The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(53)

Back in our room, I threw Op Nine on the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He was shivering pretty badly, muttering under his breath, and his right eyelid twitched. I’d figured out by this point what was wrong with him, so I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, rolled him onto his side, and tied his hands behind his back. The towel was too thick and the knot too big to hold him for long, but it might give me a few seconds to get to him once he woke up.

Then I searched his pockets.

A handkerchief, a travel-sized plastic bottle of Visine, nose spray, a comb, and a crucifix. Then I found his cell phone and clicked through the address book. I highlighted the entry called “HQ” and was rewarded with a recording that all circuits were busy and to try my call again later. I didn’t have much “later” left, nobody did, but I slipped the phone into my pocket to try later or in case it rang.

I went into the main room and booted up the laptop. This time I tried to crack the code, but nothing worked, including such attempts as “SPA,” “NINE,” “9,” and “OUR FATHER.”

I went back into the bedroom and sat beside him.

“The phone lines are out,” I told him as he lay there, muttering and sweating. “I can’t get into your computer and we have forty-eight hours till they consume us. Well, more like forty-six hours. I know you’re hurting right now, but sometimes you have to suck it up and just push through. Take it from me; I’ve done more sucking it up than your average NFL quarterback.

“I need the access code to your computer, Nine. We’ve got to get in touch with headquarters, let them know what’s happened, and come up with some kind of plan. It would also be helpful to know what and where the devil’s door is, and you’re the expert. I’m just a kid mucking around with these demons, and I’m losing my grip. I mean, I think I’m going insane. I’ve been having these hallucinations about killing you, so I’m starting to not trust myself when it comes to homicidal impulses. I’ve got to get a grip on this situation because right now it’s got a grip on me—both of us, I guess.”

He probably couldn’t hear a word I said. I got a wet washcloth from the john and wiped his face with it and shouted right in his ear, but nothing worked.

Back in the main room, I opened up the minibar (I figured we were traveling on the corporate tab) and ate a chocolate bar, drank a Coke, then brought a bottle of Evian back into the bedroom and dumped the contents over his hound-dog head. He still didn’t wake up. I felt pretty bad about doing that, so I fetched a towel from the bathroom and dried him off the best I could.

“They get you with the worst thing,” I told him. “For me it was my mom. What are they doing to you? What’s the worst thing, Nine?”

I had a feeling I knew, and that gave me an idea. I sat back down in front of his IBM ThinkPad and typed in “ABKHAZIA.” A box popped up on the toolbar: “WELCOME NINE.”

I clicked on the SATCOM folder. The screen flickered, then another message box popped up: “SATCOM DOWN.” Below it was the little e-mail icon, so I clicked on that and his in-box popped up. There was only one message.

From: Aquarius

To: Nine

Subject: RE: OPREQ

As you predicted, Research advises active agent cannot be cloned or synthesized. What an annoying habit you have of always being correct. Accordingly, unless conditions on the ground warrant otherwise, protect at all hazards the ACTAGE carrier. Do not put him in harm’s way unless absolutely necessary.

Aquarius

I read this twice. What was “OPREQ”? Operational Requirement? Operative Request? “ACTAGE” must be short for “active agent,” but what was the active agent he was talking about? Then I remembered the briefing, and Op Nine talking about the 3XDs and the active agent, the whatever it was that gave the ammo its bite. And I remembered asking him in the desert if the bullets were loaded with holy water and him saying no, it was something he hoped was more powerful.

Then I remembered my dream, of the gigantic Kropp Fish and the little suckers all over my body, and how when I first woke up on the Pandora, I was dizzy and drank those big glasses of orange juice. I remembered the soreness under my arm, and suddenly it all came together. The sore spot must have been the insertion point for the needle they used. The needle to drain my blood.

I read the e-mail again: “. . . protect at all hazards the ACTAGE carrier . . .”

I clicked on the other boxes: Sent Mail, Trash, Drafts, but every file was blank.

So I clicked on the Compose button and wrote:

To: Aquarius

From: Nine

Subject: Help

I’m not sure who you are, but I guess you’re Director Merryweather. This is Alfred Kropp. I broke into this computer bcuz Op Nine is hurt. Still in Chi. City burning. Two days to get Vessel or world ends. Need help here. Send help.

AK

I hit the Send button and the message vanished. Then a dialogue box popped up.

Message Undeliverable: Unknown Recipient

“Wuddya mean?” I yelled at the computer. “ ‘Unknown recipient’?”

I hit the Compose button again.

To: Aquarius

From: Nine

Subject: Help

This is Alfred Kropp. We need help. No Hyena in Chi. Raining fire. Op Nine very hurt. 2 days or else. Send help!

AK

I hit the Send button and again the little box popped up. I clicked on his address book and a long list popped onto the screen. So I wrote a third e-mail to everyone on the list, a kind of bulk mail SOS.