John Brodie - The last battle by kolofon

John Brodie- The last battle

THRILLER

Kolofon Forlag 2024

Foreword

In the end, it was me who had to tell this story to you. Believe me, I really had to, compelled by conscience to share the truth about John Brodie with you. But it is urgent to tell it, because soon there will no longer be anyone willing or able to tell the story as it really was.

Because this is not a novel, short story or romantic fairy tale, but rather an authentic story, an unadulterated eyewitness account from reality. Told by those who were there, rendered by someone who saw it all up close.

When newspapers distort and television denies, it becomes necessary for some of us to say something. When one sees the truth dying before our eyes and when the lie is awakened to take its place, someone has to take responsibility, assume the risk of shouting this out.

- Gunnar Berge

Prologue

1 month earlier

The five workers had taken a break and were now stretched out along the bare, cold outer walls of the ninetyfifth floor of the enormous skyscraper. The iconic building that, along with an identical neighboring block, had dominated the metropolitan skyline since the early seventies.

This was the last day at work for the guys, because even though they were all in good physical shape, they were still tired. Not just after this day, but just as much after eight long months of hard and heavy labor. The last six weeks in particular had been demanding.

"Ah... send over some more water Clyde. Come on man, are you going to kill us you tyrant?" A grey-haired man in his early fifties, wearing a dirty blue overall, addressed the second youngest of the group challengingly. Clyde Connor was sitting by himself in a corner, intently studying a stack of electrical schematics when the older man called out.

"Get your own water, old George, you're getting lazy!" Clyde Connor replied to the older one in a short, low and authoritative voice without looking up from the complicated drawings. Connor may have been the second youngest of the five, but he was still the undisputed leader of the group. Although he had run himself and the other four with an iron fist from day one, he had still managed

to gain a certain amount of respect in the group, which without exception consisted of self-sufficient individualists.

George Morris laughed good-naturedly, ran a dirty hand through his thick hair and stood up, getting some bottles from an icebox. He distributed the water generously to the other before returning to his seat and sitting down again.

"Gotta look after my kids," Morris smiled, slapping the much younger blasting expert and electronics engineer Ryan Ferrell amicably on the back.

"Jesus, Morris, you talk rubbish all day. If you ever have kids, they'll probably end up with the social services, so it's best for everyone if you never have any," the engineer said acidly and stood up. "If we're going to finish this today, I'm going to have to really get on with it," Ferrell sighed, pulling a long, thin screwdriver from a pocket in his overalls as he took a large swig from the bottle. He held the shiny steel up to the glow of one of the remaining ceiling fixtures, carefully checking that the sharp steel was undamaged.

Ryan Ferrell was a foreign national who, along with his friend and colleague Willie McGee, had been seconded from a overseas intelligence organization to do this particular job. Like the others in the group, Ferrell was extremely talented and an international specialist in this particular form of blasting technology. An area that in

technical language was mostly just referred to as NanoThermit Technology.

Ferrell thus complemented Willie McGee perfectly, since McGee took care of the installation of the plastic explosive, or just C4, as it was normally known. Without saying it out loud, Connor ranked Ferrell as possibly the most important member of the team, a virtual guarantee of success.

Ferrell walked quickly across the floor and sat down in front of a high steel cabinet centrally located in the middle of the chaotic room. He had assembled the sophisticated board himself, which otherwise stood in stark contrast to the devastated surroundings. This was just one of several electronic hubs for the multitude of signaling cables stretched across the entire floor.

In the upper part of the cabinet, hundreds of small, colorful LEDs were mounted. The flashing light organ now sent a greenish glow into the poorly lit room and across the fitter's concentrated face.

"What's the status Ryan, almost done?" asked Clyde Connor quietly, he had unobtrusively sat down next to the engineer who sat with his head inside the shiny cabinet.

"It'll be fine, almost done, just a few more terminations to go," Ferrell pointed down to the bottom, where two thin cables were still sticking out. "Then I'll finish with a complete functional test of the entire

installation," he explained calmly, as he pulled a digital measuring device out of a toolbox.

"I'm ready to start testing with Stevie within ... well, within half an hour at the latest. If everything goes smoothly, we'll be done in another couple of hours," Ferrell continued summarily as he attached the measuring sticks to two points inside the cabinet and read the instrument.

The foreman didn't respond, just nodded back in satisfaction, instead shifting his focus to the man sitting just to the side of Ferrell.

"What about you, Steve, have you installed the latest version of the software?" This was the youngest man, Steve Gamble, or Stevie to those who knew him well. The young twenty-five-year-old IT specialist sat down in front of a makeshift computer console, whose tabletop consisted of rough oak planks bolted to a welded base. The untidy table was positioned just inside the control cabinet where Ferrell was now working.

Steve Gamble was now sitting like an absolute EDM artist in front of two computers and several large monitors. In addition, a conglomeration of colorful wires stretched from his computers directly to the electronic board next door.

"Basically, just waiting for the last two cables from Ryan, once they're connected, I'll need a couple of hours, three tops, then I'm done!" The computer engineer smiled

broadly back at Connor, letting his fingers run idly over the keyboard as he spoke.

"Okay, great, but what about component control and sequence test, does that come in addition?" Connor's voice sounded doubtful this time.

"It's included, all circuits must be simulated and fully function tested within a maximum of three hours." Gamble winked confidently back at the manager. "Using the waiting time to double-check the software for any errors, but so far everything is correct," he concluded, as his soft fingers continued their wild dance across the keyboard.

Connor nodded with satisfaction, he had recognized Gamble's potential from day one, a world-class professional with superior knowledge of algorithms, sequence control and data communication. What's more, the youngster was the only one in the group not affiliated with any intelligence organization. Steve Gamble was only brought in when the CIA needed help with the more delicate jobs, as in this case.

