by Rick Yancey
“Now in the possession of this King Paimon,” Merryweather added. “Who is Paimon?”
“One of the Firstborn of Heaven,” Op Nine answered. “Second only to Lucifer and the first to join the plot to overthrow heaven’s throne. In the literature Paimon rides upon a dromedary, though there are other accounts that put it astride a great winged beast of monstrous appearance. Two lesser kings usually attend Paimon, Bebal and Abalam, with a host of other infernal beings, twenty-five legions or more, and Paimon commands two hundred legions.
“Paimon is a teacher, granting secret knowledge to the holder of the Seal, bestowing all the hidden arts and mysteries of heaven and earth. Paimon controls wind and water and can bind men’s minds to the will of the conjurer. In short, of all the seventy-two lords, the Seal has fallen to perhaps the most powerful—and most terrible—of them all.”
“In other words,” the director said dryly, “the inmates have stolen the keys to the prison and for the first time since before Time, they answer to no one.”
The whiff of Cheetos reminded me I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a meal. My stomach commenced to growling and continued to growl for the rest of the briefing. I also didn’t know what time it was, what day it was, what month it was . . . although I was still pretty sure what year it was. What I needed, besides a meal, was something really ordinary, to remind me that I hadn’t fallen down some gruesome rabbit hole where the mad tea party included sixteen million guests, all of whom could make you tear your own eyeballs from your head.
“Let’s have SATCOM I-27S,” Merryweather said toward the ceiling. The lights dimmed again and sitting in the middle of the table was the gigantic bowl of glass in the desert. This image was a still shot, and Merryweather directed a laser pointer at a tiny black dot at the edge of the shiny surface.
“This, we believe, is the Hyena, minutes after the Seal was lost. This”—and he moved the tiny red dot to another speck in the scene—“is the altar. Enhance to the third, please.” The image grew, distorting slightly as it did, and now you could see the outline of the altar, though the edges were fuzzy. “The Vessel is gone. We assumed”—and here he cast a baleful eye in Op Nine’s direction—“that the IAs had absconded with the Lesser Seal as well. Now it appears they did not. The key operational assumption we will make henceforth is that the Hyena took the Vessel in the confusion after the ring was lost.”
“Why?” a lady agent named Sandy asked.
“Why what?”
“Why would Mike take the Vessel?”
“For protection, first,” Op Nine said. “He has a bargaining chip, should they find him before we do. He may also approach us to broker a deal.”
“I don’t understand,” Agent Jake said. “Why do they need the Vessel? We can’t put them back in it without the ring.”
“It is not a question of what they need,” Op Nine said. “Without the Vessel, there will always be the risk, however small, that somehow they might be returned to it. Having the prison in their hands ensures their freedom from it.”
“Their freedom to do what?” the agent named Greg asked.
“I don’t know,” Op Nine answered.
“Wait a minute, aren’t you the demonologist here? If you don’t know—”
“We do not need to know what they will do with their freedom,” Abby interrupted. “All we need to know is what they will do if they do not obtain the Vessel.”
She paused. Jake blew out his cheeks. Somebody coughed.
Op Nine was staring at the tabletop. Finally, Sandy blurted out, “Okay, I’ll bite. What will they do?”
Abby glanced over at me. So did Merryweather. I looked away. I didn’t want to tell them what I saw in Carl’s empty eye sockets. I didn’t want to talk about it because I didn’t want to think about it.
Op Nine spoke up. “Understand their hatred is beyond human comprehension. They abhor the Creator and so also the creation. Whatever brings joy, whatever brings peace, whatever redeems the dark deed or relieves the terrors of the night are their enemies. I do not know for certain what they intend to do, but I suspect it goes beyond our own pitiful comprehension of evil, our childlike notions of heaven’s opposite. We must assume their goal has not changed since the beginning of time. What will they do? They will consume us.”
29
“I still don’t get it,” Jake said. “What’s the point of pursuing the Hyena? Say we find him and get the Vessel—then what? We can’t use it because we don’t have the ring. We should be going after the ring, not the Vessel.”
“Yes, well, we’ll put you on that team,” the director said. “You can lead the assault up Everest against the sixteen million fiends.”
Jake ignored the sarcasm. “Maybe that’s what we oughtta do. Take it to them!”
“We are still making modifications to the 3XD,” Op Nine said. “As well as other applications for the active agent contained in the ammunition.”
“I’m talking a small team, maybe two or three ops with a couple Sherpas. We draw this, what’s-his-name, Paimon out and one shot to the hand does it.”
Op Nine shook his head. “Perversely, the Hyena’s instincts to seize the Vessel were correct. Obtaining it strengthens our position. At the very least, our possessing it will give them pause.”
“How so?”
“For the same reason they desire it. While it is outside their reach, they can never be assured of their freedom.”
“Maybe not,” Agent Jake shot back. “But they’ll still be free and we’ll still have no way of putting the genie back into the bottle. And you still haven’t answered my question, so I’ll ask it for, what, the third time . . . Let’s assume we get the Vessel—then what?”
