“But they were among the first and most dangerous,” said the Senator. “Without them on the playing field—”
“You’re leaving an opening,” Anthony pointed out. “And as much as I regret to admit it—having opened that position, we’re only leaving it for someone else to fill. And I believe someone will fill it. We built the DVM, ma’am—there will always be someone who comes to challenge it.”
“And if the DVM doesn’t exist?”
Anthony sighed. “Then there’s no way we’d ever be able to stop them. This isn’t a case of if we build it, ma’am. The fact is, we’ve already built it. Dismantling the DVM won’t stop anyone.”
The Senator closed her folder. “I wish I could be confident about that.”
“I wish I were confident that I was wrong,” said Anthony baldly. “But our top analyst has poured over the reporting over the last month. He’s convinced—and many of our other analysts agree—that the vast majority of the people we were monitoring had no affiliation with either Cicero or Mastermind. That is to say—they were completely unconnected to the Cicero Charade and were operating under their own interests.”
“Interests that conflict with world peace,” clarified the Senator.
“Correct,” said Anthony. “And they’ve continued, despite Cicero’s incarceration. Each requires extensive monitoring. Only the DVM is experienced in how to do it safely, effectively, and with as little loss of life as possible.”
The Senator sighed and removed her glasses. “Mr. Dare,” said the Senator, leaning into her microphone, “what are your plans for the DVM?”
Was she serious? Anthony battled the urge to stand up and start shouting about libel and insinuation and how he’d spent two days trying to convince the committee that he had nothing to do with what everyone was determined to call the Cicero Charade.
Calling it a circus was almost better. It brought to mind the Roman Empire’s theory of bread and circuses, though Anthony wasn’t sure if that meant he was the clown or the lion in its cage.
Maybe both.
“I’m sorry, Senator,” said Anthony, “but I don’t understand the question.”
“Your plans, Mr. Dare,” said the Senator, somewhat impatient. “What does the future hold for the Department of Villain Monitorization?”
“I—” Anthony sat back in his chair, blinking hard. “You mean... you aren’t dismantling us?”
The Senator raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Apparently not.”
Anthony grinned.
THE ELEVATOR AT 1517 Connecticut Avenue NW in Washington, D.C.’s Dupont Circle had been largely under-utilized during the previous month. In fact, most of the employees at the bookstore where it was tucked between the history and science fiction sections had forgotten entirely about the elevator hidden in the supply closet.
Until one glorious fall day, when Ginger, who had only been working at the bookstore for a few weeks, noticed something unusual about their customers.
Normally the customers at the bookstore were casually dressed; jeans, t-shirts, moms pushing baby strollers. College students and other young people who killed time while waiting for a table at the accompanying café to open up.
That day, however, the customers fit a different profile. They were older, well-dressed in suits and ties, and as far as Ginger could tell, not a single one of them purchased an actual book. They came in, they glanced around with stars in their eyes—as if they had not seen a bookstore in a very, very long time—and then after a quick word to whoever was manning the register, undoubtedly to get directions, they disappeared into the stacks.
Ginger didn’t recall seeing any of them leave, with or without a purchase.
It was very odd, indeed.
It wasn’t until after lunch, when Ginger was at the register herself, that two men came up to the register and slid two badges across the counter towards her.
The badges were odd, certainly. Not a single word on them; just pictures of the two men and nothing else. Not even the name of the bookstore.
“Good morning,” said the first man, who wore the most impeccable suit and tie, and wasn’t carrying any books for purchase at all. He was tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome in a debonair sort of way—and he both looked like he knew it, and like he had every expectation that everyone else knew it, too.
His companion wasn’t nearly as well dressed, and his suit had a rumpled appearance that made Ginger think of a college professor. He was thin and wore wire-rimmed glasses that sat crookedly on his face, and though he didn’t carry any books, he kept peering at the nearby titles.
“Are you kidding me?” he groaned, picking up a book on display. Ginger knew the book; the author was what most of the news agencies were calling a super-villain, as if those actually existed anymore. “He wrote a book already?”
“It’s not very good,” said Ginger. “Half of it is just him boasting about how he invented bubble gum. And space travel. Stick to Ian Fleming if you want a decent spy novel, honestly.”
The two men glanced at each other. “Yes, well,” said the first man, tapping the badge on the counter. “If you could just...”
If they weren’t going to take a suggestion, Ginger wasn’t going to worry about it. She shrugged, scanned the book, and slid it into a bag. “That’ll be $32.47.”
The men stared at her, before tapping the badge on the counter. Again.
“Yeah, I don’t know what that is,” said Ginger, a little impatiently. “We don’t have a discount program. Did you want to pay by cash or card?”
Glasses Guy started coughing. It might have been laughter, Ginger couldn’t tell.
The first guy just stared at her. “You’re new.”
Ginger had dealt with stubborn customers before; they were a dime a dozen, some days. “New, but not stupid,” she said shortly as the manager bustled over. “Thirty-two. Forty-seven. Please.”
“It’s okay, Ginger, I’ve got this,” said the manager quickly, plucking the badge off the counter and quickly scanning it into the computer. To Ginger’s surprise, the register recognized it—even without a barcode visible—and there was a soft whirring sound coming from... somewhere.
“Sorry, sir,” continued the manager. “Haven’t seen you in a while, that’s all.”
“Quite all right,” said the man, still staring at Ginger. “Out of town. Should pick back up soon though.”
“Noted. Have a nice day, welcome home.”
The man smiled thinly, taking back his badge.
But it was his companion who answered, with a brilliantly large grin. “Thanks. It’s good to be back.”
He grabbed the bag with the supervillain’s book and followed his companion.
“Hey!” called Ginger. “You didn’t pay for that!”
“It’s okay,” said the manager. “You know that security clearance you did before we hired you?”
“What security clearance?” asked Ginger, confused.
“Oh boy,” muttered the manager, before pulling Ginger away from the register. “This is gonna take a while. Come on. I’ll treat you to a plate of nachos.”