“On July 18, 1983, two of us were inserted into Krubera. Myself and the very best operative the Company had at the time—a young man with a brilliant future, a protégé of mine who idolized me and who would obey any order I gave, no matter how ridiculous. These are the kind of agents OIPEP looks for, Alfred. Men and women who are willing to challenge the very gates of hell itself for the sake of the mission.” He gave a bitter laugh. “The mission!”
“On the third day of our descent, as we reached the four-thousand-foot mark, an earthquake struck, as is common in that region. I would like to say it was borne of natural causes . . . but I cannot say that; even to this day, I cannot say that. The cave collapsed a thousand feet above us, burying us under three tons of rock. We had carried in enough water and rations to sustain two people for seven days.”
He swallowed hard, and I watched his prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down.
“Or one person for fourteen days,” he added.
“So your friend was killed in the earthquake?” I asked.
“No. No, Alfred. We survived the quake with only minor injuries.”
“But Ashley said you were the only one to come out alive.”
He nodded. “The Company dispatched a rescue team at once, for our communications to the surface had not been lost. They radioed down to us an estimate of the time it would take to dig us out . . . thirty days.”
He fell silent. The silence went on and on. I was shaking so badly by this point, my neck had begun to hurt.
“So . . . so he starved to death? But if you were down there for a month, how did you keep from starving too?”
“He did not starve, Alfred.”
“Well, if he didn’t starve, then . . .” I stopped. “Oh, God. You didn’t.”
“You said before that I supersede the First Protocol. It is more accurate to say that I am the First Protocol. I am the personification of it. I am the Superseding Protocol Agent, the Operative Nine. I am the mission, and the mission must survive.”
He looked at me then, the first he had looked at me since he began his story.
“And I did that which must be done to preserve the mission.” I cleared my throat. “It still doesn’t add up. Thirty days to get you out and you had rations for only two weeks. How did you . . . ?”
I waited for an answer, but I already knew the answer and it struck me suddenly how cruel I was being, asking him to give it.
“So you see, Alfred, sometimes it is a good thing to be a Section Nine operative. To have no name and no past and no . . . barriers. It is codified absolution. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I read the section over and over, like a dying man reads the Scriptures to quell his terror. But the comfort it gives is fleeting. For whatever remained of Father Sam before Abkhazia died in the abyss called Krubera.”
54
He was staring at the juncture where the tunnel of smoke met the rings of fire.
“Samuel,” I said. “Time’s up. We have to go.”
“I can’t go with you, Alfred,” he said.
“What do you mean you can’t go with me?”
He turned to me and tears were in his eyes. “You spoke of that place—the point between desperation and despair. I know that place well, Alfred. And we have been there, you and I, since the Seal was lost.”
“This isn’t you,” I said. “It’s them. Don’t let them do this to you, Samuel. I need you. I don’t think I can do this without you.”
“We have been fools, Alfred. It was over the moment Paimon obtained the ring. It is Krubera repeating itself, except this time there is no hope of rescue. There is no hope at all.”
He leaned in and whispered, “Do you know why they hate us so much, Alfred? Because of hope. They have none, and so they hate us for it. But I think they hate you most of all, for the power of heaven itself courses through your veins. Their hatred of you is only exceeded by their fear. It was fear that stayed their hand in Evanston, fear of what might be released should they kill you.”
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out the same metal flask he had used in the desert, before our assault on the demon hordes. He unscrewed the top and shook some of the water onto his trembling fingers. His voice was shaking too, as he traced the sign of the cross on my forehead.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. God bless and keep you, Alfred Kropp, last son of Lancelot, Master of the Holy Sword, favored of Saint Michael the Archangel, Prince of Light, God’s champion who hurled the outcasts from heaven—may he guard and bring you safely through this trial.”
Then he made the sign again in the air.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Go now, Alfred. And may God go with you.”