Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

Any semblance of normality ended with appearances.

Jason knew that while the car was waiting for the machine to spit out a ticket, scales set into the floor were weighing the vehicle. In less than a second, a computer compared the poundage to the manufacturer's specified weight, adjustments were made for a possible full tank of gas, and a formula applied for the number of occupants. Should the car exceed what the system deemed normal, a steel curtain would drop from the ceiling, preventing further access while probes extended from the walls to take air samples in much the same way bomb-sniffing dogs operated at airports.

The machine determined the rental car posed no risk, and Jason drove into a nearly empty basement. An elevator returned him to ground level, and he entered the three stories of smoked glass. Last night's rain was still a thousand diamonds on the carefully manicured lawn along the flagstone pathway to the entrance.

Almost all the buildings in the vicinity displayed signs announcing the services of one or more security companies. So did this one. Visibility was, after all, part of security. An intruder would, presumably, be less inclined to invade the premises of an establishment guarded by the usual electronic devices.

There were certain differences from nearby similar structures, had one looked in the right places, differences of which no ordinary burglar would have ever heard. But then, it was not the ordinary burglar Narcom wished to deter.

Jason knew his image was being transmitted inside by a series of well-concealed cameras. One step off the path would trigger sensors buried an inch or so deep under lush grass, green despite the season. The glass of the exterior was reinforced sufficiently to withstand any projectile smaller than an artillery shell. Well out of sight from below, the roof sprouted a forest of antennae. Window shades were rubber lined. When pulled, as they were anytime an important conversation was in progress, they made it impossible for listening devices outside to pick up vibrations in the glass caused by words spoken inside.

An electric eye opened the door as Jason reached it. The lobby, the twin of hundreds of others in the area, contained the usual potted plants and a reception desk manned by a woman who, by any measure, should have made an appearance on one of those reality shows where looks compensated for lack of plot. She had the pale, clear skin that went with naturally blond hair, and blue eyes without warmth.

As Jason approached, she watched with cold disinterest. From a few feet away he could read the tag pinned to the black camisole-type top, which, though not transparent, gave the impression of frilly lingerie underneath. He was not surprised to learn her name was Kim, nor would Lisa, Lori, or Ashley have been a shock.

He knew from previous observation that her fingers were never more than a few inches from a panel of screens that, when touched, could do everything from locking every door in the building to lowering a steel curtain between the entrance and the receptionist. Behind her, a mir rored wall was actually two-way glass, giving a complete view of the lobby to armed men who waited in perpetual readiness for whatever situation might arise. The place's security was second only to the White House's.

Kim imitated a smile, flashing teeth that would have inspired any orthodontist. "Help you, sir?"

"Good morning, Kim. I'm Jason Peters, and I'm expected."

She gave Jason a slow inspection, making no effort to conceal the fact that she was appraising him in the same way she might decide whether an insect was likely to sting or bite. Under other circumstances he might have taken a lingering look like that as interest, but her manner was of one who had no intent of inviting personal overtures. An expensive fur coat draped over the far corner of the counter explained a lot. He doubted Kim could have purchased it on her salary. She already had a "friend" with a bankroll.

Girls like Kim got minks the same way minks got minks.

"If you'll just step over here, sir."

Jason was familiar with the drill. Extending both arms, he placed the thumb of each hand on a screen that was part of the top of the desk.

She watched a monitor behind the desk. "Mr. Peters, I see you have a meeting in a few minutes. Know your way?"

"Indeed I do." He walked to the left of the desk, bowing slightly. "A delight to have made your acquaintance."

Kim had already returned to staring at the monitors in front of her.

A previously invisible door wheezed open, and Jason entered a small room, where he was patted down by one man while another, an M16A2 assault rifle in the crook of his arm, observed. A large dog of indeterminate breed sniffed for explosives.

The dog made Jason think of Pangloss, and he wished they both were back in the low-tech world of the Turks and Caicos. By now the day would be well under way there, the sun up hours ago. Reality intruded and he sighed, aware that it was unlikely he would ever claim North Caicos as a residence again, not if he wanted to stay alive. The place would be under observation.

"You'll have to empty your pockets."

Jason produced the rental car keys, a handful of change, and a small pocketknife.

The man not holding the rifle looked skeptically at the latter. "This some sort of weapon?"

"Not if you're attacking anything larger than a mouse. The blade is less than two inches long."

A moment of indecision. Jason could almost hear the line of thought: if box cutters could be used to take over airliners…

Jason handed it over. "Tell you what: you hold it till I come back through. If I have to kill someone, I'll do it with my bare hands."

"Thank you, sir." The man was clearly happy to be relieved of having to make a decision. "It'll be waiting for you."

As Jason stepped forward, there was a buzz, the snick of heavy bolts sliding, and the door on the other side of the room whirred open. A bank of two elevators faced him. Jason knew there were no buttons for selection of floors inside either. The cars moved at the direction of people elsewhere in the building.

Two floors up, another man greeted him with an expressionless face and voice to match. "This way, Mr. Peters."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned to precede Jason down a corridor flanked with steel doors.

The hall was deserted, filled with only the faint hum of electronic equipment and the sound of four shoes squeaking on linoleum. At the end a door swung open, throwing a beam of light into the otherwise dim hall. Framed in silhouette was a woman whose features appeared clearer as he drew close. Not old but not young, either. She wore listless brown hair in a bun behind her long, thin face.

She dismissed his escort and extended a slender hand to touch Jason's. The feel of her skin was as arid and cool as the first autumn breezes along the Potomac. She wore the fragrance he remembered, something that smelled of dried flowers.

"Bond, James Bond, to see M," he said in an overdone British accent.

She favored him with the threat of a smile. "Hello, Jason. Good to see you again. You're looking fit, all tan. The tropics must agree with you."

"Certainly more than Washington, Miss Tyson."

She clucked disapprovingly. "Now, now, Jason. We're happy to see you again."

He wondered if the pronoun included her boss. He had never known the boss to be happy about anything that didn't involve death, destruction, and mayhem of some sort.

"Nice to see you again, too."

Still holding his hand, she drew him across the threshold and the door silently swung shut.

Jason glanced around, noting the lack of change. The same bleak reception area, furnished with only a desk and secretarial chair that faced a worn leather couch. The walls were without windows or pictures. The room had the personality of a dial tone. He had often wondered how someone could spend time in such quarters, looking at nothing. Particularly if, as was the case with Miss Tyson, they never seemed to have anything to do. Perhaps she came in here only when her boss was expecting someone.