The Babylonian Mask

Chapter 34 — Margaret’s Risky Scoop

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.

“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.