Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

"You can't bring the dog inside," the man said sternly.

The man's breath confirmed Jason's suspicions. He hoped W. Smith would stay away from open flames.

Jason glanced around furtively, a man not wanting to be noticed, although the foyer was devoid of tourists. "It's okay, Officer. This is a bomb-sniffing dog."

The man with the badge seemed little less assured. "Bomb?"

Jason shook his head, lowering his voice. "Nothing to worry about; just a practice run."

The guard glared at Pangloss. "Nobody said nothin' to me 'bout any dog, bomb-sniffin' or otherwise."

Jason managed a look of surprise. "Really?" He nodded toward a telephone hanging on the wall beside the door. "Why not give Dr. Kamito a call, tell him Jason Peters is here with the dog."

With one suspicious eye on the tail-wagging Pangloss, W. Smith punched in a three-digit number and grunted into, the phone before turning to face Jason. "He says you know the way and for you and the dog to come on up."

It was clear W. Smith did not approve as man and dog walked across the entrance hall to a single elevator. If ever Pangloss were to break house-training, Jason thought, Lord, let it be now.

Prayers unanswered, Jason stepped into a long hall at the top of the building. He and the dog drew curious stares but no comments from people in white lab coats bent over microscopes, chipping at rocks, or working in a huge chemistry lab.

Unknown to most, the CIA was one of the largest contributors to the Smithsonian, particularly its natural history and aerospace subsidiaries. In return for its generosity, the agency had access to a number of the museum's scientifically oriented staff on a consulting basis.

For example, who better than a seismologist to predict, as far as predictions were possible, an upheaval of the earth's surface likely to disrupt or distract an uncooperative government for a few days? Even less known, for example, was the prediction within seventy-two hours of the Afghan- Pakistan-Indian earthquake of October 2005. The resulting destruction and chaos enabled a thorough search for terrorists camps in an area of Pakistan that the United States supposed ally had insisted the Pakistan Army had secured.

Jason had previously used the services of Dr. Ito Kamito, head of the museum's geology division and a specialist in geochemistry. Two years ago, Narcom had taken a rare job for someone other than the agency. The De Beers consortium of diamond fame was faced with rumors of gems allegedly mined in the Siberian permafrost. Knowledgeable sources told of gems indistinguishable from those of South Africa and half as expensive. The tension in the voice of the De Beers representative indicated that they took the threat very seriously.

The prospect of the loss of a few euros was one of two events that could provoke emotion from a Dutchman. Jason wasn't sure what the other was.

Posing as an international jewel dealer of shady repute and enormous resources, Jason had managed to smuggle one of the Russian stones from a mine inside the arctic circle and bring it to Dr. Kamito. Within a week he ascertained that the gems were not formed by carbon under intense geological pressure, the definition of diamonds, but were a form of Mesozoic era glacially ground glass with the same weight and spectrographic properties as the real thing.

The De Beers company expressed its gratitude by paying Nacom's bill promptly and without haggle, perhaps a first for the diamond consortium.

Near the far end of the hall, a small man stepped out of a door. Had Jason not recognized him, he would have mistaken him for a child in his parent's lab coat. Myopic eyes peered through bottle-bottom-thick glasses. An almost perfectly round face was split by a megawatt smile as he bowed slightly and extended a hand. There was only a trace of his native Japan in his Speech.

"Jason! Good to see you again!"

Dr. Kamito might be Asian, but he was anything but inscrutable. Jason had never seen him in anything but a good mood.

The man clearly did not understand his world.

The two met with the doctor's usual enthusiastic handshake, a. gesture that reminded Jason of pumping water from a very deep well. With his other hand, the scientist was scratching between Pangloss's ears, incurring a potentially enduring friendship.

"So, this is the dog you told me about? Can he truly smell explosives, as you told Mr. Smith?"

"Don't see why not; he sniffs everything. Whether he would know to alert us if he found any is another matter."

As he indicated that they should enter the open door, Dr. Kamito's slightly slanted eyes narrowed; he was unsure whether Jason was joking. "Bomb-sniffing or not, welcome."

The office was as Jason remembered it: imitation wood desk in front of a wall paved with diplomas, certificates, and other documents in multiple languages, including what Jason guessed was Japanese. Two prints, both depicting Revenge of the Ronin, added primary color. Between the desk and wall were a chair on casters and a small credenza, which left scant space for the sole visitor's chair. Nestled on the papers scattered across the desk was a plastic box, the sort that contained take-out food. Through the clear lid, Jason could see several slivers of what he gathered was raw fish.

Dr. Kamito followed his glance. "Some of the bestseeing-looking-tuna in a long time; makes a great breakfast."

Jason sat, certain his face didn't show the heave his stomach gave at the thought of raw fish first thing in the morning. "Better for you than a bagel, I guess."

The chemist smiled broadly, exposing more teeth than Jason had seen since Jimmy Carter. "You are familiar with sashimi?"

Jason managed a weak grin. "I grew up with it."

He managed not to add, Except when I was a kid, we called it "bait."

The doctor proffered the box. "I have some chopsticks here somewhere."

Jason put up a protesting hand. "Mighty generous of you, but I've already eaten."

Pangloss wasn't quite as eager to turn down the offer, but a gentle pull on the leash made him sit in front of the chair. Soon he was stretched out on the bare linoleum floor, snoring.

Kamito was digging around under the debris on his desk. "If I can just find chopsticks…" He produced an ivory pair from under a file folder, opened the box, and scissored a piece of fish into his mouth. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure. Thanks."

Kamito smacked his lips in pleasure as he pursued another cut of tuna. "If you didn't come for the sashimi, you must have come for the company."

Jason reached into the pocket of his new jacket, producing both the report he had gotten from Mama and the one given him by Drum, or whatever the CIA man's name had been. He handed them across the desk, and Kamito read as he finished the tuna.

"That explains it," he said upon completing the reading of both papers.

Jason raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"Your people, the agency…"

"Not my people, Doc. I'm just an independent contractor."

Kamito shook off the distinction as though all people in Jason's line of work were the same to him. "Ah, so. Yesterday some guy walked in here and handed me a package. Nothing unusual about that; we get samples of rocks and stuff all the time. This one, though, had no return address, no nothing other than a typed note asking that I do a chemical analysis with special attention given to trace ethylene. Just a test tube of what looked like clay, soil of some kind, with a few pebbles mixed in."

The chemist shook his head in puzzlement. "It would have been easy enough to at least let me know what to look for, who it was from, something. Sometimes I think you guys believe in secrecy for its own sake. Who else would send stuff like that anonymously? I'm surprised you people sign your Christmas cards."