Free Damaged Goods by Austin Camacho Page B

against his own anger.
    The parking lot was free, at least for the first two hours, and Hannibal had no plans to be there that long. He found the air conditioning a little overdone in the lobby. It made the marble columns and tile flooring seem even more impersonal. Two other people waited for the elevator, but neither spoke during that wait, or during the elevator ride.
    When at last he entered the Tactical Datamation offices, Hannibal faced a mature receptionist who sat as a calm veneer in front of a beehive of activity. Her dyed auburn hair was well lacquered in place, and her smile was equally frozen. To her left and right, people clattered at computerkeyboards or wheeled their chairs around to confer with coworkers. He could see that they worked in a bullpen atmosphere, without the usual cubicle walls separating the workers. When anyone stood, they walked quickly, as if the person they wanted to speak with might get away. Or, more likely, they moved in fear that their latest inspired idea might escape them before they could share it. A week in this place would drive Hannibal to try to leap through one of the sealed windows. Maybe that was why buildings like this one never had windows you could open.
    â€œHow may I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked, with that air of power one gets when one stands guard at the gates of the rich and famous.
    â€œHannibal Jones to see Ben Blair.”
    The Gatekeeper seemed to scroll Blair’s schedule behind her eyes. “I’m afraid no one sees Mr. Blair without an appointment. Can I write you in for tomorrow morning?”
    â€œHe’ll see me,” Hannibal said with a calm smile. “We have personal business.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she replied, matching his calm demeanor. “Mr. Blair sees no one without an appointment.”
    â€œJust tell him I’m here.”
    â€œSir,” she added just an ounce of weight to her voice, “Mr. Blair’s schedule is extremely tight.”
    This could become tedious. Hannibal placed his gloved palms on the oak reception desk. “Neither of us has time for this, so we will proceed in one of two ways. In the next ten seconds, one of us is going to walk into Mr. Blair’s office and ask if he will see me right now. Which do you prefer?”
    Hannibal kept his eyes on The Gatekeeper’s but his other senses told him that the buzz of activity to his left and right had stopped. Perhaps they had never seen this woman challenged and waited to see if she would scream or call the security guard or pull a revolver out of her desk. In the end, nine seconds later, she stood and walked with perfect posture down the hall behind her. Normal activity did not return until Hannibal could hear her heels clicking back toward him. When she returned her smile had not moved an inch.
    â€œPlease follow me, Mr. Jones,” she said with a small nod. She escorted Hannibal down the hall, which took two turns before ending at a closed office door. When she turned to wave him inside, her smile was as cordial as when he first saw her.
    Blair’s office was laid out in three areas. To Hannibal’s right a sofa and love seat in soft beige formed a conversation area. On his left, a round table and five steel chairs seemed to constitute a business area. The control center was dead ahead.
    The desk was no deeper than an arm’s length, with a stack of four shelves on each end. Wings on each side formed a “U” shape, and each wing held a keyboard and flat screen. Papers were stacked neatly on each of the shelves and across the desk. In the midst of this power cockpit, Blair looked up at Hannibal with one eyebrow raised in curiosity.
    â€œI’m impressed Jones. Nobody gets past Margaret, you know?”
    â€œYou just have to know how to ask,” Hannibal said.
    â€œSo do we have progress?” Blair asked, then as an afterthought, “Oh, have a seat.”
    Blair waved toward the