With the onset of summer, temperatures in Austin were really heating up. Nowhere had the climate change been more distinct than inside the offices of the Ladd Agency.
Leta stepped out of the elevator into the office lobby.
“You’re late.” Elaine charged out from her side of the reception counter and handed her a packet, then pointed toward the conference room. “You’d best get a move on.”
Leta glanced at her watch. “Sorry,” she murmured, taking the tightly packed manila envelope from the receptionist’s hand. In a city often clogged with traffic, she wondered why less than five minutes past eight was considered late.
The conference room was packed. Jane Ladd looked up as she entered. “You must not have gotten my email. Never mind now—just get situated.”
Leta swallowed and made her way to where those without seats congregated at the table with the coffee service. “Sorry,” she repeated as she found a place to stand.
“Okay, listen up. Yesterday’s primaries went exactly as expected. No surprises. Governor Holiday will face off with Senator Emerson in the general this November. Which means we have a lot of work to do.” She paused briefly to take a sip from her steaming mug of coffee. “In your packets you’ll find our game plan, or at least the one we intend to employ over the next couple of months. As you know, in politics everything can change on a dime. So we don’t get too married to any strategy. Success will mean being nimble and ready to court another approach, if necessary.”
Across the room, Erin listened intently with her arms folded on the table beside her open packet.
Jane continued. “At this point, it’s time for a big shift in our office operations. Three of you will now be working directly with Bernard Geisler and moving to the fifth floor, where we’ve temporarily leased space. The rest will remain here on the fourth floor and will continue to take direction from me. You’ll find everything you need and the answers to most of your questions in the packet. Any issues you need discussed?” She looked across the room as if daring anyone to raise their hand. “Good, then let’s get to work.”
Leta quickly made her way to her cubicle and held her breath as she pulled the contents from her package. Her heart sank as she saw the words Geisler and fifth floor.
Erin peeked her head around the divider wall. “Looks like we’ll be working together.”
She carefully tucked the papers back inside the envelope. “So, what does this mean?”
“It means grab your stuff and I’ll meet you up there in five.”
She glanced around, feeling confused. Frantic, she stepped out of her cube. “Wait, Erin. Do I pack all my stuff?”
Erin nodded. “Yes—third paragraph in the letter. We won’t be working on this floor after today.”
“Never?”
“Well, not until after the elections are over. That’s a given.” Her friend moved on, leaving her to get busy.
Leta noticed two large empty boxes on her floor, labeled with her name. She took a deep breath and tried to ignore the fact her palms were sweating.
Bernard Geisler. Special ops.
The idea was daunting, scary even. The big questions lying heavy on her heart were not answered in that packet of information.
She quickly riffled through the drawers and pulled out all her personal items and her favorite pens. Would she need to take the small stock of office supplies she’d collected and stored in her desk for convenience, or would everything she needed be waiting up there for her—on the fifth floor?
After deciding she’d better skip the risk of not having what she needed upstairs, she scooped most of what was in her drawers into one of the boxes. On top, she placed the framed photo of her mom standing in a field of bluebonnets at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. The shot had been taken the day they visited in celebration of Leta’s decision to pursue landscape architecture. A long time ago.
She passed the reception desk on the way out. Elaine stopped her. “You’ll need this,” the woman said, handing her a hard plastic card that looked like a blank credit card. “Don’t lose it.”
When Leta stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor, she was surprised to find a security guard who escorted her down a wide hall, then several yards down another narrower hallway to the left. He stopped in front of a nondescript metal door. “Do you have your security card?”
She nodded, shifted the box to her hip, and handed it to him.
He frowned and shook his head. “You are never to give this card to anyone else. Ever.” He pointed to the packet in her box. “You might want to read everything again,” he warned.
She’d failed his test. Now her gut was really churning. This was like a bad movie or something.
“Yeah, sure. I will,” she promised. Following his instructions, she swiped the card in front of a reader box mounted to the right of the door. She heard a buzz, then a click.
The security guard opened the door for her, and she walked inside.
