Journalism for bloggers

A light comes on in the distance. The signal S has been waiting for. He shifts his weight by rolling his body lightly, relieving some of the cramp that has built up over the hour of waiting. To move is to risk being spotted but he cannot help himself. Tucked into the eave of the building, its rough brick beneath him, he focuses his eye back along the lens of the camera, hoping to get the shot.

Fifteen storeys below the road is silent, dark. Puddles reflect the gun metal sky, threatening exposure. S watches the vids that line the street slowly glitch, tilting themselves in odd patterns to clear the path for the big, silver car that is driving along it. A virtual anonymity carefully constructed for the meeting that S is hoping to witness.

Normally he ignores anonymous tip offs, but there was something about this one that caused it to be flagged up. The mask worn by the message was a little too sophisticated for the average loser looking to waste his time. The message not so obviously a plant by the police of the secret service. Worth checking out. Even letting out a sniff of the message will spoke traffic and revenues. Maybe even push him to the networks, if he can attract an agent.

The car stops. There is only the sound of the wind in S's ears. He does not hear the click of the open door. He tilts his camera and begins taking shots. He is barely taking in what he is seeing at first, and it is only as the figure below moves away from the car and into the shaded doorway of the building opposite that S realises this is the Secretary for Defence. He wants to curse. The flicker of a kite in the corner of his vision keeps him silent and he becomes rigid and still again, letting the cheap camo do its work.