Chapter 20: Into the Lion's Den

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I couldn't get that last sight of Diana out of my mind. She was smiling, laughing – did she have any idea how enchanting her laughter was? – she looked almost cheerful; and that was just wrong. She knew how dangerous this was; she had argued against it vociferously enough. Why was she so light-hearted now?

The analytical part of my mind suggested I was focusing on that image because it might be the last time I ever saw Diana. That thought brought the Bat to the forefront. I could not afford such thoughts, it told me. I agreed, took a deep steadying breath and allowed the mantle of the Bat to settle over me. I ruthlessly pushed all thoughts of Diana to the back of my mind, where they could not distract me.

It was none too soon. We were approaching a small concrete hut, the sort of structure that might contain supplies for the gardeners who maintained the park. Paul pulled out a key – the lock was a Medeco double cylinder Maxum deadbolt, I noted – and opened the door.

Inside was a small room with the door to an elevator at the far end. The only other thing in the room was a metal table along one wall, with a variety of electronic gadgets on it. One resembled a microwave with a small screen on top but was, in fact, a compact x-ray machine; another was a large screen video comsystem. While Paul covered us, George collected a wand that anyone who flew regularly would recognize.

"Arms out to the sides and legs apart," he ordered us and proceeded to identify every bit of metal on each of us, including the gold crown on one of my molars. He let me keep the crown, but everything else went – one by one – into the "microwave" to be x-rayed. Then a second, more complex-looking wand was run over us, inside and outside of our coats and jackets.

Next came an item a little like an oversized palmtop, except that – when he pointed it at each of us in turn – a red beam came out of the end and scanned over us from the top of our heads to the tips of our toes. George grunted as the readout on the scanner showed that none of us were metas.

Lana Ross had to go through the same examination as the rest of us, although the Secret Service agents were noticeably more polite with her. Throughout the whole process, Paul kept his gun out and his attention focused on us.

Finally, George turned to the comsystem. He hit a button and the screen came alive with the image of another man; from his dress and demeanor, another Secret Service agent.

"We're through up here. We're coming down. Better tell Hirst; he'll want to be there."

"He's already here," the other agent told him, "and anxious to hear your reason for bringing in guests at a time like this."

"I told you," George replied with some irritation. "Talk to the First Lady about that."

We got into the elevator; it was crowded with all seven of us in there. Paul held his gun to my head as the elevator descended. I estimated we were thirty feet underground when it stopped and the door opened into a considerably larger vestibule than up top.

We had a welcoming committee: a half dozen Secret Service in body armor and holding HDC-standard issue plasma rifles pointed at us, plus one more in a suit and tie, wearing a headset with no weapon visible. He was obviously "Hirst" and I looked him over carefully. He was a stocky black man, no more than average height, with close-cropped black hair and a no-nonsense air about him. He looked tired and angry, but he had both well under control. His gaze passed over each of us, in turn, and I was sure he missed no detail. He would be a hard man to fool. But Oracle did good work and I knew that my identity would stand up to any check.

"Mrs. Ross," he asked finally, "why are these people here?" His tiredness showed in his voice. It had been a long, hard day for all of the Secret Service, made worse by the death of their comrades and the bitter knowledge that they had failed to stop an assassination attempt. He would be all the more determined to protect this president. I bit my lip. Anything I said right now would make things worse. The way he looked at Mrs. Ross told me she had earned a measure of his trust. I would have to leave this to her.

"They have to see my husband, Josh," she answered quietly. "There's a plot against him. They are witnesses to it. Only they can tell him what he needs to know to stop it."

"It seems to me," Hirst said, "that it's pretty clear who is plotting against the government. We have plenty of eyewitnesses and more than a few dead bodies to show for it."

"It's not the metas!" she responded with quiet urgency. Wrong thing to say to people already convinced of the metas' guilt; it just undermined her credibility. I had to say something, or this would quickly go south.

"Not all of the metas," I corrected. "Some are involved." Hirst's searching gaze shifted to me.

I continued. "There are plots within plots and our evidence indicates they extend even into the White House. These three are...."

"I recognize them," Hirst interrupted, "but I don't recognize you."

"Paul Ramirez," George supplied, "FBI."

"So, Paul Ramirez, FBI," Hirst said, "how do I know you're not part of this plot? How do I know you're not trying to get close enough to the President to kill him?"

"You don't. But, you can make sure we don't have any weapons, you can run your tests on us to make sure we aren't shape-shifting metas or mind-controlled, you can escort us to him and guard him from us. I don't care if you hear the story, in fact the more the better."

"Hmm. Well, I'll take you up on the first part of that, in any case. Strip."

I started untying my tie. Lois protested, "I'm not going to strip in front of all of you. Besides, it's ridiculous. You ran us through the hoop upstairs and I'm sure you have metal detectors and x-ray machines and I don't know what all else down here. Why do we need to strip?"

"Oh, I'll run you through our metal detectors and x-ray machines and meta-detectors and EEGs and I'll check your identities three ways to Tuesday, but I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy and so we'll do a physical search as well."

"You can't run identity checks on these three," I objected. "If you run their retina scans or finger prints through your system, it will tell the conspirators they're here. Didn't you hear me say the conspiracy extends into the White House? The congressmen are supposed to be dead and the only way Lois Lane would be allowed in tonight is as a witness. You can run my identity if you want – as FBI, I could be here for any number of reasons – but if you run theirs, you might as well shoot the President yourself."

I heard Lana gasp and I saw Hirst flinch, but nothing showed in his voice when he said, "You are assuming they have hacked our computer system and they can get at the President, despite our best efforts."

"These people are pros who have had months to prepare. Of course I'm assuming that! I don't know who is involved and who isn't. That's why we have to go to the top."

"Why don't you tell me your evidence and let me decide," Hirst suggested.

"I have no objection, except that it will waste time we don't have, but let me ask you something: how will you know whether we're telling truth? And how do I know if you're part of the plot?"

"You're right about one thing: this is wasting time. Jaime, get Marsha down here to search Ms. Lane. You," he turned to Lois, "can strip in there." He pointed to a small door off the side of the vestibule. "The rest of you, strip."

We stripped. They did a cavity search; then they x-rayed us, took our EEGs, did meta-scans, used metal detectors. Hirst walked over to the congressmen and grabbed Zabrowski's nose and pulled. From the cry this produced, he must have pulled hard. Then he stepped over to Connelly and yanked on his famous jowls. Nothing came off.

"Sorry," Hirst told them, "but I have to be sure you are really who you appear to be. Some disguises won't show up on the scanners."

He left me alone, but then he had checked my retinal scan, fingerprints and DNA against their computerized records. They knew I was who I said I was.

Finally, Hirst let us dress again and we assembled once more in the vestibule. Hirst frowned at us, but said nothing.

Mrs. Ross said, "Josh, he has to know."

Hirst sighed. "Yeah, I'm afraid you're right." He looked at me. "Your ID checked out. I wondered. You don't seem like FBI. CIA, more like. I could believe you're a spook."

I blinked. I must be slipping.

"All right, let's go." He led us through a door and into a long corridor. It looked like it extended the whole three-quarters of a mile to the White House. Four golf cart-sized vehicles lined one side of the corridor. Three of the agents in body armor climbed into the first cart; the others took the last. Hirst split the rest of us between the middle carts and we rolled down the corridor. I was reminded of Diana's comment, when we entered the clone factory. But this wasn't Ali Baba's cave; this was the lion's den. Daniel knew he had God on his side, but I didn't believe in God. I had Diana on my side. It would have to do.