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A.D. 2551, 4 November, 1100 hours / Hotel Splendide, NYC, Earth

The room General Treftz had picked for Crist turned out to be the hotel suite on the top floor. It consisted of one main room supplemented with a kitchen, full bar, balcony, a master bedroom, and a Jacuzzi tub with a shower rod. It had all the amenities Crist could have hoped for, and it was a welcome sight for someone who had just the other night slept in a cramped, uncomfortable cot on the coldest planet in the universe.

Crist set his bag on the bed and immediately took a hot shower, his first enjoyable one in seven years. He stood under the spray of hot water for an hour, savoring every drop. Then he stepped out, dressed in swim trunks, grabbed a bottle of brandy from the bar, and jumped into the Jacuzzi. He turned on all the jets and the heat to its maximum setting and relaxed in the hot bubbles. Slowly, he nodded off into a tranquil sleep.

A beeping awoke him. Crist looked at the time, he had been asleep for three hours and his skin was shriveled like a prune. The jets had automatically shut off and the water had turned cold. Used to cold temperatures Crist climbed out of the Jacuzzi without a shiver. He quickly dried off with a towel and listened as the beeping grew louder. He followed the noise. It led him to the bedroom where a telephone on the bedside table chirped away. He hit the speaker button. General Treftz's old, academic British accent rose from the speaker.

"How do you like the room, Richard? It only comes with a cost of one thousand dollars a night," Treftz said bitterly.

"And I assure you its money well spent. Now, what do I owe the pleasure of you calling me?" Crist said with the slightest edge of annoyance. Nothing pissed him off more than interrupted R&R.

"It'll soon be time to go to work. Our main lead will be attending several after parties tomorrow night for the inauguration of Mick Gates as Secretary General."

"Ah, the femme fatale," Crist said while changing into jeans and a T-shirt.

"No, priorities have changed. A power broker by the name of Demetrius Granitsky has caused a sudden uproar in the political world," Treftz said.

"What happened?"

"I don't have the time to go into details. Its on file so I suggest you read it."

"Okay, in the meantime I need a few things," Crist said.

"What?" Treftz's voice suddenly became quieter and dubious. "Why?"

"You said there will be some killing. If I'm going to get my hands dirty I might as well have a weapon," he said.

"Yes, yes, I'm sending someone to assist you, he will bring a standard M6D pistol with extra ammunition and a silencer, that will get the job done," Treftz replied dismissively.

"I'm not hunting elephants?" Crist said irreverently. "I don't need twelve point seven millimeter exploding rounds to cap a few bad guys. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it my way. I'll need my old arsenal. Not a damn hand cannon"

Treftz grunted in disgust. "Oh can't you forget about those antiques," he sneered.

Crist shook his head. Treftz had never been a fan of old fashioned weapons. After seeing the power of Covenant technology, he became an outspoken advocate for new weapons systems that did not rely on projectiles. He had even gone so far as to propose a bill to the UNSC General Assembly that propositioning a five billion dollar bond for the research of new energy based weaponry. The bill failed in one, unanimous vote on the floor. Five billion dollars was not something you spent on unfamiliar technology and an old man's dream. This had left him devastated, his hatred of projectile weapons only deepened. It was an almost absurd cause that the general had rallied for, wasting limited resources and valuable time. "My weapons, General, be sure your man shows up with them." With that, he picked up the receiver and dropped it back on the hook. A dull dial tone blared from the speakerphone and he shut it off.


5 November, 1500 hours / Hotel Splendide

The elevator doors parted and Crist walked into the hallway in shorts and a T-shirt. He walked fast, after two hours in the hotel's fitness center he was ready for a shower and hot breakfast. Coming to his suite door, he swiped his key. A split second later a soothing female voice greeted him and the door opened wide for him. He stepped through and instantly stopped the moment a strange smell entered his nostrils…beacon and eggs. Someone was here. He backed up against a wall and lowered to his knees. Across the room from him, the shades were opened bathing the room in mid afternoon light. An unmistakable sizzle of beacon on the frying pan came from the kitchen. Crist doubted room service would make themselves lunch, it was undoubtedly an intruder. But, why would they give themselves away so easily?

