Don’t do anything silly, I’m told, or they’ll probably shoot you.
I’m being warned about the stern people in suits all around me, coiled cables dangling from their ears, who’ve swept the building three times in preparation of what’s to come. There’s a man in big black boots in the hallway who doesn’t like me taking his picture, and the dog he’s got on a leash looks like it might do something about it. Swarming around are people in suits snapping orders like maître d’s. The studio reception resembles a media room with jutting lighting rigs and cameras, and the canteen looks like a cinema with a PA system blaring out. A pack of hardened national press clog the entrance, necks sagging under the weight of their tools.