The doors closed, leaving Yerbol in a rather uncomfortable situation. He hated elevator silence. It was an oddity, an idiosyncrasy, but he would never give up on the notion that if there was someone else in the elevator with you, there had to be some polite conversation. The silence was unbearable. He reached up with a hand and played with the front end of his hair, flipping it up slightly in it's normal configuration(the front end of his hair tended to mat down on his hair, which was a frustrating turn of events) before asking:
"I suppose I shouldn't be asking this, but you wouldn't happen to be heading to the briefing room as well, would you?" Before the conversation could go any further, a soft ping indicated that they had arrived. At the door stood a dark haired woman in a pencil skirt and a shirt with a neckline that went so far up that it could have swallowed her head. He had seen her before...
"Operatives, please follow me." The deep, yet pleasant voice registered. It was Alexis Pressmen, the woman who had set him up with his lodgings and equipment. So she was an unofficial quartermaster? Glorified receptionist? Shaking the line of thought, he complied with the directive, following her through the familiar wood paneled hallways. This floor was much better appointed decor-wise, the carpet a luxurious fabric of some kind, wood paneling on the walls that added an elegance to what would have been a drab office hallway. Doors were mostly open, all of which revealed computers and other such equipment manned by bustling men and women in business attire. Finally, they reached a door at the end of the current hallway they were in, Alexis leading them into a room that featured two large plasma screen television mounted on the eastern wall. To to the north were expansive full length windows that held a good view of the D.C. skyline. In the center was a dark cherrywood conference table, leather office chairs set haphazardly along the edges. 
"Director Huntley will be with you shortly." With that, she left, leaving Yerbol to look to the woman with a small smile.
"I suppose she answered my question for me." He withdrew a seat at the end of the table, situating himself in it turning to the woman, extending a hand:
"My manners escape me. Yerbol Makashev."