The Seal of Solomon
“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.”
“I will strain to be jollier, Director.”
“Jolliness cannot be strained at, Nine. Look at those abysmal circus clowns. So, Alfred, here you are, quite safe, though not quite sound. However, the doctor assured me we can expect a full recovery. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you must not hesitate to let us know. Is there anything you need right now?”
“Yes,” I said. “My mom. I want my mom.”
He looked at Abigail Smith, who shrugged.
“You said anything at all,” I said.
“I’m afraid we’re fresh out of mothers here. However, perhaps you might like something to eat? What is your favorite food? Pizza? Hamburger? Perhaps a taco? Or ice cream. What is your favorite flavor?”
“I don’t want any of your freakin’ ice cream! I want to go home!” I was starting to lose it again.
“Alfred,” Dr. Smith said.
A loud buzzer interrupted her, followed by a man’s voice from a speaker hidden somewhere in the room.
“Dr. Merryweather, I think you’d better get down here.”
“Down where?” Merryweather asked.
“The morgue.”
He exchanged a look with Abigail Smith and Op Nine.
“Can’t it wait?” he asked.
“Uh, I don’t think so. And I think you’d better bring Kropp.”
“Bring Kropp?”
“Definitely bring Kropp.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for the morgue,” I said.
“I’ll meet you there,” Merryweather snapped at us, and hurried from the room.
Operative Nine and Abigail Smith untied my arms and helped me to my feet. Pain shot up my leg and my knee buckled. Operative Nine caught me before I hit the floor.
“What’s the matter with my leg?” I asked.
“You have been shot.”
“Shot? What about my arm? What happened to it?”
“Shot.”
“Two shots?”
He nodded. We were hustling down the corridor toward an elevator at the end of the hall. The walls were cinderblock, painted lime green, and the floor was gray. Abigail had one side of me and Operative Nine the other.
“What kind of guns do demons use?”
“You weren’t shot by demons; you were shot by Bedouins.”
Abigail punched the Down button.
“Bedouins! What do they have against me?”
“Nothing.”
“So they shot me just for the heck of it?”
The elevator door slid open and they helped me inside. I leaned against the back wall, trying to catch my breath. Abigail pressed the button labeled “LL24” and we started to descend. “They shot you because their master told them to,” Op Nine said.
“Their master? A demon?”
“The Hyena.”
“A hyena ordered some Bedouins to shoot me?”
“It is more complicated than that.”