Clyde Connor now felt some relief after the positive responses. Despite all this, although the installation seemed to be on track and almost complete, the normally level-headed manager was still a little stressed on this day. Some of the high adrenaline level was probably due to the extreme technical challenges, but this was something he usually handled well. But what had contributed most to the anxiety was undoubtedly the tough mental pressure from

the cynical project managers. These were invisible intelligence people and military officers, unknown and nameless people that he unfortunately had to deal with.

As usual, he never got to meet these people, as communication only took place electronically, with Connor delivering fresh progress reports every evening. The following morning, there was a reply on his computer. The feedback tended to be critically worded, often demanding more detail, greater efficiency and more effort. Throughout the entire period, the demand for completion by this particular date had only become stronger and stronger. Fortunately, after weeks and months of hard, determined work, the assignment was finally completed, and well within the deadline. What's more, the work was carried out to the strictest standards Connor had ever seen. Months of toil were over, just this one last day to go.

Another reason why the plant was finally finished may have been the generous bonus promised by the client. Because just a little later that afternoon, in just a few hours, the men would collect their well-deserved reward. This was a bonus in the form of two weeks' free luxury holiday to an island paradise in the South Pacific. Even though they were well paid for the job, three full year's salaries each, the holiday was still the little extra carrot that meant the most to the boys right now, today.

In the end, Clyde Connor reluctantly agreed to the trip, even though he'd much rather go home to his family than spend another two weeks travelling. To be honest, he actually felt the need for a break from this crowd.

However, what finally convinced Connor to join the trip was his wife's reaction when he gently hinted at a delayed return. She had replied that she was fine with it, and that he was welcome to be away for another three or four weeks for her sake.

Connor sighed inaudibly, trying to put away the destructive thoughts. He shook it all off, picked up a sledgehammer instead and strode purposefully across the floor. Standing in the center of the room, he banged the heavy hammer several times against a steel beam to get the men's attention.

"Okay guys, let's take the last run-in," he began quietly and soberly. "Ryan, Steve, you continue with the finalization and testing of the control cabinet. You know what needs to be done! George, you continue the clean-up and strip the last loose cables in the ceiling." Connor then fixed his eyes on the other blasting engineer, Willie McGee.

"Willie, you and I will move the most sensitive instruments down to the cars, we'll leave the heavy equipment behind." Connor paused, looked at the dirty men for a few seconds before continuing, but now in a more enthusiastic tone.

"Come on guys...! Just one last effort, let's finish this shit and get out of town!" Connor clapped his hands enthusiastically to get the guys going. "Remember, the holiday plane is ready over at Newark, it takes off in just..." Connor dropped his voice to a theatrical tone as he

glanced down at his expensive wristwatch: "Let's see, 'take off' is in exactly six and a half hours, so get a move on," he finished smiling. Connor turned, enthusiastically kicking a stack of empty cardboard boxes, all labelled Nanocomposite Energetic Materials in large red letters.

"Freedom, here we come." It was Willie McGee who shrilly tuned in a simple self-composed song verse, while throwing a large electric drill into one of the tool containers.

Connor had taken a step back, re-examining the dusty room, the eager engineers, the multitude of cables and the technical installation. Despite the stress and demands, he felt a sense of relief for the first time in a very long time. Because at last there was some good news, news that helped alleviate the constant worry along with the headache.

Without saying it out loud to the guys, he was just impressed by the almost perfect execution of the assignment. Part of the reason, of course, was that the quality of the technical documentation turned out to be perfect and flawless. Neither Ryan Ferrell, Willie McGee, nor himself for that matter, had ever seen such meticulously planned action.

Among other things, the location of the explosive charges was drawn into the load-bearing structures with centimeter margins. Not least, the dimensions of the military explosives were meticulously and accurately described by weight, down to the last gram. In addition,

the advanced programmed codes with timings and delays were precisely formulated in the comprehensive documentation. This meant that absolutely all the explosive charges were defined down to a tenth of an accuracy. But yes, Connor certainly agreed, both he and the rest of the team deserved both the hefty salary and the bonus.

Connor couldn't help but be involuntarily dragged back eight months in time, back to the beginning. His brain unconsciously projected a short and compressed summary of the entire blasting job.

He remembered everything in detail, because the first few months had been spent demolishing internal walls, as well as removing wall paneling and insulation from the external walls. In addition, all the cladding was stripped around the lift shaft and stairwells. The following weeks were spent transporting large amounts of heavy equipment up to the floor. Not least, over three thousand liters of high-octane petrol were transported by helicopter to the upper floors. Once the equipment was in place, they spent a couple of months placing the explosives, laying cables and connecting the sensitive equipment.

For the past few months, the engineers had been working on programming, terminating and testing the electrical circuits. All in co-operation with the people down in the makeshift control room, which was located in Building 7.

In the identical neighboring block, another team was working on a parallel assignment. This group was led by older, experienced demolition expert Matt Hazeltine, who incidentally was a former colleague and good friend of Connor's. The old friendship proved to be handy, as the teams relied on close co-operation.

Without Connor wanting to admit it, it annoyed him that Hazeltine's group had already finished the day before. The somewhat innocent race is mostly due to the fact that Clyde Connor was by nature a very competitive person. A little childish perhaps, as he always loved to win such unofficial competitions. He couldn't help it either, but tacitly blamed the delays on the old man, i.e. George Morris.

But anyway, Hazeltine and his group were booked on the same flight as them out of the country, and he felt it would be nice to have a few days together. Maybe they could reminisce about the old days? Like when they barely survived the blowing up of a government building including the president and his family in a South American capital! An event he tried to suppress from his memory, by the way.

The two groups were composed of some of the country's foremost professionals and were also hand-picked. All of them also possessed the highest level of expertise in their fields. That is, all except the older one, this strange character who called himself George Morris.

