Hi, I'm here to see Michael Sullivan. Do you have an appointment?

Yes, I'm Ben Jereau. I have a one o'clock.

Checking in with a receptionist at the Office of Naval Intelligence is a bizarre formality.

Announcing myself, her asking me who I was there to see.

It was all just an antiquated conversation, part of their efforts to put a more human face on the operation.

In reality, surveillance knew where I'd been every minute since I'd stepped on to transit back at home.

Throughout the morning, as I'd made my way from the Boston Terminal, this receptionist had likely been

prompted with dynamic updates of my exact arrival time, deviations from my optimal course,

bathroom breaks, my average walking speed, however they did it. They'd been expecting me.

I'll let him know you're here, Ben. Okay, thank you. The whole ONI facility was sleek and stark.

Everywhere you look, it's sharp lines, the highest quality materials.

Most striking, though, was the overwhelming amount of space and silence.

This waiting area was particularly sparse.

Two minimalist carbon fiber chairs set 20 feet from each other.

I also noticed the seat seemed oddly low to the ground.

I picked one and sat down.

This chair was really low to the ground.

It was awkward.

I was probably looking at 60 to 90 minutes of customary wait time here,

and squatting like this was not going to help my anxiety level.

But I was just pulling up some busy work when the door behind reception suddenly slid open.

Ben, Mr. Sullivan will see you now.

...