Paul Ahnert
A Grift From the Heart
1498 words

A GRIFT FROM THE HEART

“What is the status of the expedition?” Thirteen men gathered around a long table in a sub-basement of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse near the waterfront. It was the only building in the vicinity with a basement, even though the “official” blueprints of the structure showed no subterranean chambers. To outside eyes, the warehouse was a dilapidated deathtrap marked for demolition. To the thirteen men around the table, the very well appointed underground rooms were the perfect subterfuge for their clandestine meetings and grandiose plans. The man known simply as Mordechai stood at the head of the table, dressed in a hooded cloak wearing a wolf mask. Eleven other men, also hooded and masked as various animals, awaited the response from the man they called Belshazzar.

“We have divers searching around the clock, so if it is down there, we’ll find it”, came the muffled voice of Belshazzar, from behind a tiger mask. “Excellent!”, Mordecai intoned, placing his palms flat on the table and scanning the room as each member nodded his masked head in agreement. Most members chose feline or canid themed masks, however, mixed in were one wolverine, one mouse and one, to Mordechai’s chagrin, ridiculous looking elephant, complete with a rubber trunk.

The expedition of which Belshazzar spoke was a deep dive search for a cave entrance in a newly discovered lake in Antarctica. Long suspected of concealing dark secrets of the earth’s past, not to mention a secret Nazi base, the continent of Antarctica has been a source of great interest to scientists, historians and those drawn to the darkest spiritual arts. This group of thirteen men formed a coven of ridiculously rich and dangerously bored billionaires. The clandestine nature of the group was carefully crafted by their influential leader, for no other reason than to create an atmosphere of mystery as a means of psychological control. Mordechai learned long ago, the illusion of belonging to something hidden was a euphoric drug for many and the fear of losing access provided incentive to cross moral boundaries and, most importantly, spend large sums of money.

In real life, Mordecai’s name was Jack Mahoney, a confidence man from Chicago who grew tired of hustling for small scores. Mahoney, an agnostic, became intrigued with the story of L. Ron Hubbard who turned a semi-successful career as a science-fiction writer into a multi-billion dollar religious enterprise, the ultimate long con. Having watched a YouTube documentary about the secrets supposedly hidden under the ice at the bottom of the earth, he began to formulate a plan. Mahoney, a master of manipulation, targeted young DotCom billionaires, men who thought it would be a great idea to retire in their thirties only to discover how unfulfilling a life with no purpose could be.

Using esoteric writings, such as the books of Enoch and Jasher and the Epic of Gilgamesh along with ancient maps and snippets from Admiral Byrd’s ill fated expedition, Mahoney was able to create a very convincing cover story which he used to recruit what he secretly thought of as his cash cow coven. Like his inspiration, Hubbard, Mahoney successfully managed to bilk millions of dollars while at the same time offering pseudo spiritual discovery and purpose. The only flaw in the plan, thus far, was Mahoney did not take into account Belshazzar, a DotCom wunderkind with initiative and drive, who insisted on handling all the arrangements for the lake exploration himself.

“Gentlemen, I don’t think I need to remind you what it will mean for us when we discover the gateway to the lost city of Atlantis. We will succeed where Nimrod failed, we will be the gods of the New Age and we shall usher in the age of Aquarius your grandparents only dreamed about back in the sixties.” Hooded and masked heads nodded approval all around the table. Hidden behind a tiger mask was a smile of the cat who swallowed the canary.

While Mahoney worked with each man, individually, assigning each one a “significant part of the plan”, he also convinced them to leave all oversight and financial considerations to him. All capitulated except the man in the Tiger mask who insisted he had the connections necessary to set the near impossible exploration in motion. Mahoney ignored the nagging feeling which usually served him so well through many years of pulling cons. Something about Belshazzar didn’t set right, yet in the end, he trusted his own intel and background checks, attributing the feeling to jitters caused by the uncharted territory of this long con. Months of planning had led him to this day and within a few hours, he would be safely in the air on his way to a Caribbean hideaway with the tidy sum of one hundred million dollars. This was Mahoney’s big score and tonight, unbeknownst to his wealthy marks, was his retirement party.

