26 Federal Plaza, better known as the FBI building in Manhattan, a forty-story tower of black and white squares, a dizzying spectacle like a piece of magic eye artwork where you have to stare at it and let your eye focus in order to find the object hidden within its squares. When it was first built it was an ugly monster, time had only made it worse, never quite being architecturally "in style" and yet for some reason it remains a tourist attraction simply because the FBI has a few offices here. In a twist of Irony not lost upon Colonel Gavin, this was also the building that handled all of the immigrant applications in New York, sort of a modern-day Ellis Island. It was here, in a hidden office on a floor that didn't exist that he was to interrogate the strange foreigner that had been causing so much anxiety amongst the brain-trusts.

Colonel Gavin's area of expertise was as a negotiator but in 10 minutes his skills were to be used to keep this man calm so they could extract as much information as possible from him. I want to find out how he pulled that stunt with the gun. His confidence in the video showed Colonel Gavin that this man expected the gun not to fire. It's as if he knew the outcome of the event before it ever happened. He understood how this type of behaviour could make some people nervous.

Ping.......ping.....the machine beeped in rhythmic regularity as the stranger lay with his arms by his side strapped to the metal sidebars of his bed. An IV was attached to his arm, its slow drip keeping him asleep.

"Brain functions appear to be abnormally slow," said the technician matter-of-factly.......... "Slower...........slower." The time between pings increased from 3 seconds apart to 4 seconds then to 7. "His brain is shutting down one quadrant at a time."

"What does that mean?" asked Colonel Gavin.

"Beats me," answered the technician. "I've never seen this before."

"Could the machines be hurting him?"

"Not a chance."

"What about the drip?"

"Maybe....but he'd be the first."

"Heart functions are slowing as well," said another man.

"I've seen enough," the Colonel said with little emotion. "Damn it, we've had him here all night. We're getting nowhere. There's no value in this. Wake him up and get him lucid. I'll be back in five.

The Colonel needed something in these tests that could explained the strange events today but there was no evidence of any type of increased brain function or psychic ability. At the very least the Colonel had hoped that the drip would have been ineffective suggesting some sort of superior mind control. The lack of any findings would make the upcoming interrogation even more difficult. His superiors needed an explanation and so far he couldn't give them one. The unexplainable always seemed to bring about the most fear in people.

In the interrogation room, Colonel Gavin sat next to Lieutenant Nichols, a lifetime military man who followed orders down to the last insignificant detail. Everything about him said military. He never went anywhere unless he was dressed in full military garb; he worked his body like a well-tuned machine. He was a large man, well muscled with no visible fat, the only flaws on his body being a few battle scars on his face that he wore like badges of honour. Even his hair was military style, a dark blond brush cut that no doubt was as sharp and prickly as the rest of him. He was rigid, stubborn, quick to anger and very, very loyal... to Cole, and this made Colonel Gavin more than a little nervous.

Lieutenant Nichols was only brought in when Cole wanted to do more than merely interrogate someone. I will make certain that everything is done by the book, Colonel Gavin told himself. He, like many other military officials, did not like Cole who had not served one day in the U.S. military, yet here he was, head of one of the most feared departments in the United States; The department of the Paranormal and Occult.

This department was created by Cole himself after he foiled an attempted embezzlement plot by the psychic of the Vice President's wife. "There are too many nut cases out there," Cole argued before Congress "that are ruining the fabric of America. Fake psychics and healers, satanic cults, alien worshipers; these people must be prevented from destroying this country." The groups that Cole hated most of all were the religious fanatics, regardless of the religion they practiced. "These religious people are here, in America, due to our goodwill and generosity," Cole declared. "It is not our job to accommodate them, but for them to co-exist with us and become Americanized. If they don't like our ways and customs then they can get the hell out of here. I'll even pay for the airline ticket!"

Cole's opinions were extremely popular and played very well in the press, they supported anyone who was anti God it seemed, but to Cole's dismay congress didn't have the intestinal fortitude to pass any laws defining the guidelines of proper American conduct. In response, Cole initiated a campaign to have religious fanaticism equated to cult worship, which Cole had already succeeded in making illegal. He was sure that this would be more palatable to Congress since it only targeted those religious groups that were anti-American. He was wrong. Neither political party wanted to be associated with a law that would target large blocks of voters regardless of how they felt about this country. For the second time, Cole's attempts were refuted but it still didn't prevent Cole from harassing those religious groups regularly.
"What is your name, young man?" Colonel Gavin asked in a deep, firm voice to the man sitting diagonally across from him.

"Karik," he replied without hesitation. Colonel Gavin tried to find any underlying nervousness in his actions, any twitches in his hands or facial expressions that would tell him something other than the words being said. He could find nothing. The man was cool as ice.

"And what is your last name?"

"We don't have last names," answered Karik.

This is not going to be easy, thought Colonel Gavin. He has no last name. He probably belongs to one of those crazy punk cults from Great Britain. That explains why Cole is involved. No. There must be something more.

"Okay, Karik with no last name. Where are you from?" asked Colonel Gavin.
"I am from a place you would call northern England."

Ok, I was right....Great Britain. Now to find out which cult specifically. "Well, Karik," responded Colonel Gavin, finding it impossible to control his urge for sarcasm. "We do know that the British all have last names."

A middle-aged man dressed in a neat pin-striped suit entered the room. He had short black hair that was graying more and more each day, beady eyes that seemed perennially focused as they protruded from his face through his round eyeglasses and a carefully manicured mustache that sloped down over his top lip. He appeared to be someone who placed a great deal of importance on the image he portrayed, looking more like a gangster from 1920s Chicago than a government official. That's Cole for you, Colonel Gavin thought to himself, all image but no substance. He took a seat on a chair in the corner of the room, crossed his legs, and started to write on a notepad.

Colonel Gavin watched as Karik momentarily closed his eyes and then quickly reopened them, fixating his firm stare on the man in the corner. "You did not bring me here to ask about my background. You and I both know why I'm here."

Colonel Gavin chose to ignore the interruption and continued with his interrogation. "Why do you think you're here?" This news that had entered the room seemed to unnerve Karik. This was getting interesting.

Karik turned his head back around to face Colonel Gavin. "I am here because you want to understand what you saw today," answered Karik, his demeanour once again calm.

"And what did we see?"

"You saw exactly what you saw," answered Karik.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Colonel Gavin.

"Please don't play with me. We all know what happened. You people don't like to get to the point."

We people? I always get to the point. I just do it in my own way. Colonel Gavin quickly realized that this line of questioning wasn't going to get him anywhere. He would have to change tactics.

"Your fingerprints that we lifted off the crowbar didn't come up on any of our computers," said Colonel Gavin. "Neither did your DNA, so let's call that a good start."

Karik paused briefly as if he was analyzing his thoughts before he spoke, attempting to gain control over the interrogation. "May I ask a question?" Karik asked Colonel Gavin.

"Certainly."

"Who exactly am I speaking with?"

Colonel Gavin turned to the man in the corner who nodded his head in an affirmative motion.

"I am Colonel Gavin of the United States Army. For this assignment I report directly to Cole who answers only to Vice President Mohammed."

"Colonel Gavin," Karik quickly answered without pausing for reflection, "you and I both know that Mr. Dick Cheney is the Vice President."

"I'm sorry but you're mistaken. Nobody here is trying to fool you. Mr. Mohammed is the Vice President," Colonel Gavin replied. Maybe he's simply a lunatic, he surmised, blessed with sheer dumb luck. That would explain most everything, but not everything.

"The Vice President?" Karik said very surprised.