Inside a CIB conference room in Vigil Hall, the air crackled with suppressed fury. Ronald, the recently appointed Vice Chairman of the CIB, slammed his fist on the polished table. His face, normally composed, was distorted into a snarl, flecks of spit flying as he shouted at the silent, grim-faced men seated before him.
"Who authorized this agent's independent operation? Why was there no communication? How did the assailants know his whereabouts and what he was investigating before we did?"
As Vice Chairman of the CIB, Ronald was technically second-in-command; the overall Chairman headed the entire Department of Security, which encompassed the CIB, the FSA, and other agencies. Appointed less than a year ago, Ronald had yet to make any substantial mark on the Bureau, and now this scandal threatened to define his tenure.
He was determined to use this crisis to assert his authority and get results. He would not spare these old hands, who had grown comfortable under his more docile predecessor.
The assembled marshals and senior analysts shifted uneasily. Many were relics of a bygone era, their best skills rooted in navigating bureaucracy rather than fieldwork. Their complacency, Ronald knew, was partly to blame for the CIB's current vulnerabilities.
This murder had kicked a hornet's nest, and they were caught off guard. Worse, Ronald suspected some of them weren't clean. He knew that at least two individuals in this very room had likely been aware of the impending murder, perhaps even facilitated it by passing information to the perpetrators. It was an old, dirty game, one they were skilled at playing.
Their luck, however, was running out. The current Kestovan administration was not playing games. Unhappy with the unchecked activities of certain powerful corporations and influential families – 'cells' as they were sometimes termed internally – the government had decided it was time for a cleanup. This new directive had prompted the DOS Chairman to issue the memo that now had the CIB scrambling.
These senior CIB men had not risen to their positions without cunning. After a tense silence, one of them, a short, muscular older man with a thick Eastern Kestovan accent, chose to speak. He slowly rose to his feet, commanding the room's attention. "Vice Chairman," he began, his voice raspy, "the deceased agent was tasked with tracking a logistics movement. An offshore company suspected of involvement in the illegal transport of goods. He reported finding evidence that this offshore entity was colluding with a domestic company." The man paused, his gaze sweeping across the room, before continuing, "That domestic company… was Noxon Group." He held up a thin file, ensuring everyone could see the name printed on its cover.
A pin-drop silence descended. Noxon Group. The name carried immense weight in Kestova. They were a corporate hegemon, virtually untouchable. Accusations against them were not made lightly; failure to substantiate such claims could have devastating personal and professional consequences for whoever dared to voice them.
Even Ronald felt a flicker of shock, but he maintained his stern demeanor. He directed his question to the speaker, Marshal Ambrose.
"Who authorized the agent to investigate Noxon specifically? And did we receive any data from him before his death?"
Ambrose shook his head. "No direct authorization for Noxon, sir. And no recent data." He was lying, of course. He was an insider, bought by Noxon. He had spoken with John Harlan on the phone just the day before, liaising with Noxon's private task force to coordinate the hit on the CIB agent. But Ambrose was no fool. He had planned this carefully, ensuring someone else would take the fall. He wouldn't be standing here, speaking so openly, otherwise.
He then pointed an accusing finger at another Marshal across the table, a lean, grey-haired man. "That man, Marshal Thorne, was the agent's direct superior! He was supposed to be overseeing the agent in the field. I have reason to believe Thorne is responsible. His negligence in failing to assign security to an agent handling such sensitive evidence suggests he was trying to cover something up. This stinks of foul play!" Ambrose's voice rose with indignation. "That is just my opinion, of course. But I suggest we immediately secure his communication devices, search his files, and ransack his office. We might find something valuable. Such matters cannot go unsolved!"
It was a powerful, calculated speech. A direct accusation of treason against a senior CIB Marshal. Commotion erupted in the room. Marshal Thorne shot to his feet, his face flushed with anger, vehemently denying the accusations.
He was dirty, yes, involved in his own share of CIB corruption, but he had never worked with Noxon. Was Ambrose mad? Desperate for a promotion? Thorne was innocent of this particular crime.
But Ambrose had laid his trap meticulously. As a senior executive himself, he had access to most CIB operational data, especially regarding low-level field agents. He had taken a particular interest in this agent weeks ago, as soon as he learned that the 'Shore Company' – the offshore front – was being tracked.
Alarm bells had rung in Ambrose's mind; he had personally facilitated that company's illegal shipments, which were destined for Noxon Group and already in the country, due to arrive within a day or two.
Ambrose had maintained a relatively clean slate within the CIB for years, participating in no other significant illegal activities beyond this carefully managed Noxon connection. This veneer of respectability, aside from minor, easily overlooked administrative oversights, meant Ronald was more inclined to believe him. His words carried weight.