Self satisfied, Mordechai looked around the room and announced, “Gentlemen, next time we meet, I believe we shall be toasting our success and enacting the final phase of our plan, allowing us to create a utopian society other generations only dreamed of!” As the hopeful men filed out, Belshazzar remained behind. With phone in hand, he walked up to Mordechai and showed him a photo of an underwater engraving of what appeared to be an alien spacecraft of some kind. “This transmission came from the dive team leader while we were meeting and I wanted you to be the first to see it.” Mahoney stared in disbelief and wondered if he should wait a few more days before making his great escape. “What does this mean?” he asked the younger man. “It appears to be a door of some kind, our divers believe it is the entrance to an underwater cave system, just like you told us.” Mahoney was flabbergasted. Was it possible he was on the brink of an amazing discovery?

Belshazzar said, “Time is of the essence. Apparently we are not the only ones searching, a Russian team is also down there and things may get dicey if we do not act fast.” Making a snap decision, Mahoney removed his mask and asked, “what do you need?” Belshazzar held up a finger as his phone began to buzz, taking the call, he only responded with, “ok” or “I see” as the other party spoke rapidly. Mahoney could tell the caller was very excited. “We need to move fast,” Belshazzar said through his mask, “and I don’t have time to liquidate the funds needed for more resources.” Mahoney pondered quickly, wondering what a discovery like this could mean. It would mean the chance to go straight, coming out of the shadows, living the American dream, and not having to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. At that moment, he made a fateful decision.

Mahoney decided to bring Belshazzar into his confidence, giving a Reader’s Digest version of his scheme, offering a forty-sixty split. “What about the other guys?”, Belshazzar asked. “Don’t need them anymore, once we cash in, I’ll pay them all back with interest and we split the rest, everybody’s happy!” Mahoney handed his cell phone over to the man in the tiger mask to make the necessary financial arrangements from his “retirement” fund.

Belshazzar lifted his own phone back to his ear and quietly said one word, “Now.” The room suddenly filled up with FBI agents as Belshazzar removed his mask.

“What’s all this”, Mahoney asked as he stared at the young man before him. “Jack Mahoney, you are under arrest for embezzlement, grand theft and wire fraud.” The undercover FBI agent handcuffed Mahoney and began to lead him out of the underground chamber as the other agents scoured the room for evidence.

Walking alongside Mahoney, the agent spoke closely to his ear so no one else could hear. “My name is Agent Kevin Mahoney,” he paused to let the impact set in, finding satisfaction when Jack Mahoney stiffened. “My search for you was purely personal at first, until I discovered what you had been up to your whole life. I suppose rotting in prison for embezzling fifty million will give you plenty of time to think about your misdeeds.” The elder Mahoney leaned in and whispered with a smirk, “it’s actually one hundred million.” The FBI agent chuckled, “Actually, daddy, the apple didn’t fall all that far from the tree. By this time tomorrow, me, my wife and your grandson will be enjoying a new life of luxury far away. When you handed me your phone, I made a transfer of fifty million into an offshore account of my own.”

Once outside the building, the younger Mahoney handed custody of the elder Mahoney to a junior agent, got in his car and drove off feeling very self satisfied. Jack Mahoney sat in the back of the police cruiser, watching his estranged son’s tail lights disappear around a corner and couldn’t help but smile.

