Order of the Black Sun Box Set 5

by Preston William Child

“Oh great,” Sam smiled sarcastically, clearing his throat.

  Marduk paid him no attention and laid out more unwritten rules. “Once the Masker takes on the facial features of the donor, the mask can only be removed by fire. Only fire can dislodge it from the Masker’s own face.” He then added solemnly, “and that is why I had to do what I did.”

  Himmelfarb could take no more. “I am a pilot, for God’s sake. This mumbo-jumbo shit is definitely not for me. This is all too Hannibal Lecter for me. I’m out, friends.”

  “You were given a mission, Himmelfarb,” said Werner sternly, but the Corporal of the Schleswig Air Base was out no matter what the cost.

  “I am aware of that, Lieutenant!” he shouted. “And I will be sure to convey my grievance to our esteemed commander myself, so that you will not be reprimanded for my behavior.” He sighed, wiping his moist, pale brow. “I’m sorry, guys, but I cannot handle this. Good luck, really. Call me when you need an airman. That is all I am.” He left and closed the door behind him.

  “Cheers, lad,” Sam bade goodbye. He then addressed Marduk with the one vexatious question that had been hounding him since the phenomenon was first explained. “Marduk, I’m having trouble with something here. Tell me what happens if a person just puts on the mask without any dead flesh action?”

  “Nothing.”

  One cohesive chorus of disappointment ensued among the others. They had expected more far-fetched rules of the game, Marduk realized, but he was not about to make things up for entertainment. He just shrugged.

  “Nothing happens?” Kohl marveled. “You don’t die an excruciating death or asphyxiate to death? You put on the mask and nothing happens.”

  “Nothing happens, son. It is just a mask. Which is why very few people know about its sinister power,” Marduk replied.

  “What a boner killer,” Kohl complained.

  “Alright, so if you wear the mask and your face becomes someone else’s – and you don’t get set on fire by a crazy old bastard like you – do you have the other person’s face forever?” Werner asked.

  “Ah, good one!” Sam exclaimed, immersed in fascination for it all. If he were an amateur he would be chewing the end of his Biro and taking notes like mad by now, but Sam was a veteran journalist able to memorize countless facts as he listened. That, and he was secretly recording the whole conversation from the tape recorder in his pocket.

  “You go blind,” Marduk answered nonchalantly. “Then you become like a mad animal and die.”

  Again, a hiss of amazement coursed through them. Then a chuckle or two ensued. One was from Dr. Fritz. By now he had realized that trying to throw the bunch out was futile and besides, he was becoming interested now.

  “Wow, Mr. Marduk, you just seem to have a ready answer for everything, don’t you?” Dr. Fritz shook his head with an amused smirk.

  “Yes, I do, my dear doctor,” Marduk agreed. “I am almost eighty years old and have been responsible for this and other relics since I was a fifteen-year-old boy. By now I have not only familiarized myself with the rules, but regrettably seen them in action too many times.”

  Dr. Fritz suddenly felt foolish for his arrogance and his face showed it. “My apologies.”

  “I understand, Dr. Fritz. Men are always quick to dismiss what they cannot control as lunacy. But when it comes to their own absurd practices and idiotic courses of action they can throw almost any explanation at you to justify it,” the old man said with difficulty.

  The doctor could see that the restricted muscle tissue around his mouth was making it really uncomfortable for the man to continue speaking.

  “Um, is there any reason why people who keep the mask on go blind and lose their minds?” Kohl asked his first sincere question.

  “That part has remained mainly lore and myth, son,” Marduk shrugged. “I’ve seen it happen only a few times over the years. Most people who’ve used the mask for insidious purposes had no idea what would happen to them after they got their vengeance. Like every evil drive or desire attained, there is a price. But mankind never learns. Power is for gods. Humility is for men.”

  Werner had been calculating it all in his head. “Let me recap,” he said. “If you wear the mask as just a mask, it is harmless and useless.”

  “Yes,” replied Marduk, sinking his chin and blinking slowly.

  “And if you peel some skin off some dead target and put it on the inside of the mask and then put it on your face…God, I gag just saying that…your face becomes that person’s face, right?”