A rummaging sound caught his attention. It was coming from the bedroom. As quietly as he could he ran across the main room to the kitchen. Using the sizzling beacon as noise cover he opened a drawer and pulled out a large steak knife. He crept back onto the carpet and slowly made his way down the hallway towards the bedroom. When he was five feet from the entrance, he looked up at a mirror. From his angle looking into the mirror, he could see the back of a man hovering over something on the bed. After waiting a few more seconds, Crist was certain the man was too preoccupied and would not turn around. He slowly entered the bedroom.

Mere feet in front of him, the man was sorting out objects on the bed. In one swift move, Crist rose and grabbed the man by the shoulder. The man let out a yelp as Crist spun him around and slammed him face first into the wall, the knife poking in to the hollow of his neck.

"Move and I'll sever every artery in your neck. Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?!" Crist demanded.

The man let out a gasp of air and held his hands up as if he were at gunpoint. "I-I'm Jackson, AJ Jackson, your mission support. Treftz sent me!" he blurted.

"Oh," Crist said surprised and back off. He dropped the knife on a dresser and looked at the bed. It was covered with a mini arsenal of guns. "How'd you get in?"

Jackson rubbed the back of his neck and took a deep breath. "We got you the room. You think I don't have a key."

Crist nodded and pointed to the guns on the bed. "Are those mine?"

"Everything you ordered." he replied, going over to the bed and resuming what he was doing.

Crist scrutinized him. Jackson was short, portly and balding with a potbelly. He wore a long trench coat over a nicely tailored gray suit and matching tie that Crist instantly recognized as Brooks Brothers. There were no signs of a Sigma Security badge or any other privatized security firm on the man. Good, Crist thought, the man worked for the UNSC, most likely a civilian worker for the intelligence branch. He never trusted contractors from security firms General Treftz always hired to run security for him. There were always trigger happy, always ready to spray lead. They made good backup in a balls out firefight, but in the shadowy world of espionage where patience and a low profile were key, there was no place for them.

Jackson finished laying out the guns. "Here's everything."

Crist looked at the bed. Each gun he had used during his assassin days lay before him. His primary weapon was a Fabrique Nationele de Herstal (FN) Five Seven, two twenty 5.7 X 28mm armor-piercing round magazines lay beside it. Next to the Five Seven was his main weapon for close quarter's assassinations, a skinny Ruger Mark III Competition rimfire semiautomatic. The skinny pistol was chambered for .22 caliber ammunition. It had a stainless steel frame with a blue finish, adjustable read sights, a Cocobolo grip, and long integrated silencer that replaced the normal five-inch fluted barrel. Lastly, as a backup, he had a blunt Para Ordnance Hawg 9 that sat in a small ankle holster.

"Each pistol comes with two clips. The only gun that doesn't have a silencer is the Hawg 9. The Ruger's barrel is replaced with an integrated silencer and damn near impossible to remove," Jackson said while watching Crist examine his new arsenal.

"There'll be no need to remove it," Crist replied. A small, unopened briefcase lay on the opposite side of the bed next to a duffel bag. "What're those?" he asked pointing to them.

Jackson smiled, walked to the other side of the bed, and snapped open the briefcase. Inside, encased in foam, were a large, silenced M6D pistol and two clips. Crist shook his head.

"What the hell is that?"

Jackson laughed and said, "That is a little piece of modern military hardware courtesy of General Treftz. He thought it would make you appreciate contemporary firearms a little more."

"What's in the duffel bag?" Crist asked frowning at the large handgun, it was big, messy and loud, completely useless to him.

"Some standard equipment: two encrypted cell phones, listening bugs, night/thermal glasses, a monocular, and a laptop with net access. There's also a syringe with an identification implant with two assumed identities that will get you passed security checkpoints," Jackson said.