Ronald, seeing an opportunity to demonstrate decisive action, calmed the uproar. He made a swift call. Within minutes, internal security personnel – distinct from CIB field agents, tasked with protecting senior DOS members and ensuring internal security within Vigil Hall – were dispatched to Marshal Thorne's office.
Outside the conference room, CIB agents and staff watched in stunned disbelief as Thorne's office was unceremoniously ransacked. This was juicy, unprecedented. They buzzed with speculation. The DOS's various branches, like the CIB and FSA, maintained their own smaller offices and bases across the nation, operating with a degree of independence, but Vigil Hall was the monolithic heart of the DOS. This hybrid structure meant internal security could act swiftly within headquarters.
Soon, the search team returned. Thorne's office was sealed off, becoming an active crime scene, a lone security guard posted at the door. Some of Thorne's immediate staff were called in for questioning. The palpable shockwave spread through the CIB wing. It seemed Ambrose's accusation held water.
Back in the conference room, the accused Marshal Thorne knew he had been sacrificed, thrown under the bus. It didn't take long. Security personnel entered, roughly grabbing Thorne and dragging him away to a holding cell, where he would await interrogation. He was denied legal representation, citing the risk of him hiding or destroying evidence. No one spoke up in his defense. The few who might have considered it saw the writing on the wall; this ship was sinking, and they weren't going down with Thorne. It was clear this was a carefully orchestrated takedown.
That day, explosive news ripped through the CIB wing: a senior Marshal was working with criminals, even complicit in an agent's murder. The fallout was bound to be messy. Agents and staff who had worked under Thorne were questioned, but most were let off with warnings and undesirable new assignments – heavy, tedious workloads.
Their only saving grace was their lack of direct contact with the actual killers. Some, however, who were known to be close to Thorne, were not so lucky; they went down with him. The whirlpool even dragged in another Marshal, implicated by association and past dealings.
By evening, the news had spread throughout Vigil Hall. A traitor had been found within the CIB. A long list of Thorne's past crimes, conveniently 'discovered,' piled up, making it seem he had this coming. He had, it was now 'revealed,' taken several CIB members with him as accomplices, including another Marshal. Investigations were ongoing, but the actual contacts who ordered the hit on the CIB agent – Noxon – remained untouched. Thorne and his associates were guilty of many things, but they hadn't planned this specific murder. They were simply convenient scapegoats.
That evening, John Harlan was enjoying dinner in his Masonvale home when his butler approached, whispered a few words, and discreetly left. A few minutes later, the butler returned, presenting a secure telephone. John carefully placed his silver fork on the edge of his plate, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin – the picture of refined dining – and took the call. He listened, nodding occasionally. "Good," he finally said into the receiver. "Now it's time to clear our name. The first phase is done. You know what to do." He ended the call, handed the phone back to the butler, who bowed slightly and retreated. John Harlan resumed his meal in silence, the only sound in the grand dining room the soft clinking of cutlery against fine china.
Meanwhile, in her own home office, Lonah was reading a report. The Chief Financial Officer and Chief Legal Officer had returned from Falworth earlier that day, and they'd held a productive meeting. There was good news: Oracle was close to completion, requiring only final touches.
They had also succeeded in securing a substantial loan from the bank. This financial injection would smooth out the final hurdles for Project Aurora, which was rapidly nearing its own completion.
One point of concern remained: the recent CIB incident had delayed a critical shipment of new test subjects.
However, Lonah had assured her executives that the matter was being resolved and the shipment was now covered. Based on her estimates and Dr. Michael's assurances from the plant, they would have a working prototype of the fully integrated NIN-Oracle system within two weeks. This was crucial, as John and another key shareholder were scheduled to attend a demonstration. The prototype had to be perfect. This was Lonah's current, all-consuming focus.
While this represented significant progress, Project Aurora was not yet ready for public launch. That would still take several months, perhaps even a year, of intensive, clandestine experimentation to fully understand Oracle's effects and limitations, and to mitigate any risks or potential accidents that could incriminate Noxon.
Time flew. Two weeks later, the day arrived to showcase the future of Noxon. A convoy of black SUVs and limousines rolled into the Noxon Group R&D facility – the official name for the plant on the outskirts of Masonvale. Security was even tighter than usual. Additional armed personnel patrolled the perimeter, their presence a clear statement of the importance of the visitors and the technology within.
John Harlan emerged slowly from his limousine. He stood tall and upright, a testament to his disciplined younger days, his posture belying his age. He was accompanied by another elderly man, also a major shareholder, noticeably older than John. Wrinkles deeply creased his face, and his back was bent as he walked with the aid of an ornate cane. Despite these outward signs of advanced age, his eyes held an undeniable aura of sharp authority. They were escorted into the facility like royalty.
Lonah was there to receive them, flanked by David Simons, the CTO, and other top Noxon executives, all impeccably dressed. The top doctors from the facility, including a visibly tense Dr. Michael, trailed closely behind, ready to present their work.