Order of the Black Sun Box Set 5

by Preston William Child

“What? Professor Sloane?” Werner gasped.

  Schmidt affirmed the news by sliding the tip of his thumb along his own throat. He laughed proudly and sat down behind his desk. “So, Lieutenant Werner, can we – can Marlene – count on you?

  25

  Nina’s Trip to Babel

  When Nina woke up from a feverish and painful slumber, she found that she was in a very different kind of hospital. Her bed, although adjustable in the same way as hospital beds, was cozy and decked with winter linen. It sported some her favorite design motifs in chocolate, brown, and tan. The walls were decorated with old art in Da Vinci’s style and there were no reminders of drips, syringes, bed pans or any other humiliating devices Nina had loathed in her hospital room.

  There was a bell button she was forced to push, because she was parched beyond comprehension and could not reach the water next to her bed. Maybe she could, but her skin was aching like brain-freeze and lightning, discouraging her from the task. A mere moment after she rang the bell an exotic-looking nurse in casual clothes entered through the door.

  “Hello Dr. Gould,” she greeted cheerfully in a subdued voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel terrible. S-so thir-sty,” Nina forced. She did not even realize that she could see well enough again until she had gulped down half a tall glass of fortified water. When she had drunk her fill, Nina laid back on the soft, warm bed and looked about the room, finally laying her eyes on the smiling nurse.

  “I can see almost completely right again,” Nina mumbled. She would have smiled if she hadn’t been so confused. “Um, where am I? You don’t sound – or look – German at all.”

  The nurse laughed. “No, Dr. Gould. I’m from Jamaica, but I live here in Kirkwall as a full time caregiver. I was hired to look after you for the foreseeable future, but there is a doctor working very hard with his fellows to cure you.”

  “They can’t. Tell them to give it up,” Nina said in a distraught tone. “I have cancer. They told me in Mannheim when the Heidelberg Hospital sent my results through.”

  “Well, I am not a doctor, so I cannot tell you anything you do not already know. But what I can tell you is that some scientists do not declare their findings or patent their cures for fear of a boycott by drug companies. That is all I will say until you have spoken to Dr. Cait,” the nurse advised.

  “Dr. Cait? Is this his hospital?” Nina asked.

  “No, madam. Dr. Cait is a medical scientist who was hired to concentrate exclusively on your illness. And this is a small clinic on the coast of Kirkwall. It is owned by Scorpio Majorus Holdings, situated in Edinburgh. Only a few know about it.” she smiled at Nina. “Now let me just take your vitals and see if we can make you more comfortable and then…would you like to have something to eat? Or is the nausea still persistent?”

  “No,” Nina answered quickly, but then exhaled and smiled at the welcome discovery. “No, I am by no means nauseous. In fact, I’m famished.” Nina laughed in a crooked way as not to aggravate the agony behind her diaphragm and between her lungs. “Tell me, how did I get here?”

  “Mr. David Purdue had you flown here from Germany so that you could get specialized treatment in a safe environment,” the nurse informed Nina, as she checked her eyes with a pen light. Nina lightly grabbed the nurse’s wrist.

  “Wait, is Purdue here?” she asked, slightly unsettled.

  “No, madam. He asked me to convey his apologies to you. Probably for not being here for you,” the nurse told Nina.Yeah, probably for trying to cut my fucking head off in the dark, thought Nina to herself.

  “But he had to join Mr. Cleave in Germany for some sort of consortium meeting, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with just us for now, your small team of health professionals,” chimed the thin, dark-skinned nurse. Nina was fascinated by her beautiful complexion and wonderfully unique accent, halfway between a London noblewoman and a Rasta. “Mr. Cleave is apparently coming to see you in the next three days, so that is at least one familiar face to look forward to, right?”

  “Aye, it sure is,” Nina nodded, satisfied with that news at least.

  The next day Nina felt decidedly better, although her eyes were not owl strength yet. Her skin was practically void of any burn or pain and she was breathing easier. She’d had a fever only once the day before, but it quickly subsided after she was given a light, green liquid that Dr. Cait jested was something they used on The Hulk before he became famous. Nina thoroughly enjoyed the humor and professionalism of the team, balancing positivity and medical science perfectly to benefit her well-being as much as possible.