Crist's eyebrows shot up. "You have a portable syringe to inject the implant?" An identification implant was what every legitimate member of the human race carried in their wrist. It carried everything from your name, age, social security number to you address and waist size. Upon birth, an infant was taken to a local clinic where they were injected with one and registered in a vast databank as a member of humanity, unless a person was born in some splinter faction or non-official colony. Illegally injecting one was in violation of several UNSC laws.

"Of course, we are the UNSC, we can do whatever we want," Jackson said.

"Very well, when do I start my duties?"

"Tonight," he glanced at his watch. "Its only seven in the morning, you have all day, read up on the report and get some sleep. I will come by to pick you up."

"This is going to be a party, what do I wear?" Crist asked. "I don't exactly have a suit."

Jackson sighed. "The general was anticipating this, I put a little something in your closet so you won't be fashionably late."

"Sounds good but I won't settle for anything less than the finest designer suits," Crist said. He wouldn't show up to a party dressed in a twenty dollar mall bought tux. "Preferably Italian."

"Trust me," Jackson replied and pointed to his Brooks Brothers suit. He collected the bags that he had carried the guns in and shoved them into a suitcase. "I made some eggs and beacon as a late breakfast if your hungry but their probably fried by now."

When Jackson left, Crist dumped the now burnt bacon and eggs onto a plate and ate what he could. He pulled the laptop out of the duffel and booted it up. On the desktop a small icon blinked, he had new mail. Spreading himself out on the couch in the living room, Crist opened the email to see a ten page long document summarizing Treftz's conspiracy theories surrounding the Chantillis assassination. He began to read.

There is a line that separates the UNSC. It is visible to all who occupy a seat in the General Council. Every delegate knows of it, but rarely speaks of it. It is a line that is only spoken of in whispers and behind closed doors. The line separates the field of politics from the field of the military. This line is a slash between the UN and the SC, the United Nations being the political arm and the Space Command being the military arm. The two were separated long ago. Military brass ran the war against the Covenant while the politicians ran humanity. These two were separated by the clash of opinions. The military hated the pouring of cool aid diluting their decision-making; the politicians hated the militaries' brashness. A divide that had been there since the dawn of politics.

Chantillis wanted the fill the gap of antipathy and unite both sides, something many in the military were not fond of, but politicians loved, by making a bridge to the other side many saw this as a chance to begin many oversights and congressional investigations into top secret military operations, especially a delegate named Rosie Watts. A radical American protectorate delegate from California, Watts despised the Office of Naval Intelligence, most notably Crist's old corner Section Three. For years she had tried to lead massive investigations into Section Three's surreptitious activities and that of it's leader Colonel James Ackerson. Her battle with Ackerson was almost as legendary as his with Doctor Catherine Halsey and the Spartan II program. It was never Chantillis's intention to lead investigations into clandestine operations that were being conducted by ONI and other organizations, as far as he was concerned, no matter how illegal, they were saving peoples lives in the battle against the Covenant. Nevertheless, some politicians, like Watts, saw it as an opportunity to strong arm the military and have politics take total control.

According to the report, Treftz did not see any higher ups as prime suspects, rather a political power broker who would not be helped by Chantillis's policy of unification. Demetrius Granitsky was the sole partner and head of the most powerful law firm in the UNSC, Granitsky & Associates. Crist was no stranger to Granitsky, he had been a huge player when Crist was around and it surprised him that the man had not gone away. The man was an egocentric billionaire with ambition, ego, and an agenda. Through his many years, he had made connections, pocketed politicians, and made more than just a few bribes. Granitsky had a strong business with Ackerson. The Colonel was able to keep meddlesome politicians like Watts out of his hair by having Granitsky work his magic with the Assembly leaders, they would block any oversight requests by Watts, and in exchange, Granitsky received money, lots of it. If Chantillis had been elected and given Watts an opening to begin her oversight hell, that would mark the closure of a major avenue of money for Granitsky.

