The Seal of Solomon (18 page)

“Oh, you are many more things than how you appear, Alfred Kropp.”

“You're talking about the whole Lancelot thing, I guess, and the fact that Bernard Samson is my dad. But the thing with that is it's not anything I did. I mean, it didn't require anything special on my part.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His eyelids were the color of charcoal. He must have been one of the homeliest people I had ever seen, with those long flappy earlobes, the droopy cheeks, and raccoon eyes that reminded me so much of a hound dog. But you shouldn't judge people by appearances—the credo I lived by.

“Padre,” I said softly. Then louder: “Back in the desert, you blessed us with holy water and later on Mike called you ‘Padre' . . .”

His eyes stayed closed. “I was a priest—once.”

“What happened?”

“My particular theological views made the church uncomfortable.”

“I guess they would,” I said. “I mean, not even the church buys into demons these days, does it?”

He didn't answer. So I went on. “So that's the deal with the holy water and all the Latin and praying. I haven't been to church since my mom died. You think that's part of it, Op Nine . . . um, Father?”

“Do not call me that, Kropp.”

“Well, what do I call you then?”

“Operative Nine.”

“No. What's your real name?”

“Whatever it needs to be.”

“If I guessed your real name, would you tell me?”

“No.”

“Adam.”

“You are wasting your time.”

“Arnold.”

“Enough, Kropp.”

“Alexander. Axelrod. Benjamin. Brad. Bruce. What about the first letter—can you give me that?”

He didn't say anything. I didn't see what the big deal was about his name. Maybe he was somebody infamous or wanted for some terrible crime, like maybe what happened in Abkhazia had something to do with it, but OIPEP protected him.

“Okay, forget it. I was going to ask if you thought everything that's happened has something to do with me not going to church since my mom died.”

He opened just his left eye and looked at me with it.

“You know, these world-threatening disasters I keep causing. You think maybe God's mad at me?”

His left eye slowly closed. He said, “Isn't it odd, Alfred, how often we attribute the terrible things that happen to us to God, and the wonderful things to our own efforts?”

I thought about it. I wasn't sure, but I think he was accusing me of being egotistical. Me!

“Do you think I'm a bad person, Op Nine?” I asked.

“I think you are a fifteen-year-old person.”

“What's that mean?”

“The angels were fully formed in an instant. We human beings take a bit longer.”

“That's good. And bad too, I guess, from my point of view. One thing is for sure. This whole intrusion event is going to make believers out of a lot of people. I know your plate is kinda full right now, but maybe if you have a couple extra minutes you could say a prayer for my mom?”

“I am not a priest anymore, Kropp.”

“I know, but it couldn't hurt.”

He didn't say anything. His eyes were closed, so he might have been saying one or he might have just fallen asleep.

33

Soon I could see an airstrip, the runway a thick black scar in the pristine snow. We stopped at the edge of the tarmac and I hopped out without waiting for our silent driver to open my door. The force of the wind nearly knocked me over, and I wondered how we were going to take off.

Op Nine joined me and I pointed at our ride sitting at the end of the airstrip.

“What the heck is that?”

It didn't resemble any plane I had ever seen. It looked kind of like a paper airplane, with sleek wings that started near the front and gradually widened as they went back toward the tail fin, which seemed small for a plane about the size of a 747. The fuselage came to a sharp point at the cockpit, as if a giant had taken a normal plane and stretched it, creating an elongated teardrop shape. It looked like a gardening trowel with wings.

“That is a specially modified version of the U.S. Air Force's X-30 aircraft, the fastest plane on earth,” Op Nine said. “It skims along the very edge of the atmosphere at four thousand miles per hour.”

“Wow,” I said. “I've always wanted to do that.”

“Which means we should reach our insertion point in under an hour.”

“Terrific. What's our insertion point?”

I expected him to name some exotic locale, a place Mike Arnold visited on one of his missions for the Company, like Istanbul or Sri Lanka.

Instead, Op Nine said, “Chicago.”

I didn't see a pilot or any crew onboard the X-30. We stepped into the main cabin, Op Nine closed and locked the door, and we took our seats. Everything looked brand-new, down to the plush carpeting and the first-class-sized leather seats. We buckled up and Op Nine pressed a button on his armrest. The plane immediately began to accelerate, and I felt my big body being flattened against the backrest. Then I found myself lying at a forty-five-degree angle as we roared upward, bouncing some when we hit the low clouds, but only for a second or two, and then the sun burst through the window beside Op Nine as we lifted over the clouds and kept climbing.

I turned my head slightly to get a better look, but the turning took a long time, because we must have been going close to Mach 2 and that makes turning your head a matter of willpower as much as strength.

The scene outside was breathtaking: the sun above the rim of the horizon, illuminating the solid cloud cover beneath it, painting the ridges gold, the bright unmarred blue of the sky. I thought of those kids playing soccer on that barren snowfield.
Don't forget, Kropp
, I told myself.
It's beautiful. Don't ever
forget that.

The plane climbed until I could see the horizon begin to curve away from us, until I could see the actual curvature of the earth, and the sky darkened from bright blue to smoky violet to glimmering black.

Op Nine leaned over and raised his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines. “We have reached the edge of the atmosphere, Kropp! Approaching Mach 6!”

Normally, Op Nine was about as joyful as an undertaker, but now he was grinning like a kid on a theme park ride. We leveled off and the noise settled some, which is more than I could say for my stomach.

