The Seal of Solomon (28 page)

“Your termination was a hoax, wasn't it?”

Mike looked away. Op Nine didn't seem to care.

“What was the director's intent, Michael?”

“In a word? World peace. Oops. That's two words.”

“The director went outside the Charter, did he not? He arranged your phony termination, the extraction of the Great Seals from our Vaults . . . He wanted you to free the outcasts in order to—what?”

“You're the SPA. Isn't it as plain as the boils on Al's face?”

“Blackmail? The director would use the fallen to enforce world peace?”

“It's beautiful, doncha think?” Mike said. “Once we made our little demonstration in the desert, who's gonna have the guts to challenge the Company's new world order? No more petty dictators or rogue states mucking around with peace and security. Somebody breaks the rules, we break the Seal. Perfect. Or at least it was on paper. Of course, we never considered the Kropp factor.” He looked at me. “One day I'm gonna kill you, Al, swear to God.”

“OIPEP wants to take over the world?” I asked.

Op Nine shook his head. “Not OIPEP, Alfred. Merryweather. It seems our director has decided to throw the Charter out the window. We have been duped.”

“That's okay,” I said. “I'm getting used to it.” I turned to Mike. “So that's why you tried to kill me? Merryweather knew about my blood and he was afraid it might be used to fight the demons?”

“Of course he knew,” Op Nine said. “It was contained in your dossier. After Mike ‘stole' the Seals, I gave the order for Ashley to extract you. I did not know for certain, but I hoped your . . . gift might be useful in the 3XD. Therefore Merryweather needed Mike to extract you first.”

“In an extreme way,” I said. I started for the door.

Op Nine said, “Wait, Alfred.”

“We're almost out of time,” I said. “We have only two hours to get to Florida.”

“I'm not sure that is entirely wise,” Op Nine said.

“We don't have a choice,” I shot back. “They'll consume us if we don't go.”

“But if we go, there is nothing to stop them from consuming us.”

“Well, that's been the problem all along, hasn't it?”

“Game's over,” Mike said. “There's no way out.”

“I might be able to help,” Mr. Needlemier said. “But nobody has bothered to tell me exactly what is going on with these Seals . . . and who this OIPEP is . . . and what these demons are . . . and . . . and et cetera . . .”

We ignored him.

“Look, Op Nine,” I said. “It's just the two of us, and I was given a deadline in Chicago with the clear understanding that if I miss it, there's gonna be hell to pay—literally. I guess I made what you call a deal with the devil—more like sixteen million of them—but it was either that or lose all hope and that's about all that we have left.”

Mike laughed. “What about your health, Al? Oh. Never mind.”

“Where's that tire iron?” I asked Mr. Needlemier.

“Alfred, you do not understand them as I do,” Op Nine said. “You cannot presume they operate in good faith.”

“No, I'm presuming they're going to keep eating me until I'm used up. Not dead. I'm already dead. I'm the walking dead, Samuel—that's the message of the maggots. It's already too late for me, but maybe it's not too late for the world.”

“Paimon will not risk returning to its prison. It will never surrender the Seal.”

I took a deep breath. “Why don't we blow it up?”

He gave me a quizzical look.

“How much of my blood did you put in those bullets? It couldn't be more than a drop or two. What if we . . . used more?”

“Alfred,” Op Nine said. “What you're suggesting—”

“I think that's a terrific idea,” Mike said. “Let's blow Al up.”

“I'm serious,” I said. “If I can get close enough to Paimon . . . it might give you a few seconds.”

“Hey, Saint Alfred,” Mike said. “Where was the death wish at the ravine? You had the chance.”

I stared at Mike for a long time. The ravine. His hand on my wrist. The black sword in my other hand.

I had it then. The answer popped into my head the same way all my memories had in the morgue.

I turned to Mr. Needlemier. “Where in Florida is the Devil's Millhopper?”

“Gainesville.”

I turned to Op Nine. “I've got it now. I think I know what has to be done.”

51

Mike trailed behind us as we trotted to the Lexus.

“Tell me the truth,” he called after us. “You never had my mom, did you?”

Op Nine turned. “That is something you will not know until this is over—however it ends. You have been neutralized as a factor in this affair, Michael.”

“I never liked you,” Mike said. “And you can bet your bottom dollar the director's going to hear about this.”

“Should we succeed, he will no longer be director and you will no longer be an operative. Both of you have violated our most solemn oath never to interfere with the affairs of any nation.” His dark eyes glittered. “And by doing so, you have endangered the very thing you intended to preserve.”

He got into the car. I slid in beside him and Mr. Needlemier closed my door. Soon we were heading back down the mountain. I looked through the window behind me and watched as the fog engulfed Mike Arnold.

“Now tell me what you intend to do, Alfred,” Op Nine said. “What is it that must be done?”

I explained it to him. Neither he nor Mr. Needlemier said a word.

We were on Alcoa Highway, about two miles from the airport, crawling along in the dense fog, when I finished and Op Nine said, “It is madness.”

“Well,” I said, “in case nobody's noticed, I'm already leaning in that direction.”

“But it has no hope of success.”

“You know that isn't true,” I said. “Paimon can't risk letting me die.”

“Alfred, your life means nothing to Paimon.”

“No, but the Vessel means everything. And I'm the key to it. Paimon won't risk losing the key.”

