The Writers' Circle

. . . please let me know if it projects the right mood . . . thanks.

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	A huge grandfather clock's pendulum swung freely at a far corner of the foyer inching a pair of hands toward 4:00 A.M.; the lobby nearly deserted. With only the soft glow of recessed fluorescents, empty sumptuous leather sofas gave warm sentiments to ease a weary traveler. 
	At a side station, tucked away behind a tall counter built with gorgeous decorative hand-laid woven fine cherry veneer with gilded edging, drowsy graveyard shift workers were busy updating audit lists, gingerly punching away at keyboards, consciously avoiding chipping artificial nails. A sluggish cleaner with a long-handled mop was halfway off his shift pushing through the nth-time sweeping and buffing a distinctly glistening white marbled floor of the five-star establishment.

	Breaking silence, a lone guest pulled a black tote bag, clicking its dragged wheels over floor gaps in a balanced rhythmic protest. Glancing around, the middle-aged man stopped briefly in the middle of the enormous lobby to admire an intricately carved dark-wood high ceiling, processing information to mind like a veteran operative would do. He blew a nasal sigh then ambled perceptively toward reception. 
	A tall, slim, would-be candidate for a Miss World title flashed a tempting smile showing perfect teeth as she carried herself gracefully, hips modeled a steady sway and spacing her stiletto-heeled half steps toward the stimulated guest. A permanently smiling attendant couldn't be more inviting.

	"Guevara," he said in a hushed tone, looking over his tired shoulders as if someone would tag him at any moment. Che discreetly flipped a badge; "NBI" shimmered in the subdued light.
	"Yes, Mr. Guevara, we've been expecting you, sir. Welcome to Manila Hotel." The pretty concierge kept a smile as if a whole modeling career would depend on it. She offered an electronic keycard. 
	"You're in 408 on the fourth," she cooed, dimples and all, white teeth glimmered in the soft light reminiscent of a high-def toothpaste commercial.
	"Thank you. Could you please buzz me at seven?"
	"Yes sir, we'll set you up at seven."
	She raised an arm initiating a bellman into a hurried trot. With a slight bow, he offered to take his bag.
	"It's alright, just show me the lift." Che waved a hand suppressing a yawn.
	The bellman instead advanced an open palm toward the elevator, his right hand at ease behind his back in simulated submission. 
	Director Guevara glanced back and threw a thankful nod at reception; her face still frozen with the nicest smile east of the Suez Canal. 
	Che sighed.

	Though his feet felt like heavy adobe bricks and his knees wobbly, he had to drag himself to catch a few winks before the operatives' 8:00 AM briefing on mission deployment. He'd been at this hotel numerous times but the grandeur always convinced him he was a trespasser. Che's simple living made him feel he didn't belong within the hallowed halls where titans of industries had casually sipped double-filtered imported Arabica to discuss how they'd plan for the next million-dollar deal in the succeeding twenty-four hours.  
	He walked past abstract art, rich, modern and the occasional contemporary furniture, spotless floors and walls. At every corner, seriously uptight and bowing uniformed personnel seemed too eager to please as if they would lose their pensions the moment they stopped the pretense. Some Filipino whiz kid had done the interior decoration worthy of a magazine spread and ultra-glossy colored brochures were laid everywhere for the 'A'- listed patrons to browse on (but hardly anyone ever did).
	Che couldn't care less for the pompous amenities; all these were only hypocritical and pretentious, and had it not for Gus' generosity, he would've saved his money and would've preferred the simple boardroom at TAHOE with a preferred brand of rich Columbian coffee. It was at Gus' insistence that billeted the spooks and pampered at the hotel prior to launching Operation Blue Folder. 
	Not wishing to miss a wake-up call, he set up the radio clock to discharge.

	Guevara jolted when a loud irritating buzz screeched followed by a nagging telephone. He slapped the offending clock radio twice - time to get up; grabbed the receiver and dropped it back to silence it. He wasn't too thrilled to have had only three hours of snooze, but he had no choice. A quick breakfast of oatmeal, orange juice and double-filtered black coffee, served in his room, woke him up. A brief scan of a national daily followed a quick check of electronic briefings on email, cell and text messages; a five-minute shower was last to complete a routine to greet the day. Nothing overly pressing so far and he was able to breathe a blunt sigh of relief. 
	Jimi Valero came to collect him.