The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp 2)

“Do you know you are the first civilian to set foot inside headquarters since its founding? Few know of its existence and none know its location, but these are extraordinary times, Alfred Kropp.”

And, while we marched down yet another corridor, he said, “You are in an underground city roughly the size of London.

And, like a city, there are shops and restaurants, a postal center, movie theaters, places of worship for all the major religions. Lecture halls, research facilities and a library that would be the envy of the world—if the world knew of it.”

“Sort of like OIPEP University,” I said.

He frowned. “There is no university here.”

“I was making a joke.”

“I see.”

“You know, only about two percent of the human population lacks a sense of humor, Op Nine.”

“Indeed. Then I am in a select group, yes?”

My stomach was bothering me before my feast because it was empty; now it bothered me because it was full. Next time, I promised myself, I wasn’t mixing pepperoni pizza, Cheetos, and a pint of double-chocolate-fudge ice cream.

We finally stopped at an unmarked door. Op Nine swiped the pad of his thumb over a sensor and the door swung open. We stepped inside a room that looked like a dry cleaners, with clothes hanging on poles that ran the entire length of the room. A round little man wearing a tweed vest appeared.

“Yes? What do you want?”

“Something appropriate for him,” Op Nine said, nodding at me.

The little guy stared at me.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Alfred Kropp.”

“I know who you are,” he said. He looked at Op Nine. “Define ‘appropriate.’ ”

“Private school, weekends in the Hamptons, old money,” Op Nine said.

The little guy looked at me, pursed his fat lips, and said, “If you say so, but it’s gonna be a stretch. Nationality?”

“American.”

He disappeared into the couture forest.

“We’re going undercover?” I asked.

“We’ve ruled out running ads and printing flyers,” Op Nine said. His eyes sparkled. “No humor.”

The little vest-wearing man came back with a stack of clothes—sweaters, shirts, pants, mostly khakis. For the next twenty minutes I tried on different combinations. Op Nine finally settled on a blue pullover sweater with khakis and brown loafers.

“It would work except for the hair,” vest-man said. “The hair’s all wrong, and the face.”

“What’s the matter with my face?” I asked.

“Pores too big. You’re supposed to be rich. Rich kids get dermabrasion and those zit pills.”

“We’ll risk it,” Op Nine said.

“Teeth are nice, though.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you should see my toenails.”

“I don’t want to see your toenails.”