The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(30)

“Your memory will return in time, I think, and your body will heal. The other person who met the Fallen’s eyes is dead. He awoke in the desert and tore his own heart from his chest.”

“So what’s that mean? I’m gonna be tied to this bed for the rest of my life?”

Neither of them said anything, which I took as a maybe bordering on a definite yes.

“While they are free, no one who has gazed upon them can be fully free themselves,” Operative Nine said, choosing his words carefully.

“What’s that mean, ‘while they are free’?”

“They have taken the Great Seal of Solomon—and vanished.” “That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?”

“The Seal is the only thing that controls them, Alfred. Now Pai—now the demon itself commands. We must retrieve the Seal or watch all life submit to the will of the damned.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In the beginning, there was a war, Alfred.” He had a glassy, faraway look in his sad eyes. “Before there were men or green fields or the untamed sea. Before there was anything at all, before Time itself existed, there was a terrible war. A war that these beings you saw today lost. The Archangel Michael, with the Sword mortal men would name Excalibur, cast them down for their transgression against the throne of heaven. When the proper time arrived, they were sealed inside the Holy Vessel, to be ruled by the ring given to Solomon.

“After Solomon’s passing, they slept for three thousand years, if such beings as these can said to sleep, safely imprisoned within the Holy Vessel. Before he bound them for the final time, however, Solomon commanded them using the gift of the Great Seal. Seventy-two lords, each with legions of minions under his rule, all conveying great wisdom and power to the one who wielded the Seal.

“Now they are free, for the first time answerable to no one but themselves. So you see the first war is not yet over; indeed, it may also be the last.”

27

Operative Nine took a deep breath; he was going to go on, but at that moment the door opened and a short man wearing a tweed jacket walked in. He had a round face and pouty lips, with oval, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose. The most striking thing about him, though, was his hair: snow white, very fine, gathered around his round head like a crown of fluffy dandelion seeds. He looked like a cross between Albert Einstein and the inventor guy from the Back to the Future movies.

He was talking as he came in. At first I thought he was talking to himself; then I saw the wireless setup in his ear and the microphone dangling by a thin black wire near his mouth.

“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister, but it isn’t my place to tell you what to say to the media. Perhaps you should confer with our MEDCON folks. . . . Media Control, yes. Excuse me, can I put you on hold? I have another call . . .

“Hello, Mr. President. How is the golf game? . . . Yes, it is quite an extraordinary development. . . . Well, that’s very kind of you, Mr. President, but I don’t think we need the U.S. military, not at this juncture. Would you excuse me for a moment? I have the British PM on hold . . . Thank you.

“Are you there, Mr. Prime Minister? . . . I would tell the media the current weather patterns are an aberration due to global warming and leave it at that. They adore global warming, you know. . . . What was that? . . . What’s the size of basketballs? . . . Hail? Well, I would advise the public to stay indoors. Excuse me, can I put you on hold again?

“No, Mr. President, stealth bombers would be quite useless, I’m afraid. . . . Well, that depends on what you mean by the term ‘contained.’ SATCOM has them pegged in one location in the Himalayas. . . . Yes, of course we will keep you posted. . . . Thank you, Mr. President, I will . . . Yes, we do have a plan. . . . Would you excuse me for a moment?”

He stared at me through the entire conversation, tapping one foot impatiently as he talked, running a hand through his frizzy white hair. Maybe that’s why it stood every which way.

“Mr. Prime Minister, are you there? I’m not going to argue with you. . . . Oh, indeed I think the public would accept the global warming cover, even if they are the size of Volkswagens—excuse me, did you say the size of Volkswagens? . . . Oh, dear. Well, it’s rather like the Blitz, isn’t it? Hello, hello? Damn, lost him. Mr. President, are you still . . . ?”

He shook his head in frustration, and the hair whipped about like a white tornado spinning around his head.

He ripped the headset off and shoved it toward Abigail Smith.

“Take this accursed thing, Smith. I’m sick to death of politicians!”

He stood over me, smiling down with teeth not nearly as bright nor as straight as Abigail Smith’s.

“Alfred, this is Dr. François Merryweather,” she said. “Director of OIPEP.”

“I’m Alfred Kropp,” I said.

“I know who you are. And I am more than relieved to know that you know who you are.”

“That’s about all I know,” I said.

“Baby steps, Alfred! Baby steps! How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time!”

“What’s the matter with the weather?” I asked.

“They have drawn a shroud over the earth,” Operative Nine said.

“Really, must you always be so lugubrious, Nine? Talk about drawing shrouds! My chest always hurts around you, the atmosphere is so thick with melancholy.”