Crist nodded as he read, it all made sense. Granitsky had pocketed billions from ONI (among other things) and he did not want that cash flow to end. He had to be behind Chantillis's assassination. If he had gone after Watt's than it would have been obvious who had been behind it, no one held a bigger grudge against her than Granitsky. Instead, he had gone after the one person who had the charisma and popularity to get oversight requests unblocked, Chantillis would have definitely owed Watts a few favors since she was one of his biggest supporters during his campaign. If not for her, Chantillis would not have won the election.

"Clever bastard," Crist muttered and kept reading.

Treftz wanted him to go to an Inaugural after party for the newly elected Mick Gates; the party was at Granitsky's mansion. It was impossible to externally raid Granitsky's private files, he had firewalls and encryptions so advanced and seamless that even the smartest AI could not infiltrate from the outside, the key was to get on the inside. Once inside the party Crist would sneak into Granitsky's office and plant an intrusion AI into his personal computer. Once there the AI would easily infiltrate Granitsky's data encryptions and then sift through all of Granitsky's personal emails and data, searching for any indication that he was behind the assassination, it was bound to find something. Once the AI obtained hard evidence, it would send the data to Treftz. As a failsafe, Crist would download it onto a flash drive as a hardcopy.

Crist finished the report and shutdown the laptop. He checked his watch, it was only four in the afternoon, and Jackson would return around eight-thirty at night to pick him up. He sighed, trying to think of what to do for the next four hours. Treftz had banned him from going out into public, which he despised; here he was in the middle of Manhattan and not allowed to leave his hotel. He checked his watch again and concluded it was not too late to catch a hotel meal. The bacon and eggs Jackson had cooked up did little to quell his hunger. After seven years of freeze-dried food, he was in need of a good meal. He got up and headed to the shower. Ten minutes later, he was dressed and out the door.

There were two different meals the hotel offered, an all you can eat buffet laid out in the lobby with several tables that gave guests to converse with each other over their food, and a five star restaurant on the top floor. He decided against the latter, undoubtedly half the guests here were delegates in town for the elections and they would surly be frequenting the restaurant. He did not want to run into any old acquaintances.

Crist took the luxurious elevator down to the lobby and went to the buffet table. There he stacked his plate with hot chicken wings, mashed potatoes, and more bacon and eggs. Once he returned to his room, he polished off the meal within minutes.

Still bored he decided to undermine his travel restriction. Opening his only bag, he put on a large fleece and a long raincoat. To hide his face he put up the large collar and slipped on a pair of darkly polarized sunglasses. He put his key card and wallet into a money belt and left the room. He went to the lobby and exited into a chilly Manhattan morning.

The Hotel Splendide was a block and a half from Times Square. The street was lined with astronomically priced electronic stores and Broadway theaters. Just down a block was the Milford Plaza and just to the right of it was the Westin. Crist walked to the hustle and bustle of Times Square. He descended a flight of stairs to the subway station and caught a train to Rockefeller Center. There he took his biggest gamble. He walked into a Universal Bank branch and activated a backup account he stashed money in for an emergency during his days as an assassin. It had been lying dormant for the last seven years and he breathed a sigh of relief that his funds were still there. After that, he activated a bankcard under a false name he had used in the past and left the bank. Once out, he went to an ATM machine and withdrew fifty dollars.

He caught another subway to Canal Street. There he walked past a long line of street vendors selling anything from fake watches to blowjobs. Each person he came across selling watches and jewelry had obvious rip offs, it was not what he was looking for. After walking the duration of the street, Crist finally came across a tall African man selling watches to anyone who resembled a tourist.

He stopped in front of the man. "What have you got?"

The man plunged a hand into a bag hanging from his shoulder and pulled out a black box. He quickly opened it and flashed a silver, antique analog watch to Crist. "Rolex?" he asked in a South African accent.

Crist examined the watch. It wasn't a Rolex, it was a Movado. Just as good, he thought. On the band, he spied plastic wrap and above the watch was a warranty card and a price tag displaying a hefty number. He smiled instantly, the watch was genuine and he did not care how this man had come to possess it, most likely he was in a ring of watch sellers. "How much?"

