The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(35)

“What’s that?” Jake asked.

“Hope.”

Dr. Merryweather clapped his hands suddenly and everybody gave a little jump. “So! We know where they are, we know what they want, and we know what they intend to do if they don’t get it. The Hyena must be found and the Vessel secured, or we may expect all you-know-what to break loose. The question is . . . where is he?”

Nobody said anything. The director looked at Abby. She stood up and Op Nine finally got to sit down. He didn’t look good. He didn’t look much better than Carl up in the morgue, and Carl was dead.

“All computer simulations return these ten locations as the most likely for target acquisition,” she said crisply. “Based on prior associations, duration, and comfort level.” She handed a stack of printouts to the person on her right, who took one and passed on the rest. The agent to my left took the last one, so I didn’t get to see what was on the printout. “We’ll dispatch teams of two to each location—”

“Why only two?” Jake asked.

“The smaller the team, the less likelihood of mission compromise.” “Also the less likelihood of finding the Hyena,” Jake said. “I say we put as many boots on the ground as possible.”

“Every signatory, with the exception of the Swiss, God bless ’em, has pledged full cooperation and logistical support,” Dr. Merryweather said. “The locals will be available, if called upon.”

“Again, Director,” Op Nine said, studying the printout, “I would suggest sending a team to the Hyena’s last known safe house.”

I wasn’t sure, but I guessed Op Nine was talking about the cabin in the mountains.

“Even Arnold isn’t that foolish,” Merryweather said. “Too obvious.”

Op Nine started to say something, but decided against it.

Abby cleared her throat and said, “Make sure your people understand this mission is strictly voluntary. The First Protocol applies: no one with immediate family, mission objective deemed Imperative. The Holy Vessel of Solomon must be obtained. For this reason, the Hyena has been designated as a ‘target’ under the definition contained in Section 189.23 of the Charter.”

“Good,” Agent Jake said. “I hope my team finds him. I’m gonna take great pleasure putting a fat one right between that jerk’s eyes.”

30

The meeting broke up into little pockets of mini-meetings, with the director, Abby, and Op Nine huddled in one corner, whispering. All three would glance in my direction every few seconds, so I guessed they were trying to decide what to do with me now. I didn’t figure they’d send me back to Knoxville: I knew too much and the encounter in the morgue with the devils’ mouthpiece sort of indicated I was the only person the demons would talk to. I figured they would put me on ice here in OIPEP headquarters, where they could keep an eye on me and where I could do the least amount of damage.

Nobody had brought up that I was the reason we were having a meeting in the first place. I’d had the ring in my hands. All I had to do was get it to Op Nine. Instead I tried to play King of the Demons. Of course, it’s hard to stay cool in the face of sixteen million spiteful spirits.

After a few minutes, Dr. Merryweather had to join a conference call between the President of China and the Dalai Lama, so Op Nine and Abigail escorted me back to my room. My leg had gone stiff from sitting so long; I had to lean heavily against Op Nine on the way back. It took a lot out of me, and I sat gasping on the bed while Abby and Op Nine engaged in a whispering argument, probably a continuation of the one in the conference room.

“I’m hungry,” I gasped. They kept arguing, so I said it louder: “I’m hungry!”

They stopped and stared at me for a second. Then Abby said, “What do you want?”

“Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and some rolls.” I was trying to think of comfort food, what normal people living normal lives eat. “And a slice of pizza.”

“Pizza?”

“Pepperoni. Make that two slices. And some ice cream. Chocolate.”

She was smiling now. “Anything else?”

“No. Yes. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. With a pickle spear. Claussen.”

“Claussen?”

“Or any crisp pickle, but Claussen’s my favorite.”

“Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

She started out of the room. “Oh, and a bag of Cheetos,” I called after her. “The crunchy kind.”

She left. Op Nine studied me with his dark eyes. He wasn’t smiling.

“What?” I asked. “Cheetos over the top?”

“Your appetite has returned. A good sign, Alfred.”

“Not too many of those lately—good signs, I mean. What happened in the battle, Op Nine, after I . . . ?” I couldn’t finish. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Once Paimon obtained the ring, it gathered the legions together and the battle was abandoned. They fled as fast as thought, Alfred.”

“Mike too.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“How do we know he has the Vessel?”

“The area was searched thoroughly after the encounter. The Lesser Seal is gone, Mike has vanished, and Paimon now demands its return. I do not doubt Mike has the Vessel.”