He shook his head. I cleared my throat. “And anyway, if it doesn't work, you'll still have the Vessel and you can try something else.”

He turned away then and looked out the window, though there was nothing to look at but his reflection in the glass. He reached over and put his right hand on my forearm.

“Alfred, I am sorry for all this. Sorry for bringing you to the nexus and sorry for lying to you.”

“Why did you bring me to the nexus?”

“You were the carrier of the active agent. We had to be prepared for any contingency.”

“You had the same idea—to use me for a bomb or something?”

He didn't say anything. He kept staring at his reflection.

“It's not easy, is it? Being a SPA.”

He shook his head. “No.” He started to say something else, but he decided to leave it at that, I guessed. “No.”

The CCR was parked where we'd left it at the airport. Mr. Needlemier hung back, looking a little awkward, as I carried Op Nine's duffel and my sword to the supercharged sports car. I dropped the duffel into the passenger seat and stuck the sword into the space behind it. I went back to the Lexus.

“This is totally outside the range of my experience,” Mr. Needlemier said. Then he added, unnecessarily, “I'm frightened, Alfred.”

“Doing something helps,” I told him. “Otherwise it just eats you alive. Do you know about the secret chamber beneath Mr. Samson's desk?”

He stared at me and didn't say anything.

“Guess not. There's a secret chamber under Mr. Samson's desk. The desktop lifts up and there's a keypad. The numbers correspond to letters just like on a telephone. The code is my name.”

“Your name?”

“I don't remember the numbers off the top of my head, but the code is ‘Alfred.' When you get it open, put the Vessel inside and lock it back down again. Understand?”

He nodded. “Yes, I understand. Is there anything else, Alfred?” “I don't want to be adopted by Horace Tuttle.”

“Of course, but you understand the final decision is up to the judge.”

“And I don't want him to be the trustee of the estate. I want you to be.”

“Me?”

“And if I don't make it back—and I probably won't—I want you to take all the money and give it away.”

“Give it—who do I give it to?”

“I don't know. Find some worthy people. Start with the kids living with the Tuttles. Especially the kid named Kenny. Take care of him, Mr. Needlemier.”

“Of course.”

“I'm telling you this in case things don't work out. Anyway, I'm talking too much. I have to go. Good-bye, Mr. Needlemier.”

Back at the CCR, I told Op Nine, “You're driving.” I dug the old book from the duffel bag, along with a map. “I've got to study.”

52

“We're taking I-75 all the way,” I told Op Nine, tracing the route with my index finger. “It goes right through Gainesville.”

I wasted about two minutes trying to refold the map. What is it about maps? Folding them is like trying to work a puzzle. I gave up and stuffed it behind my headrest. Then I opened
The Ars Goetia
and flipped through it, looking for the Words of Command.

Op Nine glanced over at me.

“If not spoken exactly, word for word, the command will fail,” he pointed out.

“Thanks for the tip,” I muttered. “There's about twenty different incantations here. Which one do I use?”

“The Words of Constraint.”

That particular spell went on for half a page. Even on my best days, I was horrible at memorization. I looked over at him.

Ask him,
a voice whispered inside my head.
Ask and hear
his answer!

It didn't surprise me, hearing the voice. The whispering had been going on for a while, but I had been able to ignore it for the most part. Now it was louder, more insistent. I didn't wonder whose voice it was. I'd heard it before. It was the voice of Paimon, the voice of the demon king.

I cleared my throat. “I know this whole thing is my fault . . .”

It is thy fault, worthless carcass!

“And probably since I'm the one who screwed things up I should fix them, but wouldn't it make more sense if you did it?”

Now listen as he abandons thee!

“I mean,” I added when he didn't say anything, “you already know these spells, right?”

Op Nine didn't look at me. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

See? Thou art alone. There is no one to help thee.

I rubbed my temples and said, “They're talking to me. Inside my head. Do you think they know what I'm thinking?”

“I don't know, Alfred.”

“Because if they do, they know what the plan is and there's no hope.”

He echoed me, nodding. “No hope.”

“Well, at least this way I'll never be lonely,” I said, trying to make a joke, but he didn't laugh.

“I hear them too, Alfred,” he said quietly. “But I do not think we are possessed in the layman's sense of the word. I believe what we are hearing are our own doubts and fears, amplified tenfold.”

“What the heck does that mean?”

“What we fear,” he said. “Our own voice of despair. The secret gnawing doubts we all have. They turn them upon us.”

Stupid, pathetic, disgusting loser! Dost thou believe we can
be overcome by the likes of thee? Before Time was, we have
been and shall always be! Who art thou disgusting mound of
rotting flesh to challenge our dominion!

The fog was thicker than ever. With no points of reference, it didn't seem as if we were moving at all.

“We're not going to make it in time,” I said. “So let's just pull to the side of the road and wait for the end.”

“Alfred,” he started, and then stopped. Something up ahead had caught his attention.

A hole had appeared in the fog, its sides perfectly smooth and round, the opening about twice the width of the car. It looked like the mouth of a tunnel.

Come to us now, carcass. Bring us the Seal.

“They've decided to help us,” I said.

He grunted and didn't say anything. He had put back on the old Op Nine expressionless mask.

“Hit it,” I said, and Op Nine floored the gas.

We hit the tunnel at 230 mph and the fog in the “walls” spun and twisted with our passing. I looked behind us and saw the tunnel collapsing, closing us off.