This was something that bothered Connor quite a bit, perhaps most of all because the old man had only joined the group three weeks earlier, and during this period he had hardly contributed at all. As far as he could see, Morris was not a specialist in anything. He wasn't an expert in blasting technology or computers. Morris could barely stretch cables, let alone connect two simple wires. Despite all this, the man was given this extremely complicated job. Not only was it unfortunate, but it was also downright irresponsible, even dangerous, Connor thought. He had already raised the issue with the project managers in the first week, but to no avail. The cash and cold rejection was something Connor almost took as a personal insult.

Connor was pulled out of his destructive thoughts when a mobile phone rang loud and shrill. The noisy ringing came in the form of a rowdy version of ' Ballade pour Adeline', played by Richard Clayderman. It was, of course, George Morris's phone, the annoying piano playing ricocheting off the bare walls for almost a full minute before he answered.

"It's Morris here." As usual, the older man answered loudly and noisily, while laughing and joking with the caller. There was silence for a few seconds before he spoke again: "It's okay, I'll be there in two minutes," he finished, folded the phone and addressed the supervisor directly:

"It was one of Hazeltine's guys over in the A block," he said as he stuffed the phone carelessly into the outer pocket of his overalls.

"The guys are on their way to the airport, they need help with some luggage," he said in an unnecessarily apologetic tone. "So, I'll be gone for a few minutes, but suddenly I'm back." Morris laughed good-naturedly and tossed the blue helmet across the floor like it was a Frisbee. On his way out, he picked up a small, grey backpack and slung it over his shoulder before disappearing through the open lift door.

An hour later, a smiling George Morris was back on the demolished floor, just in time to catch the last part of the clean-up.

Another two hours later, a happy and relieved Connor got the signal he was waiting for. A firm thumbs up from Steve Gamble spoke volumes. The last two circuits had finally been tested and approved, so the mission was definitely over. Clyde Connor stood again in the center of the room and took the floor.

"It's finally over folks, we're done here. According to the instructions, we must leave the building immediately, as usual this must be done quietly and peacefully," he announced happily to the men. "Then we'll catch the plane with a good margin, so hurry up and get out. The luggage has already been collected from the hotel and the car is waiting outside." Connor waved the men

towards the lift like a maître d' with exaggerated hand gestures, as if to really show that it was finally over.

The mood was high among the men as they raced down the floors. Just minutes later, the excited and noisy group stood outside on the street in the low evening sun. At the same time, an older, black, ten-seater Chevrolet minibus pulled up in front of the building. Connor sat in the vacant front seat, while the rest of the team climbed into the back. George Morris was left alone in the spacious back seat.

"So, we're going to the airport, to Newark, you're welcome to use the motorway." Connor unwittingly assumed the role of tour guide when everyone was in place. "If you don't know, it has to be the fastest way possible. There's never been a more urgent matter, now we're going on holiday!" the engineer smilingly explained to the serious-looking Latin driver. The unshaven and somewhat poorly dressed driver did not have time to respond to the passenger's request; instead, a unanimous cheer and a subsequent burst of applause could be heard from the rows of seats behind as the car turned into the busy street.

Despite Connor's intense and crystal-clear description of direction, the driver still chose to turn west instead of east, which would be the natural thing to do.

"Hey mister, this isn't the right way to Newark, you're driving down towards the docks," the foreman

complained after only a few minutes. The silent man still gave no response, just looked straight ahead and drove on.

As a frantic Connor tried to make contact with the taciturn driver, four low, high-pitched but unmistakable sounds were heard in the back of the car. Connor immediately noticed and recognized the short, dry pops. The sounds undoubtedly came from a weapon being fired. "A gun with a silencer," he thought in confusion.

Connor spun round in his seat and was horrified to realize that George Morris had stood up and was moving forward in the bus. In his hand, the grey-haired man held a long, slender black pistol, a deadly firearm with a smoking silencer mounted on the end of the barrel.

Connor may have been a master of explosives and advanced blasting techniques, but the particular weapon in the old man's hand was instantly recognizable. This was without a doubt a twenty-two caliber Ruger Mk IV Silenced . A unique weapon that was used almost exclusively by the government assassins associated with the CIA and FBI. The sleek, stylish pistol was the perfect weapon for a killer. In other words, an essential tool for an assassin.

Connor forced himself to let go of Morris for a few brief seconds, instead focusing his gaze on the second row of seats, where he could see Ryan Ferrell and Willie McGee lying lifeless in their seats, both apparently shot at close range by Morris.

For a split second, Clyde Connor was finally able to see the terrible connection. The deadly connection between George Morris, his presence in the group, his lack of technical ability, and finally now, standing in the back of the cramped bus with the smoking Ruger in his hand after the shots had fallen.

He painfully realized what Morris was really an expert at. The man was obviously good at killing people, specializing in liquidating his victims quickly, efficiently, without emotion and without fail.

The loud bangs of the gun resonated twice more in the bus and pulled Connor brutally out of his thoughts. He vaguely realized that the older man's hand was on fire again. At the same time, a shiver ran through Steve Gamble, who was sitting unsuspectingly with headphones just behind the driver. The two hits to the neck and back of the head seemed extremely precise and were immediately fatal to the IT engineer. The kinetic force of the strikes sent the boy halfway out of his seat and left him in an impossible position with his face pressed up against the dark window.

Morris pointed the smoking gun directly at Clyde Connor, who was still frozen in his seat. Although everything was happening at a rapid pace, he still perceived the unreal events as taking place in slow motion, yet without him being able to lift a finger.

"Sit still Connor, don't move." The intense pressure of the hissing voice left little doubt about the outcome if

he disobeyed. The shocked engineer didn't respond, just looked back in disbelief at Morris who stood wide-legged and menacing in the aisle. At the same time, he registered the grotesque transformation of the man who had been his work colleague for the past few weeks. The humorous twinkle in his eyes was gone now, the deep smile lines around his mouth had been smoothed out. Even the high, joking voice had been replaced by a low, hissing and unrecognizable icy whisper.