"Eighty-five bucks," the man said, rubbing his fingers together.

"Only got twenty."

The man frowned, "Forty then."

Crist nodded, pulled out two twenties, and handed them to the man. Grinning, he eagerly accepted the cash and handed Crist the watch.

"A pleasure my man," he said and shoved the cash into his coat pocket.

Crist thanked him and left. He went to the subway terminal and caught a train back to Times Square. From there he went back to the hotel and up to his room.

When he entered the suite, he immediately took off his shirt and grabbed the implant kit from the duffel. Sitting down on the bed, Crist opened the kit and read the directions. The implant was already in the syringe. All he had to do was put it against his wrist and shoot away. He set aside the direction booklet and pulled out the cold, plastic syringe gun that slightly resembled the Ruger. Through the translucent barrel, he could see the cylindrical implant, a quarter inch long silicon microchip encased in a thin plastic shell. A slight feeling of apprehension slowly crept forward from the back of his mind, causing him to hesitate for a moment. He had always been a little nervous around needles. He shook the feeling out of his mind. He was an assassin for God's sake; he had faced bullets, bombs, and mass murderers, why should a small needle be so intimidating. Without a second thought, Crist jabbed the syringe gun down onto his arm and squeezed the trigger. There was a slight pinch and a hissing of air as compressed gases released, driving the implant into his arm. Crist immediately pulled the syringe away from his arm looked down at his wrist. The implant was visible as a small protrusion underneath his skin. Just above it was a pen point thick, red hole where the needle had penetrated, a slight trickle of blood escaped and ran down the curvature of his upturned wrist. He wiped it away.

Crist put the syringe back into the case and set it aside. He glanced at his watch once again; it was six o'clock, plenty of time for a nap. He set his alarm two wake him up in an hour and a half and quickly nodded off. At seven thirty, he awoke to the vociferous beeping of his alarm clock, he quickly quelled it with a fist on the snooze button. Wasting no time he hopped out of bed, took a quick five-minute shower, and threw a robe on. With low expectations for what Jackson had got him to wear to the party, he walked to the closet and opened the door. He grinned from ear to ear.

On the rack, hung a dark Brioni suit in a protective cover, a Grupo Italiano shirt, and on the ground, immaculate Bruno Magli wingtips and a pair of matching socks, the finest in Italian clothing with a price just shy of two thousand dollars. It was the perfect disguise to fit in the party tonight. Crist just prayed to God he didn't run into any old faces. If that happened, he would not only blow his cover but also the entire investigation.

In no time, he was dressed in the suit. Next, he had to decide what weapons to take. He laid them out on the bed and thought for a moment. There would be no assassinations tonight, at least not on his behalf, so he ruled out the Ruger. There was no debate with himself on the M6D, he simply would not take it, the gun was so bulky hiding it under his blazer would be like trying to hide an assault rifle. After five minutes of thinking, Crist decided on just the FN Five-Seven. He screwed the small silencer on the barrel, slid the gun into its holster, and strapped the holster onto his shoulder. Crist was certain the gun didn't make a bulge under his blazer, but just to be sure, he checked in front of the mirror, there was nothing.

At seven-thirty sharp, Jackson came walking into the suite, only this time he wore a black chauffeur suit and hat.

"Are we going to a costume party?"

Jackson grunted. "Funny, but no, we're going in a limo and I'm your driver."
Crist nodded and they exited the suite. They walked out of the hotel to a waiting limousine. Once on the road, Jackson looked at Crist through the rearview mirror.

"Look in the seat pocket in front of you," he said.

Crist leaned forward and pulled a manila envelope out of the pocket. He opened the flap and dumped out its contents into his hands.

