In Chelsea Market’s bustling streets, families meandered between shops and attractions. Children rode the magical Seaglass Carousel; tourists visited the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum. In stark contrast, the decaying fishing depot decommissioned from the fifties hid as a reminder of New York’s industrial heritage in the nearby piers. The roof had long since collapsed, with sunlight filtering through the cracks in the corrugated metal, now overtaken by creeping Japanese knotweed. Graffiti sprawled across its walls, and the floor was a chaotic mess of debris. Aside from the occasional drunken vagrant, the warehouse was utterly abandoned—an ideal hideout for Magister Gulag.

  Having flown in first class on a private jet to LaGuardia Airport earlier, he had enjoyed the company of a blond bombshell stewardess named Suzie, with first-class services, all charged to the royal family’s account. Now, at his behest, he waited impatiently outside the crumbling depot. He sweated in gray, grease-stained overalls inside a white box truck. His eyes squinted from the mid-afternoon sun as a gaggle of tourists approached his vicinity. He rechecked his watch, shoving the door open.

  “What are you lot wearing? You’d think this was a Disney Club convention!”

  “Sorry, Gulag,” said Asp, as he wiped hotdog mustard from his mouth.

  “We had a slight delay.”

  “A slight delay. You're three hours late!”

  “Dante, I’m not even going to ask. You look absurd!”

  “A last-minute wardrobe malfunction, Majister!”

  “I don’t want to know. Get in the back. Get changed, all of you!”

  Mangy, trashed-canned cats gorging on rancid fish carcasses flung away when Gulag pulled out of the alley. They mingled with the heavy traffic on the West Side Highway. Gulag weaved in and out of the lanes, trying to make good time. After a few miles, they were up First Avenue, passing the skyscrapers of Midtown Manhattan. As Gulag closed in on the United Nations Headquarters, he saw billboards with soundbites of ‘The United Nations Climate Hope Summit’. Some had slogans of ‘Save Our Planet’ and ‘Climate Action Now.’ Featuring images of melting glaciers and rising sea levels.

  Taking a sharp turn, he pulled up to the checkpoint at the North Gate. A metal barrier blocked the entrance. Two guards in blue uniforms and sunglasses pitched up in a booth, armed with rifles, while explosive detection dogs sniffed around. Gulag wound down his window.

  “Good afternoon,” said the guard in a thick Boston accent. “Can I see ‘yer driver’s license and registration, please?”

  The guard scrutinized Gulag’s identification before handing it back. “Thank ‘ya, now what’s the purpose of ‘yer visit?”

  “We’re the maintenance team for the air conditioner units,” said Gulag in a fake American accent. “I’m the lead technician. I had an order number to check the pressure valves.”

  “Hey, Barney, do we know of any contractors out today for the air conditioners?”

  Barney, a rotund man with a shaved head, shrugged in the booth. “Not that I know of!”

  “We’re contracted by the UN to service all of their air conditioners. It’s just a routine check.”

  Gulag’s clipboard had an embossed United Nations blue stamp with a company insignia. ‘Global Cooling Solutions’ in bold black print. “Here’s our work order.”

  “Barney, check this over. This ain't no contractors I ever heard of.”

  He slipped the paper into the pass-through; it buzzed in purple light, checking for any chemical residues. Barney checked the company’s registration on the United Nations database. Seconds later, a message popped up saying ‘Global Cooling Solutions’ was a registered United Nations contractor.

  “Go figure, it all checks out, Pauly wind it through,” Barney said.

  “I’m going to need to check your vehicle.”

  Gulag got out. “Of course, be my guest.”

  Pauly opened the tailgate; finding the Bloodies, wearing grease-stained overalls, eating out of metal workmen’s lunchboxes.

  “Hey, ‘ya ‘wanna baloney sandwich?” offered Dante.

  “No thanks, buddy. I ‘gotta backlog happening here. Open your toolboxes please.”

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  The bomb-sniffing dog, a highly nervous K-9, sniffed around the vehicle, then jumped in. More interested in the baloney sandwiches than the threat. Pauly used a mirror inspection device to examine the underbelly of the truck. Gulag and the Bloodies were then subjected to a thorough search.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, fellas. You’re all good.”

  “No problem,” said Gulag. “We don’t want to let the rot in. Do we now?”

  “Yeah, right? Barney, we're clear. Let them through.”

