The Secret Service agent shrugged. "Looks like somebody in D.C. fouled up. It happens." He tapped the radio receiver in his ear. "Just let me clear this with my SAIC, okay?"
Smith nodded. Each Secret Service detail was commanded by a SAIC - a special-agent-in-charge. He waited patiently while Farrows explained the situation to his superior.
At last, the other man waved him through. "You're good to go, Colonel. But don't stray too far. Those Lazarus Movement goofballs out there are in a really bad mood right now."
Smith walked past him and came out into the Institute's large front lobby. To his left, one of the building's three staircases led up to the second floor. Doors on either side led to various administrative offices. Across the lobby, a waist-high marble railing enclosed the visitors' registration and information desks. To the right, two enormous wood-paneled doors stood open to the outside.
From there a shallow set of wide sand-colored steps led down to a broad driveway. Two big black SUVs with U.S. government license plates were parked along the edge of the drive, right at the foot of those steps. A second plainclothes Secret Service agent stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on both the lobby and the vehicles parked outside. He wore sunglasses and cradled a deadly-looking 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. His head swiveled briefly to watch Smith walk past him, but then he turned back to his sentry duty.
Outside, Smith stopped at the top of the steps and stood quietly for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun on his lean, tanned face. The air was warming up and puffs of white cloud moved lazily across a brilliant azure sky. It was a perfect autumn day.
He took a deep breath, trying to wash the accumulated fatigue toxins out of his system.
"LET LAZARUS LEAD! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD! NO TO NANOTECH! LET LAZARUS LEAD!"
Smith frowned. The rhythmic, singsong slogans hammered at his ears, shattering the momentary illusion of peace. They were much louder and
angrier than they had been the day before. He eyed the mass of chanting protesters pressed up close against the perimeter fence. There were a lot more of them here today, too. Maybe even as many as ten thousand.
A sea of bloodred and bright green banners and placards rose and fell in time with each roar from the crowd. Protest organizers roamed back and forth on a portable stage set up near the Institute security booth, shouting into microphones - whipping the demonstrators into a frenzy.
The main gate was closed. A small squad of gray-uniformed security guards stood behind the gate, nervously facing the chanting throng. Outside, much farther down the access road, Smith could see a few patrol cars - a couple in the black-and-white markings of the New Mexico State Police, the rest in the white, light blue, and gold stripes of the Santa Fe County Sheriff's Office.
"This is shaping up to be one hell of a mess, Colonel," a familiar voice said grimly from behind him.
Frank Diaz came forward from his post by the door. Today the ex-Ranger noncom was wearing a bulky bulletproof vest. He had a riot helmet dangling from one hand and a twelve-gauge Remington pump-action shotgun slung over the other shoulder. A bandolier held a mixed assortment of CS (tear gas) shells and solid slugs for the shotgun.
"What has these people so revved up?" Smith asked. "President Castilla and the media aren't due here until the day after tomorrow. Why all the outrage now?"
"Somebody offed a couple of Lazarus Movement-types last night," Diaz said. "The Santa Fe PD found two bodies stuffed into a Dumpster. Down behind that big outlet mall on Cerrillos Road. One was stabbed, and the other had a broken neck."
Smith whistled softly. "Damn."
"No kidding." The Army veteran hawked and spat. "And those fruitcakes over there are blaming us."
Smith turned to look more closely at him. "Oh?"
"Apparently the dead guys were planning to cut through our fence last night," Diaz explained. "For some big act of civil-fricking-disobedience. Naturally the radicals claim we must have caught the two of them and slaughtered 'em. Which is all bullshit, of course. . . ."
"Of course," Smith agreed absently. He ran his eyes over the stretch of chain-link fence in sight. It seemed perfectly intact. "But they're still dead, and you're the designated bad guys, right?"
"Hell, Colonel," the ex-Ranger noncom said. He sounded almost aggrieved. "If I knocked off a couple of punk-ass,