I guess nobody had an answer for that, because nobody said anything.
“Gee, this is terrific,” Jake said quietly. “They better watch out, because we’re gonna give ’em pause.”
“Suggest an alternative,” Op Nine said icily. He didn’t like this Agent Jake, you could tell.
“Thought I already did.”
“We pursue the Vessel because it is the only option open to us. Your suggestion is a futile gesture, doomed to failure, and we must not abandon the one thing that separates us from the Fallen.”
“What’s that?” Jake asked.
“Hope.”
Dr. Merryweather clapped his hands suddenly and everybody gave a little jump. “So! We know where they are, we know what they want, and we know what they intend to do if they don’t get it. The Hyena must be found and the Vessel secured, or we may expect all you-know-what to break loose. The question is . . . where is he?”
Nobody said anything. The director looked at Abby. She stood up and Op Nine finally got to sit down. He didn’t look good. He didn’t look much better than Carl up in the morgue, and Carl was dead.
“All computer simulations return these ten locations as the most likely for target acquisition,” she said crisply. “Based on prior associations, duration, and comfort level.” She handed a stack of printouts to the person on her right, who took one and passed on the rest. The agent to my left took the last one, so I didn’t get to see what was on the printout. “We’ll dispatch teams of two to each location—”
“Why only two?” Jake asked.
“The smaller the team, the less likelihood of mission compromise.” “Also the less likelihood of finding the Hyena,” Jake said. “I say we put as many boots on the ground as possible.”
“Every signatory, with the exception of the Swiss, God bless ’em, has pledged full cooperation and logistical support,” Dr. Merryweather said. “The locals will be available, if called upon.”
“Again, Director,” Op Nine said, studying the printout, “I would suggest sending a team to the Hyena’s last known safe house.”
I wasn’t sure, but I guessed Op Nine was talking about the cabin in the mountains.
“Even Arnold isn’t that foolish,” Merryweather said. “Too obvious.”
Op Nine sta
rted to say something, but decided against it.
Abby cleared her throat and said, “Make sure your people understand this mission is strictly voluntary. The First Protocol applies: no one with immediate family, mission objective deemed Imperative. The Holy Vessel of Solomon must be obtained. For this reason, the Hyena has been designated as a ‘target’ under the definition contained in Section 189.23 of the Charter.”
“Good,” Agent Jake said. “I hope my team finds him. I’m gonna take great pleasure putting a fat one right between that jerk’s eyes.”
30
The meeting broke up into little pockets of mini-meetings, with the director, Abby, and Op Nine huddled in one corner, whispering. All three would glance in my direction every few seconds, so I guessed they were trying to decide what to do with me now. I didn’t figure they’d send me back to Knoxville: I knew too much and the encounter in the morgue with the devils’ mouthpiece sort of indicated I was the only person the demons would talk to. I figured they would put me on ice here in OIPEP headquarters, where they could keep an eye on me and where I could do the least amount of damage.
Nobody had brought up that I was the reason we were having a meeting in the first place. I’d had the ring in my hands. All I had to do was get it to Op Nine. Instead I tried to play King of the Demons. Of course, it’s hard to stay cool in the face of sixteen million spiteful spirits.
After a few minutes, Dr. Merryweather had to join a conference call between the President of China and the Dalai Lama, so Op Nine and Abigail escorted me back to my room. My leg had gone stiff from sitting so long; I had to lean heavily against Op Nine on the way back. It took a lot out of me, and I sat gasping on the bed while Abby and Op Nine engaged in a whispering argument, probably a continuation of the one in the conference room.
“I’m hungry,” I gasped. They kept arguing, so I said it louder: “I’m hungry!”
They stopped and stared at me for a second. Then Abby said, “What do you want?”
“Meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and some rolls.” I was trying to think of comfort food, what normal people living normal lives eat. “And a slice of pizza.”
“Pizza?”
“Pepperoni. Make that two slices. And some ice cream. Chocolate.”
She was smiling now. “Anything else?”
“No. Yes. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich. With a pickle spear. Claussen.”
“Claussen?”
“Or any crisp pickle, but Claussen’s my favorite.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
She started out of the room. “Oh, and a bag of Cheetos,” I called after her. “The crunchy kind.”
She left. Op Nine studied me with his dark eyes. He wasn’t smiling.
“What?” I asked. “Cheetos over the top?”
“Your appetite has returned. A good sign, Alfred.”
“Not too many of those lately—good signs, I mean. What happened in the battle, Op Nine, after I . . . ?” I couldn’t finish. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Once Paimon obtained the ring, it gathered the legions together and the battle was abandoned. They fled as fast as thought, Alfred.”
“Mike too.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“How do we know he has the Vessel?”
“The area was searched thoroughly after the encounter. The Lesser Seal is gone, Mike has vanished, and Paimon now demands its return. I do not doubt Mike has the Vessel.”
He took a deep breath and pressed his fingertips hard into the corners of his eyes.
