A/N : I know I may