Chapter 1

It was always quiet in here.

Maybe that's why I come every once in a while. I come when I need to clear my head, when I need to think. It was a familiar place, always the same. It was a place that seemed to be stuck in time. And in a city where everything is always moving and always changing, stability is something very precious indeed.

I was sitting in a smooth mahogany pew in St. John's Church. It was an old church, the stain glass windows were slightly grimy, and the hymnals and the leaflets showed signs of wear. The deacon was lovingly replacing the candles on the altar and watering the flowers sitting on the banisters. He was an elderly man with balding grey hair and small glasses. He was hard of hearing, but was quick with a smile.

He always nodded when he saw me sitting in the pew. He never came and talked, maybe he sensed I didn't want to speak, or maybe he simply wanted to leave me to my reflections. I didn't know, but I always returned his nod with a smile.

St. John's was located on a little street in the heart of Queens New York. It wasn't my neighborhood, and I always looked a little out of place with my suit, tie and silver watch. But no one ever bothered me. It seemed even criminals respected a man who sat alone in a Church. I had come here so much now that no one ever seemed to even notice me anymore.

I always sat in the same place, but I never prayed.

I wasn't a believer.

Faith in God was not what dragged me back to this wooden bench time and again. I came for the solitude, for the companionship of the old walls and the smell of old incense.

It was, in a way, an escape from the constant pace of my life, my job, and my worries.

Sitting nestled in my coat pocket was a little black wallet. Inside the fold of leather was an FBI badge and an ID card. They both declared me as Special Agent Jonathan Creed. I was an FBI Agent, and a successful one at that. But I hated the job. An agent doesn't have any friends but other agents. An Agent doesn't have any lover but the Bureau. Well, that last part wasn't true, many agents had families, but they were families who you couldn't discuss your day with, so I saw little point in pursuing that.

I slowly rose from the pew, and nodded to the elderly lady who was weeping in the pew behind me. I quietly moved down the aisle, and out the old wooden double doors, into the cold bite of the New York City winter. I drew my coat around me, and hurried to my car. It was an unassuming black sedan. It was last year's model, an inconspicuous Ford. This year's Bureau model was a Chevy.

The sun hadn't come up yet, it was only 5:30 in the morning. But the city that never slept still had cars on her roads. Hence it took me close the forty minutes to get from the center of Queens to 26 Federal Plaza, where the district office was held. I parked up and walked through the glass doors. Paul, the large red haired man who guarded the entrance nodded at me as I swiped my clearance card.

"Mornin' John," he boomed in his warm gravelly voice.

I gave my traditional greeting, "How are you Paul my man," I said, forcing as much cheer into my voice as possible.

"Not bad, John, not bad. Could do with a little sunshine but probably in'nt gonna happen."

I simply smiled again, "Well, never give up hope Paul."

Paul buzzed me through to the elevator and I got in.

The office was set up like most police stations. There was a center area of cubicles where all the new agents worked. The executive offices were built into the surrounding walls ... This center area was called the 'bullpen'. It was a chaotic place, where phones constantly rang, and agents had to dutifully answer.

Most calls where bullshit.

But one in one hundred phone calls were legitimate tips, so all calls were answered, processed and recorded.

I had never worked in the bullpen.

Something for which I was greatful.

My office was a little room along one of the walls. Plain letters on a simple wooden door stated, 'Special Agent Jonathan Creed'. My office was about as big as a walk in closet, with just enough room for a desk and a file cabinet.

The same file that I had left on my desk last night still sat there. The tab was marked UniCORP. I scooped the file off my desk and turned right around. I had to report on this today with the branch executive Agent.

Special Agent Jones.

I had spent two months on this case and I was finally ready to proceed to the next stage. All I needed was Jones's say so.

Samuel Jones could be described as ... average. He had a face that one looked at, and then instantly forgot. He had short brown hair that was graying at the temples, brown eyes and a plain face. He always wore a gray suit with a gray tie and a white shirt. This wardrobe was accompanied with plain brown shoes and a brown belt. He was, in all respect of the word, forgettable.

Only on closer examination would one notice that behind his eyes blazed a sort of fire. He had a hot and uncontrollable determination that had allowed him to rise to his current office, and hold it, against all the backstabbing and closed door politics that happened all too often in the FBI.

He was sitting at his desk, calmly flipping through some other file.

I poked my head in.

"Mr. Jones, we had a meeting scheduled for seven O'clock?"

He looked up from his files. "Ah yes, Jonathan, it slipped my mind." He said absently. He indicated a chair. "Please, sit down."

I lowered myself into the chair, and handed him my folder. He simply glanced at it, and set it back down.

"John, I've been reading these things all morning. How about you just tell me what's in it and I'll read it later."

I cleared my throat. "As you know sir I've been looking into some of the dealings done by UniCORP, and what I've found is a little disturbing. Not only do I suspect them of tax evasion ranging somewhere into the multimillions, but resent evidence leads me to suspect the company of developing illegal software."

Jones clasped his hands together. "Illegal how?"

I cleared my throat. This is where things got bad. I had no proof, only speculation.

"Well, you see sir, last year they developed the Ragnok satellite system. The year before that they perfected the military grade P.A.T.H. OS which is now used in every tank, sub, and missile of American origin ... suffice it to say sir, these people are intelligent and wildly driven. But this year the only thing they have developed worthy of note is JumpTECH, which is some sort of automatic parachute landing technology. This tech already existed, they just took it and made it a little bit better."

Jones was now looking curiously. "Your point?"

I once again cleared my throat, confident that I at least wouldn't be laughed out of his office. "I suspect that JumpTECH was merely a cover for what they have really been producing. That the only way they could hide so many tax dollars from the IRS is if they were selling something that technically wasn't on the market."

"Go on."

"Well sir, last year they hired one Dr. Elijah Brigs. This wouldn't be very incidental if he were a physicist, or an engineer or something that has any business working on JumpTECH. But Dr. Brigs is a neuroscientist, and let me be clear ... he is a very good neuroscientist. I pulled his file and apparently his was sacked from John Hopkins three years ago. The details in the file were not very specific, but they simply said, 'Breech of Scientific Code of Ethics.' Now that makes me wonder, why is a neuroscientist working for UniCORP when nothing they have produced even resembles brain work?"

I could see the wheels turning in Jones's head. He liked where this was going. He liked it a lot.

"I assume you have a plan Jonathan," he said.

I smiled. "Some of my underground contacts have said they are having what they call, a 'little garage sale' going on in one warehouse 5B off the docks.

Jones was smiling. I could already tell I'd sold him on my little sting.

He drew himself up. "Special Agent Creed, I gather you like to do your own field work?"

"Yes Sir."

"Good, I am then hereby authorizing 3.5 million dollars to be used to pick up an item from this little 'garage sale'. You will be given a Bureau alias that has not been compromised and you will infiltrate this little party and bring back hard evidence."

I stood smiling. "Thank you sir."

Jones tossed back a mug of what must be cold coffee. "You've never been wrong before. Let's hope you can keep your no hitter career going."

I rented a limo to take me to the warehouse. I needed to look like dropping a million dollars on a new computer would be second nature to me. I looked at my fake ID again. My name was Ike Hale. I was a Canadian billionaire who liked sports cars and made his money by managing hedge funds. In essence, my money appeared from nowhere, and was untraceable. But when it came to billionaire's I've found that everyone is happier not asking questions.