  “So, is it true what they say about steroids?” Sam smiled from the doorway.

  “Aye, it’s true. All of it. You should see how my balls have shriveled to raisins!” she jested with a matching look of amazement that had Sam laughing heartily.

  Reluctant to touch her and ignite her pain, he just kissed her softly on her crown, smelling the fresh shampoo in her hair. “It is so good to see you, love,” he whispered. “And those cheeks are flushing too. Now we just have to wait for a wet nose and you’ll be ready to go.”

  Nina laughed with difficulty, but her smile persisted. Sam held her hand and looked around the room. There was a large bouquet of her favorite flowers with a big emerald-green ribbon around it. Sam found it quite striking.

  “They tell me that is just part of the décor, changing the flowers every week and so on,” Nina remarked, “but I know they are from Purdue.”

  Sam did not want to rock the boat between Nina and Purdue, especially while she still needed the treatment only Purdue could get her. On the other hand, he knew that Purdue had had no control over what he’d tried to do to Nina in those pitch-black tunnels under Chernobyl. “Well, I tried to bring you some hooch, but your staff confiscated it,” he shrugged. “Bloody drunkards, the lot of them. Watch out for the sexy nurse. She shakes when she drinks.”

  Nina chuckled with Sam, but she figured he had heard about her cancer and that he was desperately trying to cheer her up with an overdose of pointless silliness. Since she did not wish to participate in this painful circumstance, she changed the subject.

  “What is going on in Germany?” she asked.

  “Funny that you should ask that, Nina,” he cleared his throat and pulled his recorder from his pocket.

  “Ooh, audio porn?” she joked.

  Sam felt guilty about his motives, but he put on his pity face and explained, “We actually need some help with a bit of background on a suicidal Nazi squadron that apparently destroyed several bridges…”

  “Aye, KG 200,” she chipped in before he could carry on. “They reputedly wiped out seventeen bridges to prevent the Soviet forces from crossing. But that is mostly speculation, according to my sources. I only know about KG 200 because I wrote a dissertation on the influence of psychological patriotism on suicide missions in my second year post-grad.”

  “What is KG 200 exactly?” Sam asked.

  “Kampfgeschwader 200,” she said a bit weakly, gesturing for some fruit juice behind Sam on the table. He passed her the glass and she took minute sips through a straw. “They were designated to man a bomb…” she tried to recollect the name with her eyes to the ceiling, “…called, um, I think…Reichenberg, as far as I remember. But they were known as the Leonidas Squadron later on. Why? They’re all dead and gone.”

  “Aye, that’s true, but you know how we seem to run into things that are supposed to be dead and gone all the time,” he reminded Nina. She could not argue that point. If anything, she knew as well as Sam and Purdue that the old world and its wizards were alive and well in the modern establishment.

  “Please Sam, don’t tell me we’re up against a World War II suicide squad still flying their Focke-Wulfs above Berlin,” she exclaimed, inhaling and closed her eyes in mock apprehension.

  “Um, no,” he started to ease her into the insane facts of latter days, “but remember that pilot who escaped with from the hospital?”

  “Yes,” she
replied with a curious tone.

  “What did he look like, you know, while the two of you were making your journey?” asked Sam so that he could ascertain just how far back to go before he started filling her in on everything that was going on.

  “I couldn’t see him. At first, when the cops called him Dr. Hilt, I thought it was that monster, you know, the one who was chasing my roomie. But I realized it was just the poor lad who got burned, probably having disguised himself as the dead doctor,” she explained to Sam.

  He drew a deep breath and wished he could suck on a smoke before telling Nina that she was, in fact, travelling with a shape-shifting killer who only spared her because she was blind as a bat and could not point him out.

  “Did he say anything about a mask?” Sam wanted to treaded softly around the subject, hoping that she at least knew about the Babylonian Mask. But he was quite certain that Löwenhagen would not have shared such a secret randomly.