"You must be pretty naïve," Morris hissed emphatically as his eyes lingered over the tiny sight on the gun. "Did you really think you'd get to live after doing this mission?" Perhaps the ironic, almost mocking twitch that crossed his narrow lips was meant as a smile?

"We're talking about the job of all jobs, the ultimate blasting mission, the centenary blast?" Connor barely noticed Morris taking the time to rhetorically list the synonymous terms for the mission they had just completed.

"Did you seriously think that the people who hired you would have ten witnesses running around after they pressed the button?" Morris laughed a hoarse humorless laugh. "You've worked in the field yourself. You know what this is all about, you should know better! You and the other boys were finished the moment you accepted the job." A slightly wistful shrug now crossed his lips as he continued.

"Only three hours ago I dispatched Hazeltine and his men, they seemed as surprised as you, so to speak." A

touch of what might be wonder came over his expressionless face this time.

"But now it's your turn, as you can see, I've spared you in the end, it's really just you left." Morris stopped abruptly, apparently paused for a moment to think, it was as if he had pulled himself together, and then continued in a more friendly tone.

"You're actually a decent bloke, Connor, I'll give you that, but unfortunately somewhat inexperienced. To be honest, you're quite gullible and overly naive, but please don't take this personally. For me, this is just a new job, a new military order and, of course, a lot of money," he explained patiently, while the expression on his face shifted for a few brief seconds as a faint hint of pity softened the hard mask.

At the same time, an uncontrollable shiver ran through Connor, who desperately searched for something sensible to say, but the cold paralyzing feeling inside made it difficult to even open his dry mouth.

"Have..., have you gone mad, Morris," Connor finally managed to cough out from his dry throat, in a desperate attempt to distract the killer. "What the hell are you doing? Drop the gun before you hurt anyone else," he harped on, but without having any faith that it would work, it sounded too foolish, too naive! He could see it all crystal clear now. Morris had received his orders from a power far above him, and he certainly wasn't going to stop here. The killer, like himself, was just a puppet in a big, deadly

theatre, a small piece in a game where there were no rules. Morris just did the jobs he was given, without emotion, without hesitation, without question.

The doomed engineer couldn't stop analyzing, couldn't stop his brain from making a final assessment of the situation. It was as if it was taking its time with this seemingly unnecessary academic exercise, as if it sensed that it was coming to an end.

Maybe Morris was right, Connor thought. Perhaps he should have realized that the extreme demolition job was too big. Yes, too extensive, too political for himself and his team to live on after the detonations were initiated. Morris studied his colleague silently for a few seconds, as if he could sense the confused thoughts raging inside the blasting expert's overworked brain. For a thousandth of a second, the grey-haired killer could physically see the moment of revelation in Connor's eyes. Saw the painful humiliation as the catastrophic realities were revealed to the resigned leader.

Clyde Connor realized what was coming the second before it happened. For a brief and terrifying split second, he saw Morris's face freeze and his mouth become a thin, white line. At the same time, the lively brown eyes were transformed into two staring, glassy marbles. All of this happened at the same time as the gun he was holding in his right hand coughed twice and synchronized with two flashes of lightning being spewed from the hot muzzle. Connor instinctively tried to raise his arms in a kind of

hopeless defense against the furious projectiles that relentlessly hit their target.

Clyde Connor was hit in the chest region by both of the two hollow point lead jacketed projectiles. The impact of the expanding ammunition, fired from a distance of just one meter, was shocking and downright lethal. The large heart muscle along with the main arteries, arteries and veins were brutally torn apart as the soft lead bullets exploded almost synchronized with their impact on the soft tissue. The physical damage was extensive and, of course, irreparable, because within seconds the victim would be suffocating in pain, shock and blood. The force of the self-constructed projectiles threw Connor around, before he finally slid unwillingly down between the two front seats. A few seconds later, Clyde Connor was dead.

Still standing in the aisle with his gun pointed down at his victim, George Morris first had to make sure that his former colleague was indeed dead. He then dismantled the silencer and returned the sleek Ruger to its shoulder holster inside his blue sports jacket.

"Okay, mute Ramon, then the job is done for me." Morris spoke Spanish to the serious driver. Incidentally, Spanish was the only language the Colombian understood. The silent Latin American man was born without a tongue.

"Then take the car down to the docks, you know what to do next!" Morris' brief command seemed to be well understood by the driver, who nodded vigorously several times in response that he had understood the

simple message. "Drop me off at the next bus stop," Morris briefly commanded further, which again triggered new affirmative nods from the driver. Half a minute later, he pulled the car over to the kerb and stopped. Morris grabbed his backpack and jumped effortlessly onto the pavement, where he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the crowd.

Ramon efficiently maneuvered the car into the heavy traffic on Park Row, before crossing the East River via the Brooklyn Bridge. He then continued westwards along the riverbank with the eerie cargo in the back seats, not noticing the dead and bloody blast leader next to him.

A stream of fresh blood trickled out from the dead bodies in the back of the vehicle, eventually forming small pools on the floor. As the minibus swerved and lurched in traffic, the blood continued to flow outwards and soon the entire floor was covered in a thin red layer that eventually solidified into a viscous, sticky mass.

Less than ten minutes later, Ramon swung the black Chevy through the gates of Pier Eight, an old and long-abandoned container harbor anonymously located just where the East River and Hudson River meet.

Ramon stopped just above the two protrusions and switched off the lights but kept the engine running. He remained seated in the car, staring down at the pier where four black-painted bulk carriers were moored. These were large cargo boats, each two hundred to two hundred and

fifty meters long. In a mast on each of the ships, shabby Chinese flags waved in the cool autumn wind.

