After a nearly two-hour wait inside the terminal, a bus picks me up — only me — from the transit area. We drive slowly across the tarmac, through a barrier, past electronic gates covered in barbed wire and security cameras.
The main part of the Novotel is out of bounds. My allotted wing feels like a lockup: You are obliged to stay in your room, except for brief walks along the corridor. Three cameras track your movements along the hallway and beam the images back to a multiscreen monitor. It's comforting to see a sign instructing me that, in case of an emergency, the locks on heavily-fortified doors leading to the elevators will open.
When I try to leave my room, the guard outside springs to his feet. I ask him why room service isn't responding and if there's any other way to get food. He growls: "Extension 70!" I rile him by asking about the Wi-Fi, which isn't working: "Extension 75!" he snarls.
Ewan MacAskill/AP
Snowden, whose U.S. passport has been revoked, worked as a contract employee at the National Security Agency.
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"Don't worry, Mr. Phillips," the transit desk employee had said. "We have all your details and information. We will come and get you from your room at 6 p.m. on Friday, one hour before your connecting flight."
Now it's midnight, and I'm getting edgy. I feel trapped inside my airless room, whose double windows are tightly sealed. And the room is extortionate: It costs $300 a night, with a surcharge of 50 percent slapped on because I will be staying past noon.
("Can't I just wait in the lobby after midday?" I asked the receptionist at check-in. "Of course not," she retorted. "You have no visa. You will stay until you are picked up.")
I look out the window. If Snowden is here and has the same view, he can see the approach to the departures terminal at the airport. A large billboard shows a red 4x4 vehicle driving along an ocean road. A parking lot below is filled with vehicles. A man in green overalls is watering a patch of parched grass. Vehicles whizz in and out of the airport.
A maid has just brought a tea bag. She puts a tick against the room number on the three-page document on her trolley. On it, there are no guest names, only numbers — and departure dates. A quick look suggests there are perhaps a few dozen people staying here. A couple of rooms on my floor have tell-tale signs of occupancy — food trays lying outside from the night before.
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