Ruby’s next up. She places her badge on the counter and steps forward. The machine beeps loudly, and all three guards stare at her. She steps back, slowly, passing through the scanner again.
The first guard looks at her. “Can you remove any metallic objects on your person please, ma’am?”
She shrugs. “I have.”
Another guard moves around the desk and walks toward her holding a wand scanner. He’s much younger than the first — younger than me, certainly. He seems in good shape and moves with confidence.
“Place your arms out to the sides,” he says to her.
She does, and he moves the wand thoroughly and efficiently over her body. It beeps as he moves it over her crotch. He looks at her questioningly.
Ruby chuckles nervously, which I’m sure is part of the act, as opposed to actual nerves. “Heh… well, this is embarrassing.”
“Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to—”
“I… can’t. It’s a piercing. It’s not coming out, I’m sorry.”
The guard flicks a quick glance at his colleague, who nods. He finishes his scan of Ruby and stands up straight. “Okay, go on through.”
Ruby nods and walks through again. The machine beeps, but the guard behind the desk does something to override it. She collects her ID and waits beside Oscar on the other side.
Jonas steps forward and heaves the large bag onto the counter. The equipment inside will likely show up, but it’s been designed not to look like what it is. To the casual observer, it looks like a couple of aerosol canisters in a box, which isn’t uncommon for a security team to have. Could be WD-40 or compressed air for cleaning the inside of server cabinets.
Or a nitrous oxide dispersal unit for knocking out everyone in the White House…
He moves through the scanner with no problems, retrieves the bag and his ID, and stands with the others.
I’m last up to bat. I take a deep, discreet breath and step toward the scanner, placing my ID on the side. I move through.
The scanner beeps loudly.
Shit…
I look innocently at the guards, who urge me back through. The guy with the wand walks back around the desk and meets me.
“Arms out to the sides,” he says.
I comply, and he searches me with the same level of thoroughness and efficiency as he had Ruby. The wand remains silent.
I smile. “No piercings on me.”
He regards me with a very impassive look and stands up straight. He nods toward the scanner. I take the hint and walk through it a second time.
It sounds off again.
Are you fucking kidding me…?
I sigh and step backward through it, glancing at the guards impatiently.
“Sir, do you have any metallic objects on, or in, your person?” asks the first guard.
I look him up and down. From this angle, I can see more of him, as the side counter is much lower than the front of the desk. I was right — he is a fat bastard…
I shake my head. “I’ve got nothing. You just gave me the wand to prove it.”
The guard frowns, turns to his computer terminal, and presses a few buttons.
“Try again,” he says to me.
I roll my eyes and step through the scanner for the third time.
Silence.
Phew!
I retrieve my ID and nod to the guards. “Thanks, guys.”
I join the others, and we walk across the rest of the lobby and head left at the end, into the West Wing.
The corridor is wide with curved arches at even intervals along the ceiling and a bright red carpet with gold trim along both edges. The walls are off-white, plastered to a smooth finish, and adorned with works of art — some landscapes, some portraits of former presidents and notable politicians. To the right of every doorway is a marine standing at attention in full uniform, armed with a standard issue Glock 19. I’m pretty sure there’s normally just one in the West Wing, but, given the world is at war I’m guessing they’ve stepped up security.
We’re walking two by two with Oscar and Ruby in front. We pass a thick wooden door on the left. I casually glance inside through the glass and see a large mahogany table with people sitting around it and military officers standing around the edges of the room.
Wonder what they’re discussing — North Korea or me?
I pat Oscar on the shoulder, and he glances around. “Should be up here on the right. Play the part.”
We stop in front of another marine outside a door that says MAINTENANCE on a small black sign. Josh kindly sent me a floor plan of the building — just a general one you can find on the Internet — so I have a rough idea of where we’re going.
We all turn to face one another. “Okay,” says Oscar, loud enough to be heard. “We’ll do a preliminary check of equipment in here — ventilation, alarms, the works. We’re looking for any potential breaches, as well as opportunities for breaches. We fix what we need to and log it for the guys back at the office. Then,” he points at Jonas and me, “you two head over to the server room, install what patches you need to. We work fast and thorough. Questions?”
Beautiful. Oscar’s a natural!
We all shake our heads.
Oscar looks at the marine outside the door. “Excuse me, buddy? We’re about to test the equipment in here. Do we need to tell anyone if we’re testing the alarms? I don’t want them to go off and everyone panic.” He chuckles. “Probably not the time for that, am I right?”
The marine glances up and down the corridor as if he’s checking before he responds because he’s not allowed to. “Yeah, you need to let the Secret Service Agent-in-Charge know,” he says.
Oscar nods. “Okay, we’ll do the alarms last. Thanks.”
He opens the door and walks inside without another word. We all follow, and I close the door behind me.
The room isn’t huge, but there’s enough space for us to stand comfortably. The floor is plain white tiling, and the walls are gray cinder block. There’s a large unit on the left, standing easily seven feet high, with a large silver cylinder sticking out the top running into the ceiling.
“This is it,” says Jonas, quietly. “Gimme some room to work.”
We step back, and he moves next to the unit and opens the main hatch on the front. Inside is a network of wires and pipes, but he assesses them with a professional eye. You would think he was an electrician, not an assassin.
He unzips the sport bag, lifts the dispersal unit out carefully, and sets it down at his feet. He crouches in front of the open hatch.
“Hand me a screwdriver, would you?” he calls over his shoulder.
Oscar rummages inside the tool bag and hands one to him, and Jonas promptly sets to work attaching the gas canisters to the ventilation system.
Beside me, Ruby is taking some deep breaths. She sounds like she’s giving birth.
“You okay?” I ask her.
She nods quickly. “Calm before the storm. Just getting myself ready.”
“Well, try not to pass out beforehand.”
She pulls a face and we continue watching Jonas do his thing. He’s very technical. I knew he specialized in poisons, which I’ve always considered a very niche part of our business, but his knowledge clearly stretches beyond that.
He connects the dispersal unit and attaches the wires to the ventilation pipes. Then he starts pressing buttons on the small console, presumably configuring it. After a minute or so, he stands and briefly stretches his arms and legs.
“Okay, we’re good.”
He bends down, takes out the gas masks, and hands them to each of us. I place mine over my head and adjust the straps and clasps at the back. It covers my entire face, though my field of vision is pretty wide. Attached to the bottom is a thick, round filter, maybe three inches in diameter.