The rusted and ageing ships had already been lying like this for several weeks. To creative minds, the bleak steel hulls could easily resemble a collection of alligators. Hungry reptiles lying deep and threatening in the sea, patiently waiting for the next prey, a catch that they knew would soon come.

Three short, sharp flashes of light from the nearest ship made the mute driver react. He carefully rolled the Chevy down the quay, stopped roughly amidships and switched off the ignition. The man jumped out easily and then walked with quick steps upwards, in the direction of the driveway without looking back.

At the same time, a large crane boom was swung out from the ship with a screeching sound, synchronized with a huge, rusty hydraulic pincer being lowered towards the Chevrolet. The oversized claw took a firm grip around the car, deforming large parts of the fragile metal. The minibus was lifted from the dock as if it were made of cotton and then swung in over the ship's deck. The pincer was opened over one of the open cargoes holds and the vehicle fell thirty meters into the ship's icy, hungry belly. The enormous steel giant greedily devoured the car wreck along with all its macabre contents, but the monster was still not full. It was as if it knew what was coming next.

1. Lodge meeting - Part 1. Introduction

11 months earlier

The high-backed, antique chairs around the conference table were slowly and quietly filled by a strange gathering of thirty-two cloaked men, most of them middle-aged. It was as if an aura of cold, mystery and eeriness filled the room as the procession passed through the princely doors and continued into what appeared to be a throne room. The dark eeriness was only intensified when the men spread out around a rectangular meeting table and sat down.

The eye-catching table was placed roughly in the center of the largest of four airy halls, or auditoriums, and took up almost a quarter of the floor space. The polished walnut tabletop was in keeping with the rest of the beautiful, medieval-inspired room, which was reminiscent of the set from a chivalry film.

The floors in the throne room were composed of square ceramic tiles in glittering marble, where the white and black parts were laid in diagonal patterns, as if it were a chessboard. In the center of the floor, a pendant field of black marble tiles was laid out and arranged like a perfect pentagram. The gloomy satanic symbol stood in stark contrast to the otherwise beautiful, medieval-inspired décor.

The deep, convex ceilings of the meeting hall were a genuine artistic experience, mostly dominated by large frescoes. The motifs were taken from a supernatural and unidentifiable cosmos that featured bloody battle scenes from futuristic wars. Despite the bizarre content, the artworks nonetheless transformed the ceilings into impressionist masterpieces usually only seen in Italian Renaissance churches and cathedrals.

Even the refined lighting arrangement was thoughtful, subdued and artistically arranged, wrapping the airy space in a light translucent mist, creating a grey and shadowy effect. The diffuse expression portrayed a strong atmosphere of coldness and mystery, with an underlying occult mood running throughout .

However, the most distinctive feature was the thirty-two men, all wearing foot-length black capes with conical hoods hanging down towards the lower back. In addition, they all wore white wigs that partially concealed their faces. The appearance and attire of the participants were reminiscent of British courtrooms, or perhaps the French aristocracy of the 17th century.

A solitary, darkened figure sat on a large, raised, golden throne a few meters from one end of the table. This was the group's leader, or Grand Master, as the peculiar organization was called.

The enigmatic person was dressed like the others in the room, but with some exceptions. The man was seated with the voluminous hood over his head, and a red

and white ribbon was draped around his shoulders. The wide ribbon was joined by a miniature gold sword approximately in the center of his stomach. In addition, a massive gold-plated and star-shaped medallion hung around the man's neck. The all-seeing eye, along with a split pyramid, was engraved in a strong blue color, all clearly visible from a distance.

For the participants around the table, it was impossible to see the man's face clearly since some intriguing spotlights were placed just above and behind the man's head. The intelligent installation cast a faint backlight back towards the audience, partially obstructing the view and providing a veiled outline of the man's head without his face being visible.

The conversation between the cloaked travelers was restrained and subdued as they found their respective seats. Only a small group still stood in hushed conversation just inside the massive front door. The man on the throne tapped the floor twice with an elaborately crafted scepter, most likely in real gold. Antiques experts would have quickly recognized the gleaming symbol of power, which had once belonged to the German Nazi, Herman Gøring. The simple signal dissolved the last group who walked reverently to the table and sat down.

The thirty-two people gathered in the spectacular hall had just returned from a long and solemn inauguration ceremony on the building's lower floor. The occult and meticulously orchestrated session took place in a

customized ceremony room two floors below the meeting hall. The eerie rooms downstairs were exclusively reserved for the esoteric ceremonies that the members of the association had to go through to be approved.

On this particular day, a new member had been inducted, and for good, in accordance with the rules. The members of this organization never quit, at least not while they were alive.

The new member, who incidentally was one of the country's supreme court judges, now sat pale and exhausted at the lowest seat at the table, i.e. the furthest away from the golden throne, also in accordance with the rules. The frightened judge was replacing another member, a senator who had unfortunately been shot and killed just a few months earlier. The unfortunate politician had been neatly dismembered into four parts and the body parts distributed on a makeshift compass rose, one human part on each of the cardinal points. The symbolic act had taken place just outside the center of the capital. The procedure for the bestial desecration was carefully described in the lodge's chronicle, a fitting punishment for members who broke the code of silence.

When all the participants were in place, the diffuse warlock calmly rose from his throne and took the floor: "Brothers, druids, welcome." The enigmatic male figure spoke to the assembly in a loud, powerful and authoritative voice, which resonated eerily in the large room. Even an insider wouldn't have noticed the

sophisticated, yet extremely discreet audio and video system installed in the hall. The electronic sound system helped the members to bring out the right effects in their speeches, such as emphasizing small nuances and amplifying or lowering even the most soprano tones. The video system provided high-quality recordings of both the ceremonies and the meetings.

"This officially opens the meeting," the chairman proclaimed, as he struck the golden cane on the floor three more times. The acoustic sound of metal against marble was reminiscent of tuned church bells, as is often heard in connection with solemn funerals.