The whole place was nearly bare, like some San Francisco tech start-up might look like—an open, unpaneled ceiling with silver insulation around air ducts, and spray paint on the exposed cement floor to indicate where office furniture would be placed amid slabs of unaffixed carpeting. Half-opened Levolor-style blinds covered windows overlooking the parking lot and Colorado Street below.
Two long counters made up of workstations faced a wall of mounted television monitors. About ten people sat with their backs to the door, tapping their computer keyboards. Each wore large black earphone sets. Some of these people she’d never met.
Erin turned and noticed her. She waved her over. “Your spot is at the end. Down there.”
She looked and saw the empty space. “Okay, thanks.”
Leta didn’t know which was heavier, the box or her heart. At least she could drop the box—and did, giving the guy next to her a start. He glared and went back to typing.
“Sorry,” she said, even though she knew the dude wearing a T-shirt and blazer over a pair of jeans wasn’t listening.
Over the next ten minutes, she busied herself with the work of unpacking. She placed her pens in a cup and positioned it to the right of the large Apple computer monitor. She nestled the pads of lined, blank yellow paper in her desk and positioned her mom’s photo in place.
“Could I have everyone’s attention?” Bernard stood at the front of the room. He clapped his hands. “This will only take a moment.”
Heads popped up. Earphones were removed.
“Welcome.” Bernard looked out from behind those wire-framed glasses, his tone not exactly matching his message. He propped his elbow in one hand and rubbed his chin with the other while he waited for their full attention.
“You have all been promoted to a very special assignment—working on what we call Operation Brainchild. Everything that is said, all that is learned and discovered in this room, stays in this room. No deviation. Understood?”
Leta timidly followed the others and nodded.
“Our work will be critical to Governor Holiday’s campaign and successful run for another term. It is in this hub that we’ll be uncovering and dissecting the mother lode of information. Highly confidential material that could make or break this upcoming election.”
With an almost giddy anticipation, he explained that as members of the special apparatus for tracking and research, Leta and the others would be watching hours of broadcasted speeches by Governor Holiday’s opponent and reading blogs and online news articles, sifting for any critical piece of data that might catch Senator Emerson flip-flopping on an earlier position, misquoting facts, or generally making snafus that could be spun in the media. They were told to especially watch for anything that would tip a change in strategy in Emerson’s camp, even if slight.
“Don’t discount anything. Trust your gut. If you think something might be important, it usually is.” He slowly removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a cloth he retrieved from his back pocket. With his frames back in place, he looked over the room. “We’ll be working shifts 24-7 and will meet briefly four times a day to download to the rest of the team what we’ve learned. You’ll be provided a written report via a daily email, incorporating data from the night team. Everything on this special server is encrypted, and nothing can be printed or downloaded. Any questions?”
No one raised a hand. The guy next to her looked bored and tapped his pencil against his leg.
Leta wanted to grab that pencil and break it. This was not what she’d planned, and definitely not what she’d signed up for.
With Geisler’s back turned, she boldly leaned toward the guy with the pencil. “What’s that?” she whispered, pointing to a closed door near the front of the room.
Her work neighbor shook his head. “Read your packet. You have to have special clearance to have access.”
She nodded, feeling even sicker inside. Everything about Operation Brainchild was like a bad John Grisham novel.
Perhaps the broken heel on her first day had been some kind of cosmic warning that what originally looked like a great job was not going to turn out well after all.
While she could justify the research she’d compiled—anyone willing to make the effort could look in the public record and assemble the same—the work she was now expected to do somehow crossed her line of comfort.
In the little time she’d spent with Nate Emerson, she’d learned he was a man of convictions, bright, and determined to help people like her mother. Even her research backed up that notion. How could she now actively work to oppose him in this election? Especially now that he’d shared how he felt about her and she’d admitted she felt the same?
This was a nightmare.
She’d gone to work for a public relations agency. Now she was working for a . . . She didn’t even know what to call this floor.
Bernard said to trust her gut. Well, her instincts were telling her that all this secrecy didn’t point to anything positive.
Sure, there was always a chance she was wrong. Just not a very good one.