  “Another Brownie for Team Werner.” Sam smiled, and pointed when Marduk nodded.

  “But then you have to burn it off with fire or wear it and go blind before going crazy eventually,” Werner frowned, concentrating to get his ducks in a row.

  “Correct,” Marduk affirmed.

  Dr. Fritz had one more query. “Has anyone ever figured out how to escape any of these fates, Mr. Marduk? Has anyone ever liberated the mask without blindness or a fiery demise?”

  “Like Löwenhagen did? He actually put it back on again to take Dr. Hilt’s face and leave the hospital! How did he do that?” asked Sam.

  “The fire dislodged it the first time, Sam. He was only fortunate enough to survive. The skin is the only way to evade the fate of the Babylonian Mask,” Marduk said, sounding utterly indifferent. It had become so much a part of his existence that he had grown tired of reciting the same old facts.

  “The…the skin?” Sam cringed.

  “That is exactly what it is. It is essentially the skin of the Babylonian Mask. It must be applied to the face of the Masker in time, to dissemble the fusion of the Masker’s face and the mask. But our poor, disillusioned quarry has no idea of this. He will soon realize his mistake, if he has not already,” Marduk answered. “The blindness usually takes no more than three or four days, so wherever he is, I hope he isn’t driving.”

  “Would serve him right. Fucker!” Kohl grimaced.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Dr. Fritz said. “But gentlemen, I really do have to implore you to leave before the administrative staff catches wind of our overdrawn pleasantries here.”

  To Dr. Fritz’s relief they all agreed this time. They retrieved their coats and slowly prepared to leave the office. With nods of acknowledgement and final words of parting the Air Force pilots left, keeping Marduk in their custody for show. They elected to meet up with Sam a bit later. With this new turn of events and the much needed sorting out of confusing facts, they wanted to rethink their roles in the big scheme of things.

  Sam and Margaret met up in her hotel restaurant while Marduk and the two pilots were on their way to the Air Base to report to Schmidt. Now Werner knew that Marduk was familiar with his commander as per their earlier interview, yet he did not yet know why Schmidt would keep knowledge of the sinister mask to himself. Granted, it was a priceless artifact, but with his position in a pivotal body such as the German Luftwaffe, Werner figured there must be a more politically motivated reason behind Schmidt’s hunt for the Babylonian Mask.

  “What will you tell your commander about me?” Marduk asked the two young men he accompanied as they walked toward Werner’s Jeep.

  “I’m not sure we should tell him about you at all. From what I’m deducing here, it would be better if you help us find Löwenhagen and keep your presence a secret, Mr. Marduk. The less Captain Schmidt knows about you and your involvement, the better,” Werner said.

  “I’ll see you at the base!” Kohl hollered from four cars away, unlocking his own car.

  Werner nodded. “Remember, Marduk doesn’t exist and we could not yet find Löwenhagen, right?”

  “Got it!” Kohl approved the plan with a small salute and a boyish grin. He got in his car and drove off as the late afternoon light set the skyline of the town ablaze ahead of him. It was almost sundown and they had reached the second day of their search, still ending the day without success.

  “I suppose we’re going to have to start looking for blind airmen?” Wern
er asked quite sincerely, regardless of how ridiculous his request sounded. “It’s the third day since Löwenhagen used the mask to escape the hospital, so he should be having trouble with his eyes by now.”

  “That is correct,” Marduk replied. “If his system is strong, which it is not thanks to the fire bath I gave him, he could take longer to lose his sight. This is why the West did not understand the old ways of Mesopotamia and Babylonia and deemed us all heretics and murderous brutes. When ancient kings and chieftains burned the blind in witch-like executions, it was not out of cruelty of false accusation. Most of those instances were the direct cause of employing the Babylonian Mask for their own subterfuge.”

  “Most of those instances?” Werner asked with a raised eyebrow as he turned the Jeep’s ignition, looking suspicious of the aforementioned methods.

  Marduk shrugged, “Well, everyone makes mistakes, son. Better safe than sorry.”