“We lost forty-three of our helicopters and all but four of the insertion team.”
“Ashley?” I asked.
“Fortunately, she survived with only minor injuries.”
Hearing that made me feel better, but then worse for feeling better about her being alive when practically everybody else was dead.
“It’s my fault,” I said. “Once I got the ring from Mike I should have brought it to you. You would’ve known how to use it.”
“Yes,” he said. I didn’t know if the yes was to it being my fault the demons had the Seal or to him knowing how to use it. Maybe both.
“So I blew it—again. And now the demons are free with no way to control them.”
“No way that we can discern—yet. I have no doubt we shall find the way through our difficulties, Alfred.”
“How come?”
“Because, as I said a few moments ago, the alternative is despair.”
He excused himself after that, and I waited for my food. I was still waiting when Ashley stepped into the room. I sat up a little and ran a hand through my hair. I needed a haircut.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” She was dressed in a pale pink cashmere sweater with a soft, high collar, jeans, and these pink suede boots with fuzzy fold-over tops. She looked like she was on her way to the ski lift.
“Well,” I said. “I guess we made it.”
She nodded. “I guess so.”
She avoided making eye contact with me. Maybe she didn’t want to look into the eyes that had looked into the eyes of a demon.
“Why are you out of uniform?” I asked.
“I’m leaving.”
“To hunt for Mike?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m leaving the Company. I’ve turned in my resignation, Alfred.”
“Really?” I was shocked. “Can you do that? Just quit like that?”
“There’s no rule against it. But it’s frowned upon.”
“How do they keep you spilling all their secrets?”
“They know where I live.”
“You’re kidding.”
“And where my family lives.”
“You’re giving me the creeps, Ashley. For months I’ve been trying to convince myself that OIPEP is one of the good guys, then you tell me something like this.”
She shrugged. Most people don’t look good when they shrug. Shrugging makes their necks disappear, and nobody looks good without a neck—look at pro football players. But Ashley looked terrific when she shrugged. The blond hair bounced, one side of her mouth turned down, and a cute little line developed between her eyebrows.
“Sometimes good people have to do bad things,” she said.
“But isn’t that how you separate bad people from good? Bad people do bad things, good people do good things?”
“It’s probably a little more complicated than that.”
“Most things are. I can’t figure out if I just want things to be more simple or things seem more simple to me because I am.”
“Because you’re what?”
“Simple.”
She smiled. “You’re anything but simple, Alfred.”
I took that as a compliment, which I’m more likely to do when talking to a pretty girl.
“Why did you quit?”
She looked away. I said, “You quit because of what happened out there with the demons.”
She didn’t give a direct answer. She said, “I just . . . Sometimes you . . . sometimes things happen and you realize you’ve got your priorities all screwed up. I haven’t seen my family in over two years, not since the Company recruited me out of college. I miss them. I miss my old life. I don’t know if I can just pick it up after . . . after all that’s happened, but I’m going to try. That’s what they demand from you, Alfred: your life. And I’m not sure I can give it to them.”
“The First Protocol,” I said. She gave me a funny look. “That’s the First Protocol, isn’t it? Pledging to sacrifice your life for the greater good or something like that?”
She nodded. “Something like that, yes.”
“Well, all I can say is I thought you did a great job out there, Ashley. Really. And, you know, I’m sorry about what happened under the tarp . . .”
“The tarp?”
“You know, grabbing you and everything.”
She smiled and I could see the bright pink tip of her tongue.
“I wa
s glad you did.”
She said she hadn’t seen her family in two years and the Company had recruited her right out of college. That would make her about twenty-four or twenty-five. Ten years wouldn’t matter so much ten years from now, when she was thirty-five and I was twenty-five—those kinds of things happen all the time, especially among Hollywood couples, but right now it mattered a lot.
My timing always sucked. I wondered if I was attracted to her for the very reason that she was too old for me and that she was leaving.
“Anyway,” she said. “I wanted to see you before I left.”
“How come?”
“To see how you were. And to say good-bye.”
She stared at me for a long moment, a moment so long, I began to feel uncomfortable—more uncomfortable than usual—and then she leaned over quickly and kissed me on the cheek. I smelled lilacs.
She whispered in my ear, “Be careful, Alfred. They lied to you and they’ll lie again if they need to. They’re using you.”
The door sprang open at that moment and two guys rolled in a couple of carts with my comfort-food feast. Ashley pulled away quickly and she wiped away a tear.
“Good-bye, Alfred,” she said, and then walked out the door. That’s the last I saw of Ashley for a long time.
31
I wasn’t feeling so good after my meal—go figure—and, as if on cue, the door opened and the doctor came in, the same doctor from the morgue. I never got his name, so in my head I called him Dr. Watson, after Sherlock Holmes’s sidekick. I don’t know why I chose Dr. Watson, except it was the first name that popped into my head after the word “doctor.” I always thought those were two different kinds of doctors, those who worked on the living and those who worked on the dead. Maybe this doctor was both kinds, but still it made me feel a little creepy being examined by him.