The misty-eyed leader on the throne then read out a powerful repetitive declamation describing the organization’s purpose and work. The intricate texts were taken from the organization’s articles of association, a secret chronicle written over one hundred and fifty years ago. The regular feature then led on to the meeting agenda, where the Grand Master addressed the participants directly.

"Brothers, today we have only one case, but it is significant and so extensive that it will characterize most of our work in the coming years. This case has been prepared and will now be presented by our brother, Lowell Wagner."

The manager turned his hooded head mechanically to the right, focusing directly on a tall, slender and

somewhat younger man who was positioned roughly in the center of one long side of the table.

2. Dangerous connection

1 week earlier

John Brodie painstakingly rolled over onto his stomach before struggling to pull himself up onto all fours. He shook his head gently, momentarily blurring the room as the floor, the ropes and the unpainted concrete walls slowly began to rotate.

The abrupt head movements also expelled a mixture of water and hot sweat from his hair, mixing with fresh blood from a cut on his cheek before dripping from his chin. Brodie remained like this, head hanging and breathing heavily for several long seconds, frantically trying to stay conscious. As with the dazed brain, the aching lungs would no longer co-operate, instead pumping violently and rhythmically in a hyperventilating rhythm.

The last skirmish had undoubtedly taken its toll on Brodie. The brutal counterattack from Alex Loyd had come hard, fast and precise. First in the form of a powerful kick to the diaphragm that drained his lungs of air, before the attack was followed up with a relentless right-left combination to his padded head. The heavy series of kicks and punches had instantly sent John Brodie sprawling into the canvas with full weight.

"Get up, John, I'm not done with you yet," grinned Alex Loyd. The blond athletic giant of over one meter and ninety now stood triumphantly towering over John Brodie. But he, too, was marked after the fight. A thin, red streak

of blood seeped out of one corner of his mouth and ran down his neck, but without affecting the muscleman. The small injury was caused by Brodie's unexpected and implosive attack just seconds earlier.

"I'm not done with you either, you monster. Just need a little break before I deliver the coup de grace, just wait, you'll be done soon." Brodie whispered back optimistically. Now that he was standing like this, dizzy and dazed on all fours, his answer could be seen as ironic, if not downright comical.

"I seem to remember that you were supposed to take it easy and show consideration. Yes, so to speak, drive at half speed, wasn't it?" Brodie growled bitterly.

"This is half a machine, my friend, you're just in terrible shape. Stop complaining and get on your feet so we can finish here. By the way, I'm going to the cinema with my girlfriend in half an hour, it's getting urgent." Alex Loyd stood in the center of the boxing ring, grinning down at his wounded opponent.

The high-pitched panting had subsided somewhat when John Brodie pulled himself up along the rough ropes that enclosed the boxing ring. He stayed like that for a while, unsteady and partly hanging over the ropes, waiting for his body to work again.

Alex Loyd was initially several sizes too big for Brodie. Perhaps not surprising, since the light-legged athlete with a large portion of Icelandic blood in his veins was a former world champion in the fighting form MMA. Even a few

years earlier, he was one of the world's best in the traditional form of karate.

After long-term injuries and health problems, he reluctantly had to abdicate and give up his MMA belts two years earlier. Loyd was then forced to retire from professional martial arts on the express orders of his doctors. According to the doctors, Loyd's physical condition was poor, which was overwhelmingly confirmed by a series of X-rays and MRIs.

Although Loyd had scaled back considerably, he still trained once or twice a day while working with young martial arts talent. In his spare time, he also endeavored to transform a hard-working John Brodie into a full-blooded hand-to-hand combat expert.

Over the past few years, a patient Alex Loyd had painstakingly taught Brodie most things about selfdefense and attack techniques, which also included a myriad of illegal tricks. During this period, Brodie learnt that such tricks were effective, but mostly painful. A dangerous and unqualified form of adult education, Brodie used to call the training sessions.

Such full-contact matches had become routine for the two, who had developed a close friendship over the years. Unless something special came up, they fought a couple of times a month.

John Brodie released his grip on the ropes, bent forwards and rested his arms on his knees. He slowly counted to three and then made a quick lunge at his training mate. A

last desperate act in an attempt to end the match in his favor.

An unprepared Loyd was mowed down, falling backwards to the floor at full weight with his fierce opponent on top of him. Brodie, with a quick, wellrehearsed technique, managed to roll over and pulled Loyd's right arm under his leg, trapping his arm and head. It was a brutal, painful move that Brodie had become a master of through months of training. At the same time, he grabbed the retired MMA champion's wrist and with an effort managed to break the muscular forearm backwards. It felt like he was trying to bend a hardened steel beam. Loyd roared as Brodie lay back and pulled with all his might. After only a few seconds under the intense pressure, his mate slammed his palm into the floor twice, a sign that he was giving up. Brodie released his wrist, rolled to his side and remained stretched out, breathing heavily, for several minutes before he managed to get up.

It was actually the first time Brodie had won a match against the giant, or The Icelandic Monster , as he liked to call his mate, mostly after hard training and a lot of beating. The victory was as unexpected as it was unfair, but it still tasted good to Brodie, who was completely exhausted.

"You were lucky, John, I underestimated you for once," grumbled the disgruntled MMA champion angrily, thumping Brodie on the shoulder with a gloved fist, possibly a little harder than necessary. "But I'm telling

you, you won't be able to do that again," the Icelander continued in an irritated tone.

Brodie didn't have time to answer, because at the same time someone shouted his name:

"Telephone call for John Brodie." Elderly, balding and overweight man with a faded towel dangling around his neck had unexpectedly appeared in the gym. He was leaning over the ropes, holding Brodie's mobile phone out in front of him. Brodie, still wearing his padded combat gloves, leaned towards the phone, which was on speakerphone.