GAS MASKS 996 Words

I can’t tell if he is a guard or a prisoner here. He stands on the other side of the mesh and stares at me through the eye-sockets of his gas mask. When he tries to speak, it is a desperate and urgent sounding mumble of gibberish, a babble of tongues, akin to religious Glossolalia.
I try asking him who he is, why I am trapped in the cage and what he thinks I did wrong. I hear my own words come out in the same nonsensical random swirl as his own. I try to touch my face with my hand, and scream. I too have a gas mask on.
My instincts tell me to remove it but I stop myself just in time, while my doppelgänger stares. What if the gas masks are due to gas in the misty air?
I look behind him at the barely visible lush green woods around my makeshift prison. I see no birds or insects in flight. I see no dead ones either. To all intents and purposes there is nothing alive but he and myself. I wave my fist at him in a gesture of angry threat and defiance, and also as a means to be sure it isn’t my own mirror image staring back at me. His
arms stay still by his sides. We are not mirrors.
I have no greenery behind myself. Only cold empty total darkness. I head-butt the cage mesh to shock him. He doesn’t flinch. I try to recall my arrest. I that find I can remember nothing but the cage, not even my name.
Am I in Hell? Is this a nightmare? I contemplate escape, but to where and from where?
I’ve had enough. Death would be preferable to this. I reach for my gas mask and open its buckle-straps, but my mask stays in place. My fellow inmate or my captor’s mask falls from his face, though his hands do not touch it at all. My efforts to remove my mask released his instead, though neither he nor I touched his.
As it falls I see the grinning eyeless skull of one long dead. The memory snaps back to me. The Somme. 1915, close to the river that gave the area its name, but I never saw the water, only the endless reeking blood-clotted mud.
A mustard gas attack. An enemy bullet had just punctured my mask as I went to put it on. I was lucky the bullet stopped just short of my face, as it was slowed down by the thick leather of the mask material. A lucky escape? No, the gas was still filling the air.
It was my own fault. Despite warning yells from the men around me I had stood too close to the top of the trench.
I saw the ragged ruined useless remains of my mask. was terrified. I had no desire to die as so many had died round me. I snatched the not quite buckled up fully mask right off the nearest Corporal’s face and snapped it over mine. He tried to fight me for it back, but he was too late and weakened as his lungs took in the poisoned burning air. The gas took him, and I saw him fall, choking, eyes bulging, as he gasped for air in the pale yellow fog and collapsed into the knee deep trench-foot giving filth at our feet. I don’t know if he drowned or choked on the gas first.
I was caught and court marshalled on the spot. I still foolishly had his mask on, and my broken one in my hand when the other men saw me. Our issue numbers are engraved into the masks to help identify what’s left of us if we get blown to bits. There was no way I could claim his mask was my own. They knew I’d stolen both his mask and his life. They found me guilty and in a rare lull from the constant enemy bombardments they set a firing squad to administer my end. I had no defence. They branded me a coward. They were right.
I wanted to see the bullet coming, but they forced me into a blindfold, as I stood tied to the pillar. I wet myself as I heard the orders to take aim and fire. The end came without feeling, too fast for me to hear the rifles roar.
Now I stand and see my friend’s corpse, and feel his cold mask on my own face. It burns and stings.
He seems to fade away, melting away as the mustard gas dissipates in the breeze through No Man’s Land.
Noises, and hope of rescue. No! A figure is brought before me, a corpse, with a chest and face full of still bleeding bullet holes. The men bringing him are the firing squad – my executioners – his executioners. He is I. They don’t seem to see this other me in the cage or hear my muted cries.
They force the other me into a gas mask. He wakes as they melt away, as ephemeral
and unreal as ghosts, leaving me and me alone as real, and corporeal. He seems to come to, and stares at me as he gets up from the stinking swamp-ground. The woods behind him fade to black. Around me there is suddenly greenery and freedom. My cage is open. I could leave this tragedy at any time, but I don’t. I try to warn him half knowing already about the incomprehensible mutterings I’ll come out with, as he finds himself in a sealed cage.
He reaches desperately to his mask to unclasp its buckles. I feel my mask slipping
away, and I know I’m the skull I will see before I’m brought in again by my executioners, to see me seeing me seeing me seeing me die again, remembering what I did over and over again, and again and again, forever.

Arthur Chappell