  21

  The Mystery of Neumand and Löwenhagen

  Exhausted and filling with a steadily growing sense of regret, Olaf Löwenhagen sat down in a pub near Darmstadt. It had been two days since he’d deserted Nina at Frau Bauer’s house, but he could not afford to lug a partner along on such a covert assignment; especially one that had to be led around like a mule. He was hoping to use Dr. Hilt’s money to buy a meal. He also contemplated getting rid of his cell phone, just in case it was being traced. By now the authorities had to have realized that he was the one responsible for the murders at the hospital, which is why he did not commandeer Hilt’s vehicle to make his way to Captain Schmidt, who was at Schleswig Air Base at the time.

  He decided to risk using Hilt’s cell phone to make one call. This would probably land him in hot water with Schmidt as cell phone calls could be traced, but he had no other choice. With his safety compromised and his mission gone dreadfully wrong, he had to resort to more hazardous avenues of communication to establish a connection with the man who had sent him on the mission in the first place.

  “Another Pilsner, sir?” the waiter asked suddenly, jolting Löwenhagen’s heart into overdrive. He looked up at the dim-witted waiter with a voice of deep boredom.

  “Yes, thank you.” He changed his mind quickly. “Wait, no. I’ll have schnapps please. And something to eat.”

  “You have to take something from the menu, sir. Anything you like there?” the waiter asked indifferently.

  “Just bring me a seafood dish,” Löwenhagen sighed, vexed.

  The waiter scoffed and smirked, “Sir, as you can see we don’t offer seafood. Please order a dish we actually offer.”

  Had Löwenhagen not been waiting for an important meeting or had he not been weak from hunger, he may well have used the privilege of wearing Hilt’s face to bash in the skull of the sarcastic cretin. “Just bring me a steak, then. Geeeezusss! Just, I don’t know, surprise me!” the airman yelled furiously.

  “Yes, sir,” the stunned waiter replied, gathering up the menu and beer glass rapidly.

  “And don’t forget the schnapps first!” he shouted after the apron-donning idiot, who scampered towards the kitchen through the tables of staring patrons. Löwenhagen sneered at them and emitted what sounded like a low growl that crawled out from deep in his gullet. Disturbed by the dangerous looking man, some people left the establishment while the others carried on with nervous conversations.

  An attractive young waitress dared to bring him his drink as a favor to her terrified colleague. (The waiter was collecting himself in the kitchen, preparing to face the irate customer once his food was ready.) She smiled apprehensively as she set down the glass and announced, “Schnapps for you, sir.”

  “Thank you,” was all he said, to her surprise.

  Löwenhagen, twenty-seven years of age, sat contemplating his future in the cozy lighting of the pub as the sun abandoned the day outside, painting the windows in darkness. The music grew a bit louder as the evening crowd dribbled in like a reluctant leak in a ceiling. While he waited for his food, he ordered five more stiff drinks and as the soothing hell of alcohol burned inside his injured flesh he thought of how he had come to this point.

  Never in his life did he think that he would become a cold-blooded killer, a killer for profit no less, and at such a tender age. Most men devolved as they aged, becoming heartless swine for the promise of monetary gain. Not him. He had been aware as a fighter pilot that he would have to kill scores of people in combat someday, but that would be for his country.

  Defending Germany and the W.U.O.’s utopian goals for the new world was his first and foremost duty and desire. Taking lives for this purpose was par for the course, yet now he was engaging in a murderous spree to serve the wishes of a Luftwaffe commander that had nothing to do with Germany’s freedom or the world’s well-being. In fact, he was now accomplishing the contrary. It depressed him almost as much as his dwindling eye sight and increasingly challenging temperament.

  What bothered him most was the way in which Neumand had screamed when Löwenhagen set him on fire the first time. Captain Schmidt had hired Löwenhagen in what the commander had called an extremely covert operation. It had followed the recent deployment of their squadron just outside the city of Mosul, Iraq.

  From what the commander had told Löwenhagen in confidence, Flieger Neumand had been sent by Schmidt to procure an obscure and ancient relic from a private collection while they were stationed in Iraq during the last plague of bombings aimed at the W.U.O. and especially the C.I.T.E. branch there. Neumand, once a teenage offender, had the skill set needed to break into the home of the wealthy collector and steal the Babylonian Mask.

