Deb Hanson
09-14-2010, 01:02 PM
P R O L O G U E
A pair of hands wearing white latex gloves lifted a camera no larger than a deck of cards from a desktop. Turned on its side, it was held under the bright light emitted by a halogen lamp. A protruding antenna was wiggled with fingers then rotated on its axis to confirm maneuverability before being pushed back into its housing. The camera’s black underbelly revealed a tiny button that was depressed, returning the apparatus to standby. A small square of alcohol-saturated cloth, pinched between forefinger and thumb, was used to wipe errant dust particles from the pinhole lens. The device’s outer shell was given a fast swipe of alcohol before being returned to the desktop and placed alongside three others waiting to be repackaged in plastic.
The latest test had come off without a hitch, and the time was drawing near to set the plot in motion. Odds were looking better than even to get in, get out, make a clean getaway and leave this dusty place far behind. And leave it in style. Infrared transmission was now flawless, kinks with interference having been ironed out and no longer an issue. High quality sound and clarity of image were the prime objectives—grainy definition or indecipherable words would not sell. Video feed was working again, the culprit causing the malfunction—a simple faulty circuit—identified and corrected that morning by, of all people, a Radio Shack clerk earning minimum wage. A single glitch in how the system functioned could thwart the whole plan, along with the windfall to be gained from its execution. All options for concealment had been evaluated, camouflage being the most critical element to ensure its existence remained undetected by the subject while still delivering the goods. A bump from an arm or nudge through happenstance could stall the operation or, worse, topple the scheme like a house of cards. Placement would be tricky and occur when the house was quiet, the victim either away or preoccupied with activities elsewhere on the compound. Precision timing would be key to surreptitious installation, and Plan B was ready for deployment should diversionary tactics become necessary to get the black market bugs activated and doing their dirty work.
The long fingers worked to wrap the devices in plastic, using the care a surgeon might demonstrate to perform open heart. Each was placed into a small brown paper bag that was rolled closed and in turn placed into a larger bag with the words Extra Name Badges felt-penned in large print across the front. The gloves were peeled off inside-out and dropped in next. The top edge of the bag was folded over twice and stapled on each end. A drawer was opened and the bag positioned beneath a stack of papers. A key was turned in a lock and dropped into a jacket pocket. A lamp was switched off and a chair pushed back from a desk. Footsteps made by a pair of boots were heard impacting concrete floor before halting. A door was opened. Soft, maniacal laughter, struggling to be contained and meant for no one’s ears except the laugher, broke the silence at the doorway to an empty room. A face with a cunning smile and set of unfeeling eyes turned back to darkness, looked toward a desk drawer and said, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”
The Riviera was waiting.
A pair of hands wearing white latex gloves lifted a camera no larger than a deck of cards from a desktop. Turned on its side, it was held under the bright light emitted by a halogen lamp. A protruding antenna was wiggled with fingers then rotated on its axis to confirm maneuverability before being pushed back into its housing. The camera’s black underbelly revealed a tiny button that was depressed, returning the apparatus to standby. A small square of alcohol-saturated cloth, pinched between forefinger and thumb, was used to wipe errant dust particles from the pinhole lens. The device’s outer shell was given a fast swipe of alcohol before being returned to the desktop and placed alongside three others waiting to be repackaged in plastic.
The latest test had come off without a hitch, and the time was drawing near to set the plot in motion. Odds were looking better than even to get in, get out, make a clean getaway and leave this dusty place far behind. And leave it in style. Infrared transmission was now flawless, kinks with interference having been ironed out and no longer an issue. High quality sound and clarity of image were the prime objectives—grainy definition or indecipherable words would not sell. Video feed was working again, the culprit causing the malfunction—a simple faulty circuit—identified and corrected that morning by, of all people, a Radio Shack clerk earning minimum wage. A single glitch in how the system functioned could thwart the whole plan, along with the windfall to be gained from its execution. All options for concealment had been evaluated, camouflage being the most critical element to ensure its existence remained undetected by the subject while still delivering the goods. A bump from an arm or nudge through happenstance could stall the operation or, worse, topple the scheme like a house of cards. Placement would be tricky and occur when the house was quiet, the victim either away or preoccupied with activities elsewhere on the compound. Precision timing would be key to surreptitious installation, and Plan B was ready for deployment should diversionary tactics become necessary to get the black market bugs activated and doing their dirty work.
The long fingers worked to wrap the devices in plastic, using the care a surgeon might demonstrate to perform open heart. Each was placed into a small brown paper bag that was rolled closed and in turn placed into a larger bag with the words Extra Name Badges felt-penned in large print across the front. The gloves were peeled off inside-out and dropped in next. The top edge of the bag was folded over twice and stapled on each end. A drawer was opened and the bag positioned beneath a stack of papers. A key was turned in a lock and dropped into a jacket pocket. A lamp was switched off and a chair pushed back from a desk. Footsteps made by a pair of boots were heard impacting concrete floor before halting. A door was opened. Soft, maniacal laughter, struggling to be contained and meant for no one’s ears except the laugher, broke the silence at the doorway to an empty room. A face with a cunning smile and set of unfeeling eyes turned back to darkness, looked toward a desk drawer and said, “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”
The Riviera was waiting.