"Inside are a wallet, a subvocal earpiece, and the intrusion AI datachip. Through the subvocal we'll be able to keep in contact. In the wallet is a few hundred dollars to give off the smell of someone who is rich and has money to spend, and a hardcover of your invitation in case the guards get a little confused with your implant," he paused and risked looking back at Crist. "You did inject the implant, didn't you?"

"Much to my displeasure, yes," Crist replied.

"Good," Jackson returned his eyes to the road.

"Where will you and the general be in case someone happens to stumble into Granitsky's study while I'm on his computer?"

"I'll be in a surveillance van with some techies a few blocks away. As for the general, he'll be at home probably treating himself to some of his wife's special truffles," Jackson said. "Now remember, your name is Richard Rehnquist, your a security consultant, often hired by Sigma Security."

Crist chuckled, even while devising a false identity Treftz incorporated his beloved Sigma Security firm. "Sounds good," he said, taking the subvocal and placing it in his ear, static hissed then settled.

Jackson steered the limo passed a large, open iron gate, went up into a private driveway and they came up to Granitsky's mansion. Crist looked through the windshield at the massive estate. A large circular driveway dominated the front, in middle of the driveway a small lawn with a fountain of a woman holding a pot of water over her head stood illuminated by bright lights aimed upwards. The driveway was filled with a mini traffic jam of private limousines and expensive cars. The mansion itself resembled an ancient Roman villa; only this one was made of whitewashed limestone.

After a short wait, it was their turn to pull up and drop off. Jackson came to a stop and faced Crist. "You haven't been in the field in a while. Keep a low profile, avoid eye contact like the plague, and don't get sidetracked by blond secretaries with more cleavage than brains. Get in and get out," he cautioned.

Crist smiled. "No need to worry. For me a black bag job is like sex, I only get better each time I do it." Not waiting for an answer Crist opened the door and exited the limo.
Jackson pulled away, leaving Crist alone. In front of him, two flights of stairs led up to two massive oak doors. Four security guards stood at the base of the stairs, scanning people's wrists. Four others stood on the platform midway between the stairwells, each keeping tight grips on the leashes of four sitting Dobermans. They were composed for now, but if a guest caused a ruckus, the animals would be the four horsemen. Crist noted that the security detail was well armed. Each guard was armed with either an M7 caseless SMG or stubby MA5K assault rifles, and they were likely to be carrying sidearms. One of guards approached Crist. He had a slung SMG and wore a thick gray raincoat, but beneath it Crist could make out the bulk of a Kevlar vest.

"Sir," he said in a French laden accent. "May I scan you?" It was more a command than a request but the guard masked it with a polite tone.

"Certainly," Crist shoved up his sleeve and held out his wrist. The guard pulled a small PDA device from a pocket and held it over Crist's arm. A red light flashed and he watched as his forged identity scrolled out on the PDA's screen.

The guard nodded. "Mousier Rehnquist, thank you for being patient, enjoy your evening," he said and turned to another guest.

Crist adjusted his sleeve and ascended the stairs. He went up to the large, open oak doors and entered the main foyer. Here a large chandelier dangled from the ceiling, its crystal outline spilling interesting geometric light patterns on the wall and floor. Two doorways led to the main hall where soft, classical music played and a sea of people chatted. He was glad there were no metal detectors, but there were several guards. In the foyer, there were small clusters of people standing and talking, this attracted waiters to bring trays of champagne glasses around. One passed him and he snagged a glass of bubbly just as the waiter passed. He sipped it and the familiar taste of Krug champagne welcomingly flooded his taste buds. He savored the flavor for a second and drained the glass. It was time to go to work.

Crist entered the main hall, which was really a large rectangular room. A ring of socializing guests stood on the outer perimeter, in the middle, occupying the most room, were several dancers enthralled in their tango. He guessed there were around seven hundred people; Granitsky was very well connected indeed. He immediately scanned for any familiar faces, there was none.

Spying the staircase in the back of the room, Crist began making his way through the outer crowd. He was halfway there when he saw the recognizable stark face of a man. It was the last person he wanted to see. It was General Lenox.

To Be Continued…

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