Imitation in Death (In Death 17)

The little cross-block hike would help work off the doughnuts.

They still allowed tours—she’d checked—but they were stringently regulated with the threat of terrorism always a thunderhead ready to storm. But nations throughout the world, and the recognized off-planet factions, had their meetings and assemblies, their votes and their agendas, inside the huge white building that dominated its six-block stretch.

The flags still waved, a colorful symbol, Eve supposed, of man’s willingness to get together and talk about the problems of humanity. And occasionally do something about them.

Even with their names on the visitors’ list, she and Peabody went through a series of checkpoints. At the first, they surrendered their weapons, a requirement that always made Eve twitchy.

Their badges were scanned, their fingerprints verified. Peabody’s bag was scanned, then hand-searched. All electronics, including ’links, PPCs, and communicators, were taken through analysis.

They passed through a metal detector, an incendiary device detector, a weapon identifier, and a body scanner, all before being cleared through entry level.

“Okay,” Eve declared. “Maybe they’ve got to be careful, but I’m drawing the line at a cavity search.”

“Some of these security levels were added after the Cassandra incident.” Peabody stepped with Eve and a uniformed guard into a bomb-proof elevator.

“Next time we need to talk to Renquist, he comes to us.”

They were escorted off the elevator and directly to another checkpoint where they were scanned, analyzed, and verified again.

They were passed from the guard to a female aide who was equally military in bearing. The aide’s retina scan and voice command unlocked a bomb door. Through it, they moved from paranoid security to daily business.

It was a hive of offices, but a very big hive with very efficient chambers. Here, the high-level drones wore conservative suits and headsets, with heels that clicked briskly on tiled floors. The windows were triple-sealed and equipped with air-traffic detectors that would slam down impact shields at any threat. But they let in the light and a decent view of the river.

A tall, thin man in unrelieved gray nodded at the aide, smiled at Eve.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Thomas Newkirk, personal assistant to Mr. Renquist. I’ll escort you from here.”

“Some security you’ve got here, Mr. Newkirk.” She spotted cameras and motion sensors along the corridor. Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. Who could work that way?

He followed the track of her gaze. “You stop noticing. Just a price to be paid for safety and freedom.”

“Uh-huh.” He had a square face, a jaw so sharp and straight it might have been sliced off with a sword. Very pale, very cool blue eyes and a ruddy complexion under short, bristly sandy hair.

He walked very erect, with a purposeful stride, his arms straight at his sides.

“You former military?”

“Captain, RAF. Mr. Renquist has a number of former military on staff.” He used a key card to access another door, and Renquist’s suite of offices.

“Just one moment, please.”

While she waited, Eve studied the area. Another warren of rooms, most separated by glass panels so that the staffers were exposed to each other, and the cameras. It didn’t seem to bother them as they worked away at keyboards or headsets.

She glanced in the direction Newkirk had taken and saw that it ended in a closed door with Renquist’s name on it.

It opened, and Newkirk stepped out again. “Mr. Renquist will see you now, Lieutenant.”

It was a lot of buildup for an ordinary man, which was her first impression of Renquist. He stood behind a long, dark desk that might have been wood, might have been old, with an East Riv

er view at his back.

He was tall, with the kind of build that told her he used a health center regularly or paid good money to a body sculptor. She also figured his build was wasted in the dull gray suit, though the suit had probably cost him a great deal.

He was attractive enough, if you went for the polished and distinguished type. He was fair-skinned, fair-haired with a prominent nose and a wide forehead.

His eyes, a kind of sooty gray, were his best feature, and met hers directly.

His voice was clipped, and oh-so-British she expected crumpets—whatever the hell they were—to come popping out of his mouth along with the words.