the smuggler’s bible

Sonal

The door to suite 317D is a single large pane of frosted glass near the elevator. Sonal turns casually and heads inside.

The front desk is vacant. This is expected. Still you must always behave as if under surveillance. Sonal pulls forth an envelope and drops it into the in tray, leaning just enough to jostle the lamp.

That’s it. She reaches out a steadying hand. The devices are subtle these days, very small. It sticks directly to the inside of the shade—off-white and unnoticeable.

In the hall, a woman smiles at her. Sonal smiles back, bright and friendly.