  He was given a picture of the slim, skull-like relic and with that he managed to steal the thing from the brass box it slept in. Soon after his successful plunder, Neumand returned to Germany with the prize he’d attained for Schmidt, but Schmidt did not count on the weaknesses of the men he chose to do his dirty work. Neumand was a compulsive gambler. On his first night back he took the mask with him to one of his favorite gambling haunts, a back alley dive in Dillenburg.

  Not only did he commit the most reckless of practices by carrying an invaluable, stolen artifact around with him, but he invoked the rage of Captain Schmidt by not delivering the mask as discreetly and urgently as he’d been hired to do. On learning that the squadron had returned and finding Neumand absent, Schmidt immediately contacted a fickle outcast from his previous Air Base barracks to acquire the relic from Neumand by any means necessary.

  As he sat thinking about that night, Löwenhagen felt his seething hate for Captain Schmidt spread throughout his mind. He was the cause of unnecessary casualties. He was the cause of greed-fuelled injustice. He was the reason Löwenhagen would never have his attractive features back again, and that was by far the most unforgivable crime the commander’s avarice had imposed upon Löwenhagen’s life – what was left of it.

  Hilt was handsome enough but for Löwenhagen, having lost his individuality struck deeper than any physical mutilation ever could. To add to it, his eyes had begun to fail him to such an extent that he could not even read the menu to order his food. The humiliation was almost worse than the discomfort and physical handicap. He swigged his schnapps and clicked his fingers above his head for another.

  In his head he could hear a thousand voices passing the buck to everyone else for his ill-fated choices and his own inner reason being left mute at how fast things had gone wrong. He recalled the night he had procured the mask, and how Neumand had refused to relinquish his hard earned loot. He’d followed Neumand’s trail to the gambling den under the stairs of a nightclub. There he’d bided his time, posing as just another party animal frequenting the site.

  By just after one in the morning Neumand had gambled away everything and he was now in a double or nothing challenge.

  “I’ll float you €1000 if you let me keep that mask as a surety,” Löwenhagen offered.

  “Are you kidding?” Neumand cackled in his drunken state. “This fucking thing is worth a
million times that!” He’d held up the mask for all to see, but thankfully his inebriated state made the shady company he was in doubt his sincerity on the item. Löwenhagen could not allow them to think twice about it, so he acted quickly.

  “Right then, I’ll play you for the stupid mask. At least I can get your ass back to the base.” He’d said this especially loud, hoping to convince the others that he was just trying to get the mask to get his friend to go home. It was a good thing Löwenhagen’s deceptive past had honed his skills of guile. He was extremely convincing when he ran a con, a trait that usually benefited him. Until now, when it had ultimately caused him his future.

  The mask sat in the middle of the round table, surrounded by three men. Löwenhagen could hardly object when another gambler wanted in on the action. The man was a local biker, a mere foot soldier in his chapter, but it would have been suspicious to deny him access to a poker game in a public dump known to local low lives everywhere.

  Even with his cheating skills, Löwenhagen found that he could not swindle the mask from the stranger sporting the black and white the Gremium emblem on his leather cut-off.

  “Black seven rules, motherfuckers!” the big biker bellowed when Löwenhagen folded and Neumand’s hand yielded an impotent three-of-a-kind of jacks. Neumand was too drunk to make an effort to get back the mask, although he was clearly devastated by the loss.

  “Oh Jesus! Oh sweet Jesus, he is going to kill me! He is going to kill me!” was all Neumand could utter with his hands cradling his bowed head. He sat there moaning until the next group who wanted the table told him to piss off or end up in the pot. Neumand walked away, mumbling to himself like a lunatic, but again it was written off as a drunken stupor and those he shouldered out of his way took it just that way. Löwenhagen followed Neumand, having no idea of the esoteric nature of the relic the biker was swinging in his hand somewhere ahead. The biker stopped for a while, bragging to a bunch of girls that the skull mask was going to look wicked under his German army styled piss pot helmet. Soon he realized that Neumand was, in fact, following the biker into a shadowy concrete pit where a row of motorcycles gleamed in the pale rays of the lights that did not quite reach to the parking area.