"Yes, Brodie here," he hiccupped breathlessly into the microphone.

"John...? Are you there?" The voice at the other end, which had an unmistakable accent of Spanish, seemed quite agitated. "Can you hear me John? Answer me...," the voice continued impatiently. Brodie didn't have time to answer before the intense voice was there again. "It's me, Jose here, I mean Jose Espirando." He almost shouted out the words this time.

"Sure. I can hear you, Jose, can you calm down a bit," Brodie almost had to laugh at the upset man on the other end. "Listen Jose, I'm at a gym in New York right now, but I'll call you when I've showered and changed. It'll take about half an hour, can you wait?" There was silence for a few seconds before the man answered.

"That's fine, but call me as soon as you can, this is very urgent." There was a cold click as the man unexpectedly broke the connection.

"Who was that?" Alex Loyd had moved unnoticed to Brodie's side.

"Oh, this was a friend of mine, Jose Espirando. He's a security guard down at the World Trade Centre site, and he's also helping me with my garden at home in Hampstead. He was clearly upset about something; I'll call him back as soon as I get out of here." Brodie replied lightly and began to loosen his gloves.

"Despite your almost morbid caution, this Esperanto is favored with your phone number, John? Did you think you were protecting your privacy? That you like being invisible and deep in the shadows?" Loyd grinned further.

"That's right, Alex. Gotta keep people at a distance you know. Maybe that's why I'm still alive? There's a bit too much from my past that can tempt old enemies to take revenge," Brodie replied a little exasperated this time.

"Okay, I realize things have been a little heated in the old days. By the way, glad you haven't shared all this with me! Don't want to get shot at just because I know you!"

"Shall we move on?" Brodie changed the subject. "Seems you talked something about cinema with Jane, didn't you? Brodie looked questioningly at Loyd as he pulled off his gloves.

"Yes, that's right, I'm already a bit late, I have to hurry. But you... Shall we say next week, same time?" Loyd nodded slightly towards Brodie, smiling hopefully as he massaged his sore right arm.

"Great, yes, next Wednesday same time is fine. Fancy a rematch?" Brodie smiled back.

"Absolutely, can't wait, I'll give you a proper beating! It's not just a practical announcement, this is a promise I'm going to keep," he replied belligerently, jumping down from the ring and marching towards the changing rooms with Brodie in tow.

"Think we need to have dinner together to smooth over the loss?" laughed Brodie. "Julia's coming to New York sometime next week. How about some barbecued seafood out in Hampstead on Saturday two weeks from now? Why don't you bring Jane along, will that help your mood?"

"Wow, sure, we'll be there for sure," Loyd replied over his shoulder and pulled open the wardrobe door.

Less than half an hour later, John Brodie was sitting in the car, freshly showered, still tired but all the more satisfied. His body felt battered as usual, and his stomach ached after the kick from the blonde giant. But still, life felt good.

Brodie was on his way to a meeting in lower Manhattan this morning, but he was in no hurry for a change. The meeting didn't start until two hours later, plenty of time for an early lunch or perhaps a late breakfast, he thought.

Just a few minutes later, as Brodie turned the car onto Lexington Avenue, the phone rang again. He recognized the incoming number, this was the impatient man of Mexican descent, Jose Espirando. Brodie pressed the receive button and answered the call.

"I was just about to call you," Brodie lied apologetically. He had half-forgotten about the appointment but was now trying to beat the caller to the punch.

"I'm glad you're free, John, because I have a huge problem!" The voice on the other end still sounded excited.

"You sound stressed, Jose, maybe the dog has run away again?" Brodie laughed good-naturedly at his own hilarity. He was referring to the large and somewhat erratic German Shepherd that Espirando often took to work with him.

"No, no... Duke is fine, I mean. But there's something else, something far worse." Jose Espirando had unconsciously lowered his voice a few notches this time, as if he was telling a secret:

"I actually think I may be in danger, and that someone may have tried to kill me!" he almost whispered. "And not only that, but I think they might try again." His voice had become even more subdued and almost faltered as he continued. "I don't know how to sort this out on my own. I desperately need help, can you get me out of this, John?"

Brodie looked doubtfully down at his phone as he steered the car onto 5th. Avenue in East Harlem and followed the heavy traffic westwards along the south side of Central Park towards Lower Manhattan.

"You're in danger, you say," Brodie began doubtfully, unsure if he should take this seriously. "Are you in trouble with your wife, perhaps?" Brodie, still excited from his victory against Loyd, tried another joke, but this one didn't go down well with the agitated man either.

"No, that's not it either, try to take this seriously!" Jose Espirando's squeaky voice sounded wounded this time.

"Okay, sorry, Jose. Full focus from now on, so go ahead, I'll be listening. No more jokes," Brodie apologized before continuing. "You're telling me they want to kill you? What do you mean by this? Who are 'they' trying to kill you?"

"Who or why someone would want to kill me, I don't know for sure, but to be honest I think it might have something to do with my job as a security guard!" Jose seemed to be more on the offensive now, more eager as he continued. "I'm sorry to bother you with my problems, but I have nowhere else to go. Can you meet me, I mean now, right away?"

"Okay, I understand, but where are you now? Are you at home?" It was beginning to dawn on Brodie that something might really be wrong with his friend.

"No, you're crazy," he replied quickly. "I haven't been home for days, it's just too dangerous. Right now, I'm sitting in a cafe inside The Manhattan Mall , on West 33rd Street. Can you come here and pick me up?"

Brodie still heard the desperate cry for help in the man's voice but was still unsure of what to do and therefore didn't answer right away. He looked at his watch again, it was over an hour until the meeting started, he just didn't want to be late for the appointment. On the plus side, the meeting place wasn't far from West 33rd Street . If he also cut out lunch, there would be plenty of time for a quick chat with Esperanto.