“What is it, Kropp?” Op Nine asked. Maybe he noticed that my face was the color of the snow about a mile below us.

“I'm not sure this was such a great idea,” I said. “The last time I got on a plane I deboarded the hard way.”

He reached under his seat and pulled out that same oversized leather-bound book I saw on the flight into the Sahara.

“What is that, anyway?” I asked.

“
The Ars Goetia
. . .
The Howling Art.
”

“What kind of art howls?”

“The title refers to the method with which the conjurer controls the Fallen. Said to be written by King Solomon himself,
The Ars Goetia
contains descriptions of the seventy-two lords, their symbols and powers, and the incantations to bring them forth from the Holy Vessel and control them. The conjurer is instructed to ‘howl' the incantations, hence the name.”

“So it's kind of a manual for fighting demons?”

He winced. “No, it is a guide for using them to the master's purpose. The Great Seal is useless unless the wearer speaks the incantations as written by Solomon, word for word, with no variation.”

“I get it. That's why the demons ignored me even though I was wearing the ring. I didn't know the spells.”

He grimaced again. “I prefer not to call them demons. It demeans their nature.”

“But isn't that what they are?”

“We should pity more than fear them, Alfred. They were angels once.”

“Yeah, but didn't you say they rebelled against God? They got what they deserved.”

“Perhaps.” He sighed. “Yet do we not all hope and pray that we ourselves escape what we truly deserve? None have fallen as far or as irrevocably as the outcasts of heaven. Did you not find them beautiful?”

“Well, yes and no. They sure didn't look like I thought demons or, um, outcasts, would look. But they were . . . it was . . .” I searched for the right words. “Almost like looking too long at the sun.” But that really didn't come close to describing them. They
were
beautiful, but their beauty was wrapped in terror and despair, kind of like that sick feeling in your gut when the prettiest girl in school finally notices you . . . but that really didn't describe it either. A pretty girl doesn't push you to the point of tearing your own eyes out.

“Their essence—the truth of what they are—has not changed since their creation, Alfred. How could it? No matter how far they have fallen, they are the first fruits of the divine imagination. They have gazed upon the very face of God, the face they will see no more for all eternity—and so I pity them.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Even as I envy them for having seen it.”

34

We landed in Chicago at what looked like an old military base. The flight had lasted about fifty minutes, so I figured at four thousand miles per hour we had traveled maybe three thousand miles. That meant OIPEP headquarters probably wasn't in North America. Antarctica seemed too far away, so maybe it was somewhere in the Arctic Circle, though I didn't see any polar bears or walrus or Eskimos, which I figured were plentiful in the Arctic.

A sheet of gray clouds hung low over us, moving rapidly as if a giant unseen hand was pulling it westward. The absence of the sun seemed to bleed all the color from the world; the grass was the same dull gray color as the hangars. I heard thunder rolling deep in the cloud cover.

“The whole world is covered?” I asked Op Nine as we walked toward a blue Ford Taurus parked by one of the hangars.

“Yes.”

He popped the trunk and unzipped a large canvas bag that sat inside. Op Nine took a quick inventory as I looked over his shoulder. The bag contained maps, a couple of wallets, two semiautomatic handguns, socks, underwear, some shirts and pants, a laptop computer, two other pistols that looked like flare guns, the
Ars Goetia
, and a roll of toilet paper.

“Toilet paper?” I asked.

“One never knows.”

He stuck one of the semiautomatics behind his back. Then he took the flare gun and ejected the clip from the handle to check the bullets. The bullets had a slightly flared head; they looked like a miniature version of the bullets for the 3XDs.

“What is that?” I asked.

“My life's work.”

He stuck this pistol into some hidden pocket in the lining of his parka, and then turned to me, holding one of each type of gun in either hand.

I would have preferred my sword, the blade of the Last Knight Bennacio, but that was back in Knoxville and I didn't figure we had the time to get it, although the X-30 could probably get us there in about ten minutes.

He tossed the weapons back into the bag, slammed the trunk closed, and we climbed into the Taurus. He pulled down the visor and the keys fell into his lap.

“Not exactly James Bond,” I said, looking around the ratty interior. The seats were stained, the floorboards crusted with mud, the lining on the roof coming off in one spot and hanging down.

“This is a covert operation,” he reminded me.

“Where's the button to convert it into a submarine?”

“You've seen too many movies, Alfred.”

“You're right. I'll try to stay grounded in the real world of demons zipping around Mount Everest plotting the end of human existence.”

He turned off the access road onto a two-lane highway, then jumped on the interstate. Directly ahead I could see the Chicago skyline on the shores of Lake Michigan.

“So why do we think Mike might be in Chicago?” I asked. “I mean, I figured he was from here; he always wears that Cubs cap and he mentioned the Natural History Museum, but if I was going to hide somewhere, I wouldn't go to the most obvious place people would look.”

“He may not be here, but he may have come seeking his comfort zone, the place with which he is most familiar—and his pursuers not.”

I watched as the speedometer leaped to 110.

“Aren't you afraid we'll be pulled over?”

“We won't be.”

Ten minutes later we were downtown, parked in front of the Drake Hotel. The wind was ferocious, howling like something alive as it roared between the skyscrapers—a beast— not just a beast, though, but a beast that hated you. I pulled the hood of my parka over my head as Op Nine got the bag from the trunk.

At the check-in desk Op Nine went British.