Klaus Schwamborn - Dreamland

“Oh, and do put that gun away,” she said. “You won’t need it today.”

Radio in hand, O’Brien advised Gibb to stand down. He holstered and clipped in his weapon, walked up to the chief executive officer’s door, and with a slight trembling of his hand, knocked half-heartedly.

He heard the soft authoritative voice of Obadiah Brown. “Come in, Mr. O’Brien.”

Walking vigilantly into the office, O’Brien acknowledged James Clark who was seated comfortably in his high-backed leather chair. On the right, occupying most of the Chesterfield, Obadiah Brown, with his huge frame, was leaning slightly forward, hands clasped, and elbows on his knees.

“Please, come in, Mr. O’Brien,” James said. “You can leave the door open.”

O’Brien did so, and looking further into James’s office, reeled back in surprise. Sitting on the right armrest of the Chesterfield, was the maintenance worker, hard hat held loosely in his left hand. It wasn’t a maintenance worker at all, but someone O’Brien recognised immediately◦– Sven Labrowski, the whizz-kid from Info Tech. With his right hand, Sven was idly spinning a toy water pistol back and forth around his index finger in much the same way as seen with smirking gun-slingers in those clichéd old westerns.

Palm upwards, James motioned O’Brien to one of the armchairs surrounding the coffee table.

O’Brien sat down with trepidation, glancing up briefly at James Clark’s impressive collection of artworks hanging around the walls adjacent to the south-west facing windows. Photographs and paintings, lavishly framed, depicted Saturn-5 rockets and an assortment of high-tech fighter jets in strategic manoeuvres.

“As you’ve no doubt gathered by now,” Obadiah said. “This was a simple exercise in security protocol.”

O’Brien did, in fact, come to that very same conclusion only moments before. “A test that I apparently failed miserably,” he responded, bowing his head with an apologetic look.

“Not as miserably as you might think,” the head of security said. “But it did point out a few issues; two of which were immediately obvious.”

O’Brien looked up.

“Firstly,” Obadiah continued. “You’ve obviously been in the military too long. It goes without question that all your previous training and experience lends a distinct advantage to SkyTech, but a weakness on your part if you are so easily distracted by women’s breasts.”

O’Brien, feeling sheepish, dropped his eyes.

Obadiah looked at him briefly with a stern expression, and then turned to face James.

“Monica,” James called through the door. “I believe that you have something which belongs to Mr. O’Brien.”

O’Brien looked at Monica with a puzzled expression as she came through the door waving something small in her hand. It suddenly dawned on him◦– the key that, in the heat of the situation, O’Brien had inadvertently left jutting visibly from the elevator’s security panel.

Monica handed it to him. “Not something you want to leave lying around,” she cautioned.

Obadiah looked coolly at O’Brien. “From our experiences last year, we know that a key card can end up in the wrong hands quite easily if someone at SkyTech happens to be a little careless or forgetful. Getting hold of a security key could result in even more disastrous consequences.”

O’Brien had no excuses for his negligence and didn’t try to fabricate any. He knew the situation Obadiah was referring to. A year ago, a petty thief with an ill-gotten key card and vindictive intent, trashed the entire Info Tech department. It also nearly cost the lives of Nathan McIntosh and Phil Roberts.

“You needn’t look so distressed, Sean,” James cut in. “You’ve learned a valuable lesson today, but we’ve also learned something about you.”

O’Brien was surprised, and also a little flattered, that Mr. Clark actually knew his first name.

“Indeed,” Obadiah remarked. “Your actions are to be commended. The time it took you to get up here after witnessing the situation on your security monitor, was just under a minute. Not only did you get here extremely quickly, you also coordinated with Gibb. That was impressive work.”

“Thanks, Mr. Brown,” O’Brien said, appreciative for the compliment.

“You can also thank Monica for her impromptu little performance,” Obadiah said, looking in her direction. “It would appear that those high school drama classes paid off after all.”

“And I’m sure our resident gun slinger would like to get out of those overalls,” James said, looking at Sven and smiling. “For a moment, you reminded me of one of those 1960s reruns of Gunsmoke where Marshall Dylan and the outlaw exchange verbal threats and insults for ten minutes before the final shootout.”

Sven chuckled, and saying nothing else, stood up. He nodded briefly to those in the room and followed Monica through the door.

“You can leave it open,” James said, as Monica was about to reach for the door handle.

“Sean, I’d like you, Gibb and Michaels to review the surveillance video,” Obadiah advised. “I’m sure some valuable insight can be gained on just how easily people can get by security with a simple distraction.”

“You mean the young lady that so unceremoniously fell into the atrium with the um… semi-transparent blouse was all part of this?” O’Brien stammered.

“She certainly was,” Obadiah answered. “Rebecca Starlight. We hired her services through a local add agency.”

“I thought she looked somewhat familiar,” O’Brien said, on reflection.

“Yes, she’s a model for Victoria’s Secret,” Obadiah said. “And don’t worry about your jacket. She has already returned it to your security station.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s just fine,” Obadiah answered.

After O’Brien left the office, James turned to Obadiah. “I’m grateful to you for keeping your security team in check,” James said. “Even if it involves occasional stunts like this.”

“I’d also like to go ahead and install a silent panic button under Monica’s desk,” Obadiah suggested.

“Excellent idea,” James agreed. “Have that taken care of as soon as possible.”

“Something else that I’d like to bring to your attention, Mr. Clark,” Obadiah said, as a thought crossed his mind. “Your nameplate.”

James looked at the grandiose bronzed plaque on the outside of his open oak panelled door◦– James Worthington Clark III◦– CEO SkyTech .

Obadiah continued, “In a real situation like this, it’s kind of obvious who the ideal candidate would be to take hostage◦– or worse.”

James looked casually around his lavish office◦– a small bar which he rarely used, conference area, two occasional chairs with side tables, and opposite the low rectangular coffee table where Obadiah was seated, the Chesterfield. On the far side, nearest the corner windows overlooking Manhattan’s East 72nd Street, a small flat-screen TV and grandfather clock. His Victorian styled nineteenth century Rosewood desk with adjoining Bordeaux marble topped credenza was also a dead giveaway.

“Look around you,” James said, waving his arm across the office. “I think it’s kind of obvious announcing my station at SkyTech, even without a plaque.”

“All I ask is that you give it some thought, Mr. Clark.”

“I’ll do so,” James acknowledged, concluding their discussion.

Obadiah stood up, walked around the coffee table and out the door. At six-foot-four in height and over three hundred pounds of solid muscle, he projected authority, but without intimidation. He was mild-mannered and never invited conflict. With razor-sharp wit, very little passed Obadiah’s notice.