ditti,” she nodded lazily, not looking too impressed with the two mad Scots.

“He asked to give you this code. An unauthorized deployment of German fighter jets are based about twenty klicks outside the city of Susa and fifty klicks outside Baghdad!” Sam spilled it like an eager schoolboy with an urgent message for the principal. “They are on a suicide mission to destroy the C.I.T.E. headquarters and this palace under the command of Captain Gerhard Schmidt.”

Lieutenant Abdi immediately shouted orders to her men and commanded her wingmen to join her in the covert desert compound to get ready for an air attack. She checked the code Werner sent and nodded in acknowledgment of his warning. “Schmidt, huh?” she sneered. “I hate that fucking Kraut. I hope Werner rips his balls off.” She shook Purdue and Sam’s hands, “I have to get suited. Thank you for warning us.”