Klaus Schwamborn: Dreamland

The second guard, Lester Gibb, following a few seconds behind, came to offer assistance. He picked up the lady’s bag on the way, awkwardly scooped back its contents and handed it over to her.

Aside from being a little shaken by the ordeal, no damage appeared to have been done to the young woman other than suffering the indignity of entering the atrium in a somewhat less than dignified manner. O’Brien escorted her to one of the more secluded visitor’s chairs scattered throughout the atrium, while Gibb went to see about recovering her top from the revolving door.

A few moments later, blouse in hand, she was shown the direction of the washrooms. She assured the concerned guards that besides being a little embarrassed, everything was fine. Her chiffon top had a small stain and appeared to be missing two buttons, but it would do to get her home. She thanked them both profusely for their kind assistance and would return the coat momentarily.

Unnoticed by O’Brien or Gibb, the electrical maintenance worker, dressed in blue overalls, white hard hat low over his eyes and carrying a small, black toolbox, flashed a key card over the optical security scanner and strolled casually to elevator six. Stepping inside, he called for the thirty-first floor.

Both guards returned to their respective stations, continued their surveillance on the security monitors and briefly exchanged a crude joke on the unfortunate woman’s humiliating incident.

Camera 31-01, mounted above the elevators on the thirty-first floor, provided a live feed to the security monitors in the atrium. The camera’s wide-angle lens exposed the entire foyer, and a few feet beyond the glass entrance, the main anteroom servicing SkyTech’s executive suite.

Scanning the matrix of video feeds, O’Brien observed something that immediately caught his attention. He tapped the touch-sensitive display, expanding the image to fill the entire screen. What appeared to be a maintenance worker, exited from one of the elevators, then paced swiftly through the foyer into the anteroom.

Strange , O’Brien thought, there’s no maintenance planned for today .

He quickly verified his suspicions with the list of scheduled work on a clipboard resting next to his computer keyboard.

Eyes back on the monitor, O’Brien couldn’t believe what happened next. Watching the scene unfold, his worst fears had just become a reality.

Once out of the suburbs, Nathan drove his dependable sub-compact west along Hempstead Turnpike to where it joined Cross Island Parkway. Emily, comfortably seated beside him, reached over and upped the volume of the six-speaker Clarion sound system. Tuned to WBMP-FM, it blasted out ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’.

“They’re playing our song,” Emily said above the volume of the music. Nathan had introduced her to a Rolling Stones tribute band during their first unofficial date at the Summer Stage Festival in New York’s Central Park.

“What?” he shouted back jokingly.

“I said,” Emily bellowed. “Sex makes you deaf.”

“Deaf is better than dysfunctional,” he said, winding down the volume a bit and continuing the banter.

“That, you will never be.”

“Not with you in those tight denims,” he said, candidly. Reaching his hand over, he gave her upper leg an affectionate squeeze.

“Here they come, right on schedule,” Nathan said, releasing his hand and pointing unobtrusively to a group of runners approaching in the distance on the worn grassy patch bordering the sidewalk.

“It must be part of a scientifically calculated exercise routine having to look at your fitness monitor every two strides,” Emily said, laughing. “The hardened facial expression must also be mandatory. They always look like they’re in excruciating pain.”

“They spend more time glancing at those wrist straps than they do keeping their eyes on the road,” Nathan said. “Not surprising that so many of them get run over.”

“I don’t see the need to glance at an electronic device every two paces to confirm that you’ve just jogged another two paces,” she said, shaking her head.

“What are you talking about?” Nathan asked, laughing. “You’re a black belt in StairMaster. I bet you look at the readout every so often.”

“Yeah, every so often,” she retorted. “But not every two steps. Maybe after every half a mile or so. Anyway, don’t criticise my faithful StairMaster. It keeps my legs just the way you like them.”

“Yes,” he said. “Wrapped tightly around me, while my face is buried in your…”

“Hey, eyes on the road,” she interrupted, slapping him gently on the shoulder. “I’d like to get to the office in one piece.”

From Cross Island Parkway, it was a short drive to Highway 495 from where they could merge with Queens Boulevard and contend with traffic gridlock in the usual spots. Within thirty-five minutes, they crossed the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan.

Eyes glued to the monitor, senior security guard, Sean O’Brien, observed the situation in horror. The maintenance worker opened his toolbox and pulled out a small firearm. At the same moment, Monica, James Clark’s executive assistant, leapt sideways off her chair. Wide eyed and terrified, she huddled beside a tall four-drawer filing cabinet to the left of her L-shaped mahogany reception desk. The maintenance worker, handgun raised, marched into James Clark’s office and slammed the door behind him.

Any casual observer glancing at the screen would have thought the guard was taking a break and watching some sort of police drama on TV.

Years of training had conditioned O’Brien to act immediately in the face of a potentially hostile situation. He didn’t think; he just acted. Grabbing a two-way radio from the charging station, he stood up and turned to Gibb.

“Michaels is in the underground parking levels,” O’Brien said. “Tell him to get up here now and keep your radio open on channel one,” he commanded. “And keep your eye on that monitor. I want to know immediately if the situation changes.”

O’Brien rushed to the elevators, unclipping his side-arm holster along the way. He had been in many skirmishes during his tour in Afghanistan but had never faced a hostage situation before. Hopefully, that’s all it was, he thought with apprehension, and not some nutcase intent on killing Mr. Clark.

He stepped into elevator one, inserted his security key, isolating it for exclusive use, and called for the top floor. He had no idea what to expect when the elevator’s doors opened after he reached his destination. He would be walking into a situation blind. He may have to react on shear instinct and hoped that none of SkyTech’s staff were harmed along the way.

For a high-speed elevator, it seemed to be taking forever.

In tense anticipation, O’Brien shuffled to the front and right of the elevator car, crouched down and raised his hand-gun to eye-level.

The doors opened.

With sharp, perceptive vision, he quickly swept the entire area. This didn’t make any sense at all. Monica was sitting casually behind her desk looking at O’Brien without countenance. He slowly straightened up, lowered his firearm a few inches and walked cautiously across the foyer. He shifted his glance quickly to the right where Info Tech and facilities were located, then left, towards the managers’ offices and conference rooms. He returned his gaze and looked probingly into Monica’s eyes, searching for any hint of fear, or more to the point, warning signs.

Monica suddenly broke into a wide grin. “Morning, Sean,” she said, cheerfully. “Mr. Clark and Mr. Brown are expecting you. Please go directly in.”

O’Brien tilted his head and looked at her inquisitively.