The Seal of Solomon
“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.
“This is totally outside the range of my experience,” Mr. Needlemier said. Then he added, unnecessarily, “I’m frightened, Alfred.”
“Doing something helps,” I told him. “Otherwise it just eats you alive. Do you know about the secret chamber beneath Mr. Samson’s desk?”
He stared at me and didn’t say anything.
“Guess not. There’s a secret chamber under Mr. Samson’s desk. The desktop lifts up and there’s a keypad. The numbers correspond to letters just like on a telephone. The code is my name.”
“Your name?”
“I don’t remember the numbers off the top of my head, but the code is ‘Alfred.’ When you get it open, put the Vessel inside and lock it back down again. Understand?”
He nodded. “Yes, I understand. Is there anything else, Alfred?” “I don’t want to be adopted by Horace Tuttle.”
“Of course, but you understand the final decision is up to the judge.”
“And I don’t want him to be the trustee of the estate. I want you to be.”
“Me?”
“And if I don’t make it back—and I probably won’t—I want you to take all the money and give it away.”
“Give it—who do I give it to?”
“I don’t know. Find some worthy people. Start with the kids living with the Tuttles. Especially the kid named Kenny. Take care of him, Mr. Needlemier.”
“Of course.”
“I’m telling you this in case things don’t work out. Anyway, I’m talking too much. I have to go. Good-bye, Mr. Needlemier.”
Back at the CCR, I told Op Nine, “You’re driving.” I dug the old book from the duffel bag, along with a map. “I’ve got to study.”
52
“We’re taking I-75 all the way,” I told Op Nine, tracing the route with my index finger. “It goes right through Gainesville.”
I wasted about two minutes trying to refold the map. What is it about maps? Folding them is like trying to work a puzzle. I gave up and stuffed it behind my headrest. Then I opened The Ars Goetia and flipped through it, looking for the Words of Command.
Op Nine glanced over at me.
“If not spoken exactly, word for word, the command will fail,” he pointed out.
“Thanks for the tip,” I muttered. “There’s about twenty different incantations here. Which one do I use?”
“The Words of Constraint.”
That particular spell went on for half a page. Even on my best days, I was horrible at memorization. I looked over at him.
Ask him, a voice whispered inside my head. Ask and hear his answer!
It didn’t surprise me, hearing the voice. The whispering had been going on for a while, but I had been able to ignore it for the most part. Now it was louder, more insistent. I didn’t wonder whose voice it was. I’d heard it before. It was the voice of Paimon, the voice of the demon king.
I cleared my throat. “I know this whole thing is my fault . . .”
It is thy fault, worthless carcass!
“And probably since I’m the one who screwed things up I should fix them, but wouldn’t it make more sense if you did it?”
Now listen as he abandons thee!
“I mean,” I added when he didn’t say anything, “you already know these spells, right?”
Op Nine didn’t look at me. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
See? Thou art alone. There is no one to help thee.