  The United Nations complex was only a short ride, trailing other service vehicles to the ground floor on the East Side. Pulling into the loading bay, the Bloodies assembled their tools. The loading bay was a large, open space with high ceilings and concrete walls. A few forklifts were parked. Workers sat on wooden pallets smoking, taking no notice when Gulag parked up. Loading trucks supplied everything from food to furniture to office equipment powering the United Nations. Security cameras pivoted on their mounts with roaming guards on the lookout. Gulag and the Bloodies looked like everyday tradesmen, no different from the other contractors milling about the loading bay. Gulag reached for a roll of paper; proceeding to unroll it onto a wooden table. His hands fanned out the crisp, white paper, careful not to tear the delicate sheet.

  A detailed rendering of the entire United Nations was displayed for all to see, a rendering any draftsman would be proud of. Gulag studied the intricate lines of pipes and valves with his finger, focusing on a specific area.

  “The water filtration system for the entire complex is in this basement, Asp. You remember your training. Don’t fuck it up! Right?”

  “Yeah, right!”

  Gulag stretched out a corner of the blueprint, trying to keep it from folding back in on itself. He pointed to the central air conditioning system.

  “Once the water system is under wraps. Dante, you will target the central air conditioning. You remember your training. Don’t fuck it up! Right?”

  “Yeah, right! Gulag.”

  Asp smirked. “It will be a walk in the park.”

  “It’s a cakewalk,” Dante boasted. “This isn’t the first building I’ve broken into.”

  “Your 15-minute countdown starts now. If you are not back in time, you are on your own. Get on with it.”

  Asp and Dante wore hard hats and reflective vests; biding their time until the security personnel got preoccupied. Then, clutching their toolboxes and the blueprint, they sneaked out of the loading area onto a mezzanine floor. Taking the service lift. Gulag and the Bloodies resorted to their tools after seeing them leave. Screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches spread out across the table. A lengthy ladder was dragged from the truck for display purposes only. Gulag scoured the loading bay for any indication of problems.

  Cobwebs flew by on the gray breeze-blocked walls of the open lift shaft as Asp and Dante stood side by side. The lift doors pranged apart to a view of pipes and machinery. Motors whirred, valves opened and closed like pistons. The warmth hitting them was only amplified by the lack of ventilation. Asp unfurled the blueprint from his toolbox.

  “What’s our time, Dante?”

  “Nine minutes. But it looks like a fucking maze in here.”

  “Then we better get our arses in gear then. Look, Gulag has circled the chemical feed room and the VRF system. It’s by the far end.”

  With the blueprint as their sole guide, Asp and Dante explored the basement, stepping over loose wiring, occasionally avoiding pools of black oil. After a number of false turns, the telltale signs of the chemical room came into view through a slightly ajar door. A red warning sign warned ‘Danger: Hazardous Materials’.

  “Dante, take the air conditioners. We have seven minutes left.”

  The chemical feed room was windowless. The wall featured warnings like ‘Caution: Corrosive’ and ‘Danger: Flammable.’ Hazardous materials filled the shelves. Stuff like boxes of chlorine tablets, canisters of fluoride gas, bags of activated carbon, and spools of sediment filters.

  There was also a large tank with a pump injecting chemicals controlled by a timer of sensors. Radiating ultraviolet light bulbs. Asp double-checked Gulag’s circled diagram. An arrow pointed to the pumping tank.

  “Bullseye!”

  Asp, grabbed two metal cylinders from his toolbox. He unscrewed the main valve on the tank and began pumping bacteria-sized nanocapsules from syringes attached to the cylinders. Soon, Ferox 13 would course through the very veins of the pipeworks, serving the entire United Nations building. As soon as he was finished, Asp went to check on Dante. Dante was standing on a plastic chair, with a serrated hacksaw cutting into the wires of the breaker box of the variable refrigerant flow system.

  He worked quickly, severing the unit like a surgeon. Now the breaker box was a mangled mess of copper split ends. Rendering the air conditioner unit to nothing more than a piece of shit. With a thud, the compressor died, tripping the circuit breaker.

  “Asp, I’m done. What about you?”

  “As I said earlier, I knew it was going to be a walk in the park. Right, we’ve got four minutes. Let’s go.”

  The engine was running when they returned to the loading bay. A pleased Gulag drove out to the security exit. Barney and Pauly, were checking out a black Mercedes Benz carrying a VIP when they arrived. Through the blacked-out visor of her side window, Aurelia Ironheart, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, noticed a familiar face facing her from the other side of the metal barrier. She rolled down the window, looking at the driver in confusion.

  “Gulag!”

  Gulag gave her a little wink when Barney waved him through. His stopwatch counted down to zero. With a job well done Gulag merged into the metropolis of New York City. In the Mercedes Benz, the chauffeur rolled down the partition. Lo Chen’s dark eyes stared back at the Prime Minister.

  “We are here, ma’am. I hope you enjoy the summit!”