  “A what? A mask? Like his mask that they put on him to avoid his tissue from becoming infected?” she asked.

  “No, love,” Sam replied, preparing to spill the beans on what they were involved in. “An ancient relic. The Babylonian Mask. Did he mention that at all?”

  “No, he never mentioned anything about any other mask than the one they put on his face after applying the anti-biotic ointment,” Nina clarified, but her frown deepened. “For Christ’s sake! Are you going to tell me what this is about or not? Stop asking questions and finish playing the thing in your hand so I can hear what how deep we’re in shit again.”

  “I love you, Nina,” Sam chuckled. She had to be healing. That kind of wit belonged to the healthy, sexy, angry historian he so adored. “Alright, first off, let me just tell you the names of the men these voices belong to and what their parts in this are.”

  “Okay, go,” she said, looking focused.“Oh, God, this is going to be a brain wrecker, so just ask if there is something you don’t understand…”

  “Sam!” she growled.

  “Alright. Brace yourself. Welcome to Babel.”

  26

  Gallery Of Faces

  Under the meager lights with dead moths in the bellies of their thick glass shades Lieutenant Dieter Werner accompanied Captain Schmidt to where he would be debriefed on the happenings of the next two days. The day of the signing of the treaty, the 31st October, was upon them and Schmidt’s plan was almost due to come to fruition.

  He had informed his squad of the rendezvous point to ready for the onslaught he was the architect of – an underground bunker once used by the SS in the area to accommodate their families during Allied bombings. He was about to show his chosen commander the hot point from where he would facilitate the attack.

  Werner had not had any word from his beloved Marlene since that hysterical call from her that had revealed the factions and their participants. His cell phone had been confiscated to prevent him from alerting anyone, and he had been under the strict supervision of Schmidt around the clock.

  “Not too far now,” Schmidt told him eagerly, as they took the umpteenth turn down a small corridor that looked the same as all the others. Still, Werner tried to find identifying features where he could. Finally they came to a safe door with a digital keypad security system. Schmidt’s fingers were too quick for Werner to memorize the code. Within moments he thick steel door had unlocked with a deafening clang and opened.

  “Come in, Lieutenant,” Schmidt invited.

  As the door closed behind them, Schmidt switched on the bright, white overhead lights from a lever against the wall. The lights flickered rapidly a few times before staying on and revealing the interior of the bunker. Werner was astonished.

  Communication devices lined the corners of the chamber. Red and green digital numbers flashed monotonously on the panels, in between two flat computer screens with one keyboard between them. Upon the right screen Werner saw the topographical rendition of the strike zone, the C.I.T.E. headquarters in Mosul, Iraq. Left of that screen was an identical monitor with satellite surveillance.

  But it was the rest of the room that told Werner that Schmidt was dead serious.

  “I knew that you knew about the Babylonian Mask and its makings before you even came to report to me, so that spares me all the time it would have taken to explain and describe all the “magical powers” it possesses,” Schmidt boasted. “I know by some reach of cellular science that the workings of the mask is in fact not magical, but I’m not interested in how it works – just that it does.”

  “Where is it?” asked Werner, pretending to be psyched up by the relic. “I’ve never seen it? Will I be wearing it?”

  “No, my friend,” Schmidt smiled. “I will.”

  “As who? With Prof. Sloane dead you’ll have no reason to assume the face of anyone involved with the treaty.”

  “It’s none of your concern who I will be impersonating,” Schmidt responded.

  “But you know what will happen,” said Werner, hoping to discourage Schmidt so that he could get his hands on the mask himself and get it to Marduk. But Schmidt had other plans.

  “I do, but there is something that can remove the mask without incident. It is called The Skin. Regrettably, Neumand did not bother to lift this very important accessory when he stole the mask, the idiot! So I’ve sent Himmelfarb to breach air space and land on the secret strip eleven clicks north past Nineveh. He’s to procure the Skin within the next two days so that I can remove the mask before…” he shrugged, “the inevitable.”

  “And if he fails?” asked Werner, amazed at the risk Schmidt was taking.

