being repetitive and occasionally aggravating to those within the building, the protestors were normally pretty harmless.
Walking through the Square, a small man in a purple delivery uniform stepped past them as they chanted and walked straight towards the Embassy. He worked for FedEx, and had a box-shaped express package under his arm. It was addressed to the London CIA office. He moved to the left and joined the queue of people waiting to go through the security hut, and when it was his turn he nodded to the security guards within, passing the package through the x-ray machine. The guard behind the machine looked at the monitor, but all he could see inside the box was a white blurry rectangle, aka stacks of paper. The usual.
It took the delivery man two attempts to get through the metal detector, forgetting a small set of keys in his pocket the first time. But once he’d walked through without a bleep from the machine and had been patted down and covered with the metal-detector wand, he put the keys back in his pocket, scooped up the package and walked up the path towards the entrance, pulling open the main door and approaching the woman behind the front desk.
‘Delivery,’ he said. ‘CIA Office.’
She was busy talking to someone from the visa queue, but she looked towards him and nodded. He pushed the brown package on the counter towards her and slid an electronic pad on the top, stifling a yawn. She propelled herself over on her swivel chair, taking the plastic pen and quickly signed the screen, then returned her attention to the lady enquiring about her visa.
‘Cheers,’ the FedEx guy said, turning and walking back out through the doors. He walked down the path and across the Square, heading back to his truck, and disappeared out of sight.
Back in the building, the woman finished dealing with the woman from the visa line, then turned and looked at the package. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, just The Office. She scooped up her phone and pushed 4 on the internal line, lifting it to her ear, connecting to the tech team next door.
‘Delivery,’ she said, putting the phone back down.
A minute later, a young male analyst appeared and taking the package, turned and headed back towards the offices, looking at the address as he walked. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular so he had the right to open it. The guards on the second x-ray let him pass back in straight away, pushing a button so he didn't have to bother with the face and retina scan.
Once inside the sub-station, he took the package to his workstation and ripped the side of the parcel open.
But as soon as he did so, something unusual happened.
White powder from inside the package sprayed everywhere, all over his legs and arms and his workstation. Clouds of it puffed over the dark fabric of his trousers, as if he’d been baking a cake and had spilt the flour. He jerked back, covered in the white powder, then looked at his hand and the clouds of it on his legs and on the carpet.
‘What the hell?’ he said.
Across the room, a female analyst sitting at her computer had seen what had happened . Whi l st the guy with the package was still staring at the powder, confused, she realised straight away what was going on.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
She jumped back out of her chair, covering her mouth and backing up, as the male analyst looked over at her.
Then it dawned on him what the powder was.
And his eyes widened in terror.
SIX
Inside the briefing room at the ARU's headquarters, Archer turned back from the drinks stand, watching as the rest of the team around the room kept themselves busy. For some reason he felt restless today, but knew he had to remain where he was. Next door the intelligence team were working away as hard as ever, but part of being a response team often meant a lot of time was spent sitting around, waiting for a call, and in the meantime finding stuff to keep them occupied but which could be dropped
Walking through the Square, a small man in a purple delivery uniform stepped past them as they chanted and walked straight towards the Embassy. He worked for FedEx, and had a box-shaped express package under his arm. It was addressed to the London CIA office. He moved to the left and joined the queue of people waiting to go through the security hut, and when it was his turn he nodded to the security guards within, passing the package through the x-ray machine. The guard behind the machine looked at the monitor, but all he could see inside the box was a white blurry rectangle, aka stacks of paper. The usual.
It took the delivery man two attempts to get through the metal detector, forgetting a small set of keys in his pocket the first time. But once he’d walked through without a bleep from the machine and had been patted down and covered with the metal-detector wand, he put the keys back in his pocket, scooped up the package and walked up the path towards the entrance, pulling open the main door and approaching the woman behind the front desk.
‘Delivery,’ he said. ‘CIA Office.’
She was busy talking to someone from the visa queue, but she looked towards him and nodded. He pushed the brown package on the counter towards her and slid an electronic pad on the top, stifling a yawn. She propelled herself over on her swivel chair, taking the plastic pen and quickly signed the screen, then returned her attention to the lady enquiring about her visa.
‘Cheers,’ the FedEx guy said, turning and walking back out through the doors. He walked down the path and across the Square, heading back to his truck, and disappeared out of sight.
Back in the building, the woman finished dealing with the woman from the visa line, then turned and looked at the package. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular, just The Office. She scooped up her phone and pushed 4 on the internal line, lifting it to her ear, connecting to the tech team next door.
‘Delivery,’ she said, putting the phone back down.
A minute later, a young male analyst appeared and taking the package, turned and headed back towards the offices, looking at the address as he walked. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in particular so he had the right to open it. The guards on the second x-ray let him pass back in straight away, pushing a button so he didn't have to bother with the face and retina scan.
Once inside the sub-station, he took the package to his workstation and ripped the side of the parcel open.
But as soon as he did so, something unusual happened.
White powder from inside the package sprayed everywhere, all over his legs and arms and his workstation. Clouds of it puffed over the dark fabric of his trousers, as if he’d been baking a cake and had spilt the flour. He jerked back, covered in the white powder, then looked at his hand and the clouds of it on his legs and on the carpet.
‘What the hell?’ he said.
Across the room, a female analyst sitting at her computer had seen what had happened . Whi l st the guy with the package was still staring at the powder, confused, she realised straight away what was going on.
‘Oh my God,’ she said.
She jumped back out of her chair, covering her mouth and backing up, as the male analyst looked over at her.
Then it dawned on him what the powder was.
And his eyes widened in terror.
SIX
Inside the briefing room at the ARU's headquarters, Archer turned back from the drinks stand, watching as the rest of the team around the room kept themselves busy. For some reason he felt restless today, but knew he had to remain where he was. Next door the intelligence team were working away as hard as ever, but part of being a response team often meant a lot of time was spent sitting around, waiting for a call, and in the meantime finding stuff to keep them occupied but which could be dropped
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