"Okay Jose, I know where you are. Meet me outside Starbucks on the ground floor and we'll have a coffee together. I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Brodie replied and was about to end the conversation but was interrupted by the startled security guard.

"No, that's not possible, we can't meet in public! What I mean is that I might be followed, can we talk in your car?" Brodie looked doubtfully at his mobile phone again, as if this was something the new, shiny BlackBerry phone itself had come up with.

By nature, Brodie was both impatient and somewhat restless, and he now realized that he was getting tired of the complaining voice. He was therefore unable to hide this when he replied:

"Aren't you being too dramatic? It can't be that serious, can it?"

"I wish you were right, John, but no, unfortunately I don't think so!" The man on the phone almost shouted the words back this time. "Even though I'm both frightened and despairing and may seem upset, you still have to believe me!" The rest of the sentence lingered for a moment before he continued.

"Okay, John... I'll tell you a simple story so you'll understand better:" Brodie could hear Jose Espirando take a deep breath and swallow several times before he managed to continue.

"Listen, did you see that gas explosion in a flat up in Williamsbridge two weeks ago? There was a bit about it in the papers." Brodie had to think twice before answering.

"I'm sure that's right...," he began hesitantly. "Well..., I vaguely recall a short article in the New York Times about some trouble in an apartment block far up in Manhattan," Brodie continued absently, but then it started.

"Yes, I remember it now. A gas explosion in a private apartment, where there were no injuries or fatalities. And that the fire was quickly extinguished, mostly thanks to the quick reaction of the fire brigade? What about that one?"

"It was my apartment," Espirando almost shouted this time. "My wife and little girl were visiting her parents up in Jersey that night. I was home alone but couldn't sleep. So, I went out on the terrace to have a smoke when there was a bang in the bedroom."

Espirando's voice had become more tearful as he spoke, and he eventually had to take a break.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Brodie interjected, seeming a little more touched by his friend's story now, but at the same time more questioning. "But, as you know, unfortunately, gas explosions do happen now and then, and it doesn't have to be anything other than a small leak in a hose or coupling." Brodie tried to calm the man down, as well as coming up with a reasonable explanation. Espirando was on the offensive again when he replied.

"That's probably right, John. But it's just that we don't have a gas connection, nor have we stored gas bottles or anything else flammable in the flat. The explosion was triggered in the bedroom, which turned the bed into a burning stack of planks, which I fortunately managed to extinguish myself. But parts of the apartment are still uninhabitable," he sniffed, trying to pull himself together before continuing.

"As you know, I'm absolutely no expert on such things, but I'm still sure that an explosive charge was placed, most likely under the bed or in the wall behind the bed," Espirando almost sobbed now, but still managed to continue.

"There's more here, much more. If you pick me up on West 33rd Street , just outside the shopping center, you'll get the whole story." Jose's hurt voice sounded both pleading and commanding at the same time.

"All right, Jose," Brodie replied indulgently, without further formality. The decision had been made, he

decided to look into the matter, although he usually tried to stay far away from such personal affairs. "Okay, I'll see you in ten, fifteen minutes then, mate," Brodie finished and hung up.

John Brodie sat in thought for the next few minutes. An explosion in a building with no gas connection is a bit odd, he thought. If it wasn't a gas container that exploded, what could have blown up, explosives perhaps? Had Jose already found the answer?

He tried to let his imagination come up with a rational explanation for the problem. Unless the meticulous security guard had a secret liquor factory in his bedroom, Brodie thought with a laugh. But he pulled himself together; after all, he owed Jose respectful treatment. But anyway, Brodie couldn't immediately see any good explanation for his friend's problem.

Brodie let it all go, he would probably get an answer to all this in a few minutes, concentrating instead on driving in the heavy morning rush down 5th Avenue. Avenue.

If he was to reach the shopping center within the promised ten minutes, he had to keep going.

3. Lodge meeting - Part 2. Planning

11 months earlier

The man, obviously named Lowell Wagner, rose from the massive chair in a swift, sliding motion and bowed deeply back towards the Grand Master. He remained standing like that, submissively with his head bowed as the diffuse figure finished his introduction.

"Brother Lowell," the leader proclaimed loudly and effectively. "You have been elected mayor for this matter and will now present the main points of the upcoming events," the man chanted dramatically as he raised his scepter. "The word is now yours, brother Lowell ," he concluded, tapping the golden cane against the floor several times with theatrical movements.

The younger man down at the table straightened up, turned round reverently and looked at the other participants with a face set in solemn folds.

Although there was a trembling, almost dramatic anticipation among the men around the table, the entire ceremony, together with the upcoming speech, was an agreed and carefully choreographed performance. In other words, a little piece of theatre, which, incidentally, was part of the precedent in the curious gathering. All thirtytwo members of the audience knew what the message would be, not only in this speech, but also in all the

speeches to come. They also knew that the consequences of this meeting would change the nation forever.

Those in the audience who knew this Lowell Wagner were well aware that he was a person of considerable stature, both politically and economically. Even in a global context, the man was often referred to and treated with respect. Wagner was naturally intelligent, creative and exceptionally energetic. In addition, he was often referred to as a strategic thinker, both politically and financially. Wagner had also succeeded in life. In the course of just one decade, he had become by far the country's most powerful media owner. He either owned or controlled a quarter of the country's so-called free press, and he was also the majority owner of four of the major TV companies. Through a conglomerate of legacies, trusts and foundations, he also controlled an unknown number of organized and unorganized websites around the world. Although the media companies alone earned Wagner billions in income, this was still modest compared to the returns from everything else he owned. What had made Lowell Wagner one of the world's richest men was undoubtedly his ownership of several of the world's largest financial institutions, banks and funds. In addition, he controlled several of the country's leading high-tech companies. Wagner's industrial companies played a key role in aerospace, IT and oil technology. In addition, he was a major supplier of military equipment, including