  “He will not fail. He has the coordinates of the location and…”

  “Excuse me, Captain, but did it occur to you that Himmelfarb could turn on you? He knows the worth of the Babylonian Mask. Aren’t you afraid that he will kill you for it?” asked Werner.

  Schmidt switched on the opposite light from the side of the room where they stood. In its glare Werner was met with a wall full of identical masks. Turning the bunker into what looked like a catacomb, the wall of masks hung in their skull-shaped likenesses.

  “Himmelfarb has no idea which one of these is the real one, but I do. He knows that he cannot claim the mask unless he takes his chances while applying the skin to my face to remove it, and to ensure her performs I’ll have a gun to his son’s head all the way in Berlin.” Schmidt grinned as he admired the pieces on the wall.

  “You made all these to confuse anyone trying to steal the mask from you? Genius!” Werner remarked sincerely. With his arms folded across his chest he slowly walked along the wall, trying to find any discrepancy between them, but it was practically impossible.

  “Oh, I did not make them, Dieter.” Schmidt abandoned his narcissism momentarily. “They were attempted replicas made by the scientists and designers of the Order of the Black Sun sometime in 1943. The Babylonian Mask was acquired by the Renatus of the Order while he was deployed in the Middle East on a campaign.”

  “Renatus?” Werner asked, not familiar with the rank system of the clandestine organization, as very few people were anyway.

  “The leader,” Schmidt said. “Anyway, discovering what it could do, Himmler immediately ordered a dozen to be engineered in similar fashion and experimented with it in the Leonidas Squad of the KG 200. They were supposed to attack two specific units of the Red Army and infiltrate the ranks by means of assuming the identities of the Soviet soldiers.”

  “These very masks?” Werner marveled.

  Schmidt nodded. “Yes, all twelve of these. But it proved to be a failure. The scientists who had replicated the Babylonian Mask miscalculated or, well, I don’t know the details,” he shrugged. “The pilots instead became psychotic, suicidal and crashed their machines into various Soviet unit camps instead of performing the mission. Himmler and Hitler could not give two shits, since it was a failed operation. So the Leonidas Squad went down in history as the only Nazi kamikaze squadron ever.”

  Werner took it all in, trying t
o formulate a way in which to escape that same fate, while deceiving Schmidt into dropping his defenses for a moment. But quite honestly, with it being two days before the plan went live, it would be nearly impossible to avert catastrophe now. He knew a Palestinian pilot in the W.U.O. flying core. If he could reach her, she could stop Himmelfarb from leaving Iraqi airspace. That would allow him to concentrate on sabotaging Schmidt on the day of the signing.

  The radios crackled and a big red spot appeared on the topographical map.

  “Ah! There we are!” Schmidt exclaimed happily.

  “Who?” asked Werner curiously. Schmidt patted him on the back and led him to the screens.

  “Us, my friend. Operation Leo 2. You see that spot? That is the satellite lock-on of the C.I.T.E. offices in Baghdad. Confirmation for the ones I am waiting for will pinpoint the lock-on for The Hague and Berlin, respectively. Once we have all three in place, your unit will fly to the Baghdad point, while the other two units of your squadron will attack the other two cities simultaneously.”

  “Oh my God,” Werner muttered, as he watched the pulsing red button. “Why those three cities? I get The Hague – the summit is supposed to be held there. And Baghdad is self-explanatory, but why Berlin? Are you priming the two countries for mutual counter attacks?”

  “That is why I chose you as commander, Lieutenant. You are a strategist by nature,” Schmidt said triumphantly.

  The commander’s wall mounted intercom speaker clicked and a sharp, agonizing tone of feedback ripped through the airtight bunker. Both men plugged their ears instinctively, wincing until the noise subsided.

  “Captain Schmidt, this is Base Guard Kilo. There is a woman here to see you, along with her associate. Credentials say she is Miriam Inkley, British legal liaison of the W.U.O. branch in Germany,” said the voice of the gate guard.

  “Now? Without an appointment?” Schmidt shouted. “Tell her to get lost. I’m busy!”