The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(20)

“He kind of creeps me out. I was wondering if he was a cyborg.”

She gave a little laugh. “A what?”

“You know, some kind of cybernetic robot or something.”

“He’s human, as far as I know.”

“Well, he doesn’t act like any human I’ve ever known.”

“He’s sort of a living legend in the Company.” She lowered her voice, which made it sound even throatier. “He was in Abkhazia in eighty-three. The only one to come out alive.”

We had reached the plane, which had no windows, and that was fine with me. Benches lined either side of the massive interior. We took our seats as the engines revved to life and I searched in vain for the seat belts. Ashley sat on my left and Op Nine on my right. Directly across from me sat Abigail Smith, who in the dim cabin lighting seemed to be smiling, but she might have just been gritting her teeth. Between us sat a half-dozen wooden crates bolted to the floor with heavy chains.

The plane began to accelerate, pressing me sideways into Ashley’s shoulder. My stomach rolled, but things got a little better once we were airborne. Beside me, Op Nine reached under his seat and took out an oversized leather-bound book with funny triangular-shaped designs on the cover. Written in big letters the color of blood were the words “ARS GOETIA.”

“What is that?” I asked him.

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “The Ars Goetia,” he answered. “What’s that mean?”

“It is Latin for ‘The Howling Art.’ ”

Then he proceeded to ignore me, burying his nose in the musty, parchmentlike papers of the old book, his lips moving as he read. I tried to think of something to say to Ashley, but I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound boring or stupid. Of course, I usually didn’t let those considerations bother me, otherwise I’d never say anything.

“Do you know what’s in the Lesser Seal?” I asked her.

She nodded, and her eyes were wide and wet-looking, and I wondered if that meant she was as scared as I was.

“Well,” I said. “What is it?”

“The worst thing,” she whispered. “The worst thing in the world.”

At that moment Op Nine abruptly slammed the big book shut and stood up.

“We’re at T-minus fourteen-thirty,” he announced. “Insertion is approximately one hundred kilometers from the nexus. We will approach on sand-foils, since no doubt the Hyena is expecting an aerial assault. SATCON INTEL has identified Bedouin tribesmen recruited by our target.”

“How many?” one of the guy agents asked. He had a great tan. I wondered if he was one of the people posing as a tourist above deck on the Pandora.

“Upwards of fifty, perhaps more, stationed as recons along approachable routes. Including, presumably, our route.”

Op Nine opened one of the overhead compartments and pulled out something that looked like a cross between an elephant gun and a rocket launcher. It had a black strap for hanging it over your shoulder and a telescopic sight.

“Now,” he said. “In the case of a full-blown intrusion event, this is the CW3XD.” He held it high over his head so everybody could get a good look. “Obviously, it has never been field-tested.”

“No time like the present,” the tanned agent muttered.

Op Nine ignored him. “The magazine holds fifty rounds of ordnance.” He pulled an oversized clip of bullets from the same overhead compartment. He ejected one of the bullets and held it up. It looked like an ordinary rifle round, except the tip was larger, about the size of an olive. “Be extraordinarily cautious with these. Loss of one into unfriendly hands could result in complete MISSFAIL.”

“Mission failure,” Ashley translated for me, but I had already figured that one out.

“The CW3XD is designed solely for containment of intrusion agents,” Op Nine said, his tone becoming stern. “Under no circumstances is it to be discharged at the Hyena and his forces.”

“Why?” another agent demanded. He was the biggest one of the lot; his thighs bulged in the shiny OIPEP jumpsuit and his biceps were about the size of my head, which, like too many people have pointed out, was large. “One round from this bad boy and they’ll never find all the pieces.”

“The ordnance is limited,” Op Nine said.

“Extremely limited,” Abigail Smith added, and for some reason she looked across the aisle at me.

“And it is specifically designed for operation against an intrusion agent,” Op Nine said.

“So it’ll kill ’em?” the big agent asked.

Op Nine gave him a cold stare. “What has never lived cannot be killed. Theoretically, the CW3XD will inhibit the IAs, giving us time to retrieve the Seals from the target.”

Op Nine nodded to Abigail, who took a deep breath and rose from her seat with an air of weariness, like she could actually feel the fate of the world resting on her shoulders.

“Let’s gear up,” she said, and I thought her voice shook a little, and that wasn’t encouraging, a senior OIPEP agent, afraid.

16

The agents stood up and popped open the overhead compartments, pulling out these yellow and orange bundles with white harnesses and clinking silver buckles. It took me a second to get it. This plane wasn’t landing. Instead, we were jumping. My stomach did a slow roll.