The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(56)

I decided we should go on down to the lobby to wait for the car. That worked better in theory than in practice. I had Op Nine on one shoulder and the big duffel on the other, and it felt like any second I was going to topple over and land smack on my pustulating face.

The lobby seemed even more crowded and noisy than before. I managed to get us close to the revolving door so I could check out the street. I looked at my watch. Forty-five minutes had passed. I dialed Needlemier’s number on Op Nine’s cell phone and, after counting fifteen rings, hung up.

Five minutes later, a man in a gray suit with dark shiny hair appeared beside me and touched my elbow.

“Excuse me,” he said.

He drew back a little when I turned to him. I guess he wasn’t expecting Weeping Boil Boy.

“I’m Alfred Kropp,” I said.

“I know who you are. My name is Gustav Dahlstedt, with the Koenigsegg Corporation.”

“You’re the car guy.”

He nodded and smiled. “Alphonso Needlemier sent me. He said it was urgent, yes?”

“Urgent, you bet.”

He touched the strap of the duffel. “May I?” I nodded, he shouldered the bag, and I followed him through the revolving door. Revolving doors are tough enough, but try doing it with somebody the size of Op Nine draped all over you.

It was freezing outside, but the tall buildings blocked most of the icy fireballs falling from the sky. We followed Mr. Dahlstedt into the alley beside the Drake. Parked beside a Dumpster was a low-slung sports car the color of a smoky sunset.

Mr. Dahlstedt’s chest swelled a little as he said, “The Koenigsegg CCR, the fastest production car in the world, Mr. Kropp. Note the boldly shaped side air intakes and the front splitter, designed to optimize high speed aerodynamics.”

“That’s fantastic,” I said. “Can you pop the trunk for me?”

He blinked. “There is no trunk.”

He had the key ring in his hand. He pressed a button on the remote and both doors slowly rose and rotated forward. I lowered Op Nine into the passenger seat, grabbed the duffel from Gustav, and stuffed it into the little space behind Nine’s head.

“The engine of the CCR is boosted by a bicompression Centrifugal Supercharging System,” he went on, as if I wasn’t fully appreciating my good fortune. “With twin parallel mounted Rotrex compressors, generating the one-point-four bar boost pressure needed to create the colossal output.”

“Colossal output, gotcha,” I said. On the hood of the CCR I noticed a silver logo of a ghost floating inside a circle.

“Ah, you have discovered our ghost. It adorns all our CCRs. An homage to the Swedish Fighter Jet Squadron Number One.”

“I’m not too crazy about spirits,” I said. He trailed after me, speaking rapidly now, like the spiel came with the wheels.

“Eight hundred and six horsepower extreme peak value at six-point-nine rpms. Zero to sixty in three-point-two seconds. Three-point-two seconds, Mr. Kropp.”

I dropped my boil-covered butt into the driver’s seat and put both hands on the tan, leather-covered steering wheel.

“How fast does it go?” I asked.

“Oh, now that is something we do not advertise,” he said, beaming. “We tell our customers 245 plus. The ‘plus,’ of course, relies upon road variables and your own conscience.”

So Mr. Needlemier had taken me literally: I was behind the wheel of the fastest car in the world.

He handed the keys to me and I started the car. The thing woke up and growled.

Mr. Dahlstedt held out a credit card.

“At the direction of your company, for gas and incidentals,” he said. I took the card. Platinum AMEX in the name of Samson Industries.

“Thanks, Mr. Dahlstedt,” I said. “Thanks a bunch. How do I close these doors?”

He showed me the button and kept talking as the doors rotated shut.

“We appreciate your business, Mr. Kropp! My card is in the glove compartment. Do call if there is any—”

The doors snapped shut, cutting him off. I gingerly pressed down on the accelerator and the car leaped forward, like some kind of beast being let out of a cage. I made a hard left out of the alley, back wheels screeching and sending up twin plumes of white smoke.

Damn the road variables. And damn my conscience too. I was going to find out how much “plus” there was in 245 mph “plus.”

44

Orange and white barrels blocked the on-ramp onto I-90. I didn’t let the barrels concern me. Op Nine jerked in his seat when I took them out at sixty-five and his jaw clenched as I hit the interstate at ninety-seven. Then we really booked. After twelve minutes and taking out another set of barrels, we were on I-65 heading south toward Indianapolis pushing 240 miles per hour.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning, but it seemed like twilight under the low gray clouds spitting burning chunks of ice. The hell-storm was beginning to slack off though. I didn’t know what that was about but maybe the demon hordes were honoring my request to back off so I could deliver the goods.

“There are faces in the clouds,” Op Nine murmured. “Do you see them?”

I could see them. Distorted human faces that bulged and receded, some laughing, some snarling, some with hooded eyes and crooked noses and some blank as masks, which was scarier in a different way.

“Does the name Abalam mean anything to you, Alfred?”