“Kropp? Is that with a C or a K?”
“With a K.”
“One P or PP?”
“PP.”
The music came back on. I stamped my feet and shifted my weight from side to side and blew on a cupped hand, then switched the receiver to blow on the other.
“Mr. Krapp?”
“Kropp.”
“One moment please for Mr. Vosch.”
A series of clicks and pops as she routed the call. I looked up. The sky was cloudless and brilliant with stars. I’d never seen so many stars.
“Kropp,” Vosch said.
“Vosch. I’m ready.”
“Where are you?”
I told him.
“Stay there. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“I’m going to wait inside the store,” I said. “It’s cold. And Vosch? Is it too late for Mr. Needlemier?”
“No, Alfred. You’re just in time.”
I waited inside the store, sipping my Big Gulp. The clerk was glaring at me, so I bought a Snickers. I thought about buying another corn dog, but two was the lucky number. I kept glancing at my watch. Every second that passed was a second where Ashley might change her mind or Nueve might arrive and change it for her. I wondered if Sam would kill Nueve or if Nueve would win that battle. They were both Op Nines at the top of their game; it would be a close match. I watched the deserted lot through the plate-glass windows.
“Get hold of your dad?” the clerk asked.
I nodded. “It won’t be long now.”
A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up next to the building. The front passenger door swung open and Vosch stepped out, snapping the collar of his fashionable tan duster. He did a slow turn, surveying the lot, right hand inside the pocket of the duster.
I told the clerk bye and she said, “Hey, let’s do it again real soon,” and then I was standing outside in the cold before Vosch.
“I’m alone,” I said.
“You wouldn’t lie to me, Alfred.”
“I’m the son of a knight. Honesty’s in our blood.”
He laughed like I had gotten off a good joke, opened the door for me, and I slid into the second seat. I was sitting beside a small, weaselly looking guy with a sharp nose and narrow shoulders, who smelled like peanut butter. He said, “Don’t move,” and then he frisked me. Vosch rode shotgun next to a big, flat-faced, slitty-eyed goon who could have been a clone of the big, flat-faced, slitty-eyed goon I took out on the highway. Like pretty girls, I guess, big, flat-faced, slitty-eyed goons were a dime a dozen.
“He’s clean,” Weasel said.
We got on I-15 heading north toward the airport.
“I know where you’re taking me,” I said. “I know where the circle ends.”
“Most apropos, yes?” Vosch asked.
“Oui,” I said.
00:11:03:21
When you look down at it from thirty-five thousand feet, the Atlantic is as featureless as a chalkboard and about as interesting to watch. But I watched it, hoping the gray monotony would make me drowsy. I needed sleep.
Vosch reclined in the leather seat across from me, wearing a white turtleneck and gray slacks. Flat-Face II sat directly behind me and Weasel beside him, both fast asleep, their snores bugging the heck out of me. Nothing is more annoying than a person sleeping when you can’t.
I watched the ocean. Vosch watched me.
“ ‘Alone, alone, all, all alone,’ ” he said softly. “ ‘Alone on a wide wide sea!/And never a saint took pity on/My Soul in agony . . .’ ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ by Coleridge. Do you know it?”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to care.
“ ‘Poetry is how the soul breathes . . .’ I forget who said that. I suspect your exposure to it is limited to the lyrics of P. Diddy and Jay-Z. You can listen to them if you like. We have satellite radio. And television. There’s also a full library of DVDs onboard. We just added the complete six-volume Three Stooges collection. In high def! You might find the parallels comforting.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“And books,” he said. “Classics and popular literature. No comics, I’m afraid. You strike me as an Archie fan. That Jughead! And will Arch ever choose between Veronica and Betty?”
“You’re really a well-rounded guy,” I said. “Poetry, books, music, comics, kidnapping, torture, assassination.”
“Oh, I dabble. What is the American expression? Jack of all trades, master of none.”
“There’s one thing that’s been bugging me,” I said.
“About the Thirteenth Skull.”
He smiled, an eyebrow climbing toward his hairline.
“Yes?”
“Why does Jourdain need to kill me to get it?”
“Why does he—?” Vosch cracked up. He laughed until tears shone in his eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“Ah, Alfred,” Vosch said as he dabbed his cheek with a white handkerchief. “I suppose for the same reason the chicken must cross the road.”
“A friend told me Jourdain was chasing a myth.”
“A friend told you this? You should exercise better judgment in your choice of friends, I would say!”
He reached forward suddenly and, before I could react, grabbed my head, his palm pressed against my nose, fingertips digging into my scalp.
“There is nothing mythical about our quest, Alfred Kropp. Even now the Skull is within our possession and in a few hours it will find its place among the Twelve.”
He started to go on and then stopped himself. I wondered if he was disobeying orders by telling me.
He changed the subject.
“I knew you would call, of course. Once you realized we would take Needlemier. He’s the largest piece left on the board; you couldn’t afford to lose him. And ‘Greater love hath no man than this,’ yes?”
“I know that one. It’s from the Bible.”
“Though Needlemier somewhat stretches the definition of ‘friend.’ He gave Samuel to us quicker than you can say Judas.”
“Maybe he’s just not cut out for this kind of chess.”
“Not like we are, certainly.”
“Don’t lump me in with you, Vosch.”
“Why shouldn’t I? We’re not so different, you and I. You grasped immediately my move against the lawyer, just as I discerned your countermove to contact me. Even our motives are similar, Alfred. You would do anything to protect your friends, just as I would do anything to protect my patron Jourdain Garmot. Now we near the end of the game: I bring you to him while you plot your response. What is it? An ambush at Tintagel? Your guardian and this mysterious yet beautiful blonde await our arrival? Or have you enlisted the aid of the saber-wielding Spaniard and his powerful Company?”