The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(64)

“Game’s over,” Mike said. “There’s no way out.”

“I might be able to help,” Mr. Needlemier said. “But nobody has bothered to tell me exactly what is going on with these Seals . . . and who this OIPEP is . . . and what these demons are . . . and . . . and et cetera . . .”

We ignored him.

“Look, Op Nine,” I said. “It’s just the two of us, and I was given a deadline in Chicago with the clear understanding that if I miss it, there’s gonna be hell to pay—literally. I guess I made what you call a deal with the devil—more like sixteen million of them—but it was either that or lose all hope and that’s about all that we have left.”

Mike laughed. “What about your health, Al? Oh. Never mind.”

“Where’s that tire iron?” I asked Mr. Needlemier.

“Alfred, you do not understand them as I do,” Op Nine said. “You cannot presume they operate in good faith.”

“No, I’m presuming they’re going to keep eating me until I’m used up. Not dead. I’m already dead. I’m the walking dead, Samuel—that’s the message of the maggots. It’s already too late for me, but maybe it’s not too late for the world.”

“Paimon will not risk returning to its prison. It will never surrender the Seal.”

I took a deep breath. “Why don’t we blow it up?”

He gave me a quizzical look.

“How much of my blood did you put in those bullets? It couldn’t be more than a drop or two. What if we . . . used more?”

“Alfred,” Op Nine said. “What you’re suggesting—”

“I think that’s a terrific idea,” Mike said. “Let’s blow Al up.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “If I can get close enough to Paimon . . . it might give you a few seconds.”

“Hey, Saint Alfred,” Mike said. “Where was the death wish at the ravine? You had the chance.”

I stared at Mike for a long time. The ravine. His hand on my wrist. The black sword in my other hand.

I had it then. The answer popped into my head the same way all my memories had in the morgue.

I turned to Mr. Needlemier. “Where in Florida is the Devil’s Millhopper?”

“Gainesville.”

I turned to Op Nine. “I’ve got it now. I think I know what has to be done.”

51

Mike trailed behind us as we trotted to the Lexus.

“Tell me the truth,” he called after us. “You never had my mom, did you?”

Op Nine turned. “That is something you will not know until this is over—however it ends. You have been neutralized as a factor in this affair, Michael.”

“I never liked you,” Mike said. “And you can bet your bottom dollar the director’s going to hear about this.”

“Should we succeed, he will no longer be director and you will no longer be an operative. Both of you have violated our most solemn oath never to interfere with the affairs of any nation.” His dark eyes glittered. “And by doing so, you have endangered the very thing you intended to preserve.”

He got into the car. I slid in beside him and Mr. Needlemier closed my door. Soon we were heading back down the mountain. I looked through the window behind me and watched as the fog engulfed Mike Arnold.

“Now tell me what you intend to do, Alfred,” Op Nine said. “What is it that must be done?”

I explained it to him. Neither he nor Mr. Needlemier said a word.

We were on Alcoa Highway, about two miles from the airport, crawling along in the dense fog, when I finished and Op Nine said, “It is madness.”

“Well,” I said, “in case nobody’s noticed, I’m already leaning in that direction.”

“But it has no hope of success.”

“You know that isn’t true,” I said. “Paimon can’t risk letting me die.”

“Alfred, your life means nothing to Paimon.”

“No, but the Vessel means everything. And I’m the key to it. Paimon won’t risk losing the key.”

He shook his head. I cleared my throat. “And anyway, if it doesn’t work, you’ll still have the Vessel and you can try something else.”

He turned away then and looked out the window, though there was nothing to look at but his reflection in the glass. He reached over and put his right hand on my forearm.

“Alfred, I am sorry for all this. Sorry for bringing you to the nexus and sorry for lying to you.”

“Why did you bring me to the nexus?”

“You were the carrier of the active agent. We had to be prepared for any contingency.”

“You had the same idea—to use me for a bomb or something?”

He didn’t say anything. He kept staring at his reflection.

“It’s not easy, is it? Being a SPA.”

He shook his head. “No.” He started to say something else, but he decided to leave it at that, I guessed. “No.”

The CCR was parked where we’d left it at the airport. Mr. Needlemier hung back, looking a little awkward, as I carried Op Nine’s duffel and my sword to the supercharged sports car. I dropped the duffel into the passenger seat and stuck the sword into the space behind it. I went back to the Lexus.