Yes, I hate myself right now…
This is the part of the job I openly despise — the acting. Having to dress up and pretend I’m someone I’m not to work my way into a position where I can take out my target… It takes away from the job. I like things simple and straightforward. I’m not a deceptive person by nature, and I find this whole thing very uncomfortable. I’d much prefer to just walk up to people and shoot them in the face.
I tell you, if I was in charge…
I make my way up the steps and through the middle of the three doors on the front of the building. The lobby is enormous. It’s a large, circular space with a distinctive dark marble floor and light marble pillars, which are there seemingly for effect rather than necessity. Around the edges are various doorways, leading off to all the different departments housed within these walls. There’s a huge, carpeted staircase leading to the first floor at the far end.
Just inside the main doors, a rope barrier directs me toward a security checkpoint off to the right. There’s a guard sitting behind a desk and another standing just in front of a metal detector. It’s a gateway scanner, like the kind you see in airports.
I watch the guards processing the people in front of me. They approach the desk and give their name. The first guard checks his list and, assuming they’re on it, sends them to the scanner. The second guard waves them through the machine. Presumably he’ll check them if the scanner beeps. Once through, a third guard issues them with a security badge, which is to be displayed at all times while on the premises.
There was no way into the building without going past these guards and through the scanner.
As I approach the front of the queue, I tick everything off in my head that I need to do, making sure I have things in my bag and that my story and credentials are fresh in my mind for when I’m inevitably asked to present them.
It’s like I’m an actor learning my words. Have I mentioned how much I hate this?
I reach the front of the line and step forward when I’m called over. I smile at the first guard.
“Good morning,” I say, in my most upbeat voice. I actually asked Josh’s advice on how to sound happy. Is that bad? “Brian Johnson, from Life and Times magazine. I've got an appointment to see Richard Blake at eleven.”
The guard scans down his list and I see him nod to himself as he finds my name on there.
“Mr. Johnson,” he confirms. “Thank you. Step forward to the metal detector please.”
He gestures with his right hand and I walk over.
The second security guard is standing on the other side of the scanner, pleasantly smiling at me. He’s a tall, slightly overweight man with a thick moustache. His hair is going gray at the sides and his body language tells me he’s probably been doing this job a long time. He moves like someone who has accepted their own monotony years before.
“Step through the scanner please, sir,” he says, waving me through.
I place my bag on the table at the side and step confidently through. It’s not like I have anything to hide, is it?
The machine beeps.
Uh-oh…
I’m just kidding — I expected it to happen. Don’t worry, I’m in complete control!
“Just step to the side please, sir,” he apologizes.
I do, and he takes out one of those electronic wands from his back pocket and gives me the once over with it. It beeps as he moves it over my jacket. He looks at me and smiles again, in that ‘this happens all the time, don’t worry’ kind of way.
“Can you empty your pockets please?” he asks.
“Oh, of course — my apologies,” I say, showing I’m happy to comply.
I empty the contents out on the desk. My phone, billfold, and some loose change from my trousers. I reach inside my jacket and pull out a small, black, metallic case. The guard looks at me, then at the case, as I place it carefully on the desk.
“Can you open that up, too, please, sir?” he asks, in a tone now slightly more formal than before.
“No problem,” I say, as I unfasten it and lift the lid.
I turn it toward him, displaying the contents. There’s a sponge padding lining the inside of it, protecting a hypodermic needle, and two small vials of yellowish liquid.
The guard looks at me, and I can see the growing concern on his face.
“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” I say, laughing and shaking my head as if something’s just occurred to me. “I have Type-1 diabetes. This is my insulin shot. I have to take it everywhere with me.”
The guard is visibly relieved, and smiles.
“That’s fine, sir, I apologize for the formalities. You can never be too careful.”
“Oh, I know,” I say, making small talk as I pack away my things. “Especially nowadays. It’s reassuring that people like you do these types of checks.”
He stands to his full height and sucks in his gut a bit, puffing out his chest and brimming with pride at the fine service he’s providing.
“Just doing my job,” he says. “Go and see my colleague to get your pass.”
“I will, thank you,” I say, walking over to the smaller desk on the other side. The third security guard hands me a temporary security pass attached to a lanyard, which I place around my neck.
“Could you tell me the way to Mr. Blake’s office, please?” I ask him.
“It’s just up the stairs and to the right. Follow the signs for Public Works and you’ll find his office down the corridor,” he replies.
“Many thanks.”
Following the directions he’s given me, I head over to the staircase, looking around me as I walk. It’s an impressive building inside, and the artwork hanging on the walls looks very expensive, and makes the place look more like an art gallery.
I climb the steps and head right along the corridor, following the signs for the Public Works department. I come out at the other end in a waiting room, of sorts. It’s a small, open plan area, with corridors stretching off to the left and right. A couple of nice looking chairs sit on either side as well, against the walls.
A young woman is sitting behind a desk, just to the left of a large door. She looks up at me and smiles as I approach. Her designer glasses highlight her friendly, brown eyes, and her dark blonde hair is tied in a ponytail. From what I can see, she’s wearing a navy blue dress suit and white blouse.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes, I’m here to see Richard Blake,” I say.
She looks quickly down at her desk, presumably checking a schedule, before looking back up at me.
“Mr. Johnson?”
I nod and smile. “That’s me.”
“Please go right in, he’s expecting you.” She gestures to the door.
“Thank you,” I say, walking past the desk.
I knock once as a courtesy and then enter Richard Blake’s office, closing the door behind me.
I quickly look around. A large window faces me, offering a beautiful, panoramic view of the city outside. The roads and buildings spill out below us in every direction, all the way to the horizon.
There’s a desk in front of me, with a leather chair behind it. To the right of the chair is a flat screen computer monitor standing on a base unit, with a keyboard and mouse set out in front. To the left is a stack of four trays, each one overflowing with paper, and a telephone. In front of it are two plain black leather chairs.
Against the right hand wall are two filing cabinets, each standing around five feet high and each with four large drawers in them. The left hand wall is clear, apart from the piece of artwork hanging in the center of it. It’s a black and white photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, which I admit is a nice picture.