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ground by angry, shouting, armed men. As Jessica’s face was held down hard against the freezing cold tarmac, all she could see were feet shod in heavy, black, military boots with the occasional glimpse of a terrified looking James, a few feet away, trying to maintain eye contact with her. Jessica gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and at the same time wondered if she’d ever see her children and husband again.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Malcolm Joiner, director of the powerful and feared GMRC Intelligence Division, stepped out of his plush helicopter and onto the roof of the GMRC’s western hemisphere headquarters. No sooner had the director and his entourage disembarked than the twin-rotored aircraft’s wheels lifted back into the air. The helicopter angled up and away, creating a tremendous downdraft. A deafening, reverberating, whump, whump, whump of the massive blades accompanied its departure as they cut through the dark, turbulent skies above. Reaching a set altitude, the dazzling landing lights turned off and when the ponderous bulk of that vehicle had shrunk into the distance, another soon took its place, the relentless procession continuing without pause.
    One hundred storeys high, the building punched its way heavenward, but it was by no means the tallest tower in the Manhattan skyline. What it lacked in height, however, it made up for in sheer volume – above and below the surface. The chrome and glass clad, purpose-built, circular structure had an impressive diameter and dominated its block on uptown Ninth Avenue; it had to, as it housed thousands of staff in key hub offices for the various departments of the GMRC.
    The whistling ice-cold wind had initially sought to snatch Joiner’s breath away and turn his skin to stone as his ridiculously expensive shoes had touched down onto the helipad’s hard, painted surface. The intelligence director fought back the urge to shiver as he strode across the vast rooftop towards one of the four main entrances to the building. In front of him other arrivals garbed in dense layers of fur-lined clothing made their way past high levels of security, the first of many such interventions before they reached their final destination.
    For the sake of appearances, Joiner refused to dress like a cocooned Eskimo and cover his body from head to toe in thick thermal attire, like many of the dignitaries now filtering towards the warm interior. Instead he wore his usual close-fitting suit, which accentuated his considerable height, although, as ever, he wore a classic pair of soft Italian leather gloves, a thin yet warm knee-length handmade overcoat, and a pair of narrow, rectangular glasses, to which he had attached flip down sunshades. It wasn’t that the sun was ever an issue these days, it was that he liked his appearance to be in keeping with his role and, since he was also head of U.S. Intelligence, it was almost a prerequisite to exude an ominous, untouchable and superior air; nothing could state this more than a pair of dark glasses.
    The fact that he was untouchable was beside the point. He wanted to make sure others knew he was untouchable and that to consider otherwise was a very bad idea; not just for their own health but for the health of everyone else they held dear. Joiner had spent many years cultivating his aura of invincibility and power, and he wasn’t prepared to let it falter by wearing the wrong kind of clothing. As every politician and civil servant knew, appearance was everything.
    Like those before him, Joiner subjected himself to the preliminary security station. A GMRC guard in arctic weather gear waved him forward.
    ‘Keep your arms inside the scanner at all times!’ the man told Joiner, raising his voice to be heard above the roaring winds and heavy air traffic above.
    Without any acknowledgment he’d heard the guard’s instruction, Joiner stepped onto a shoulder-width, round, rubberised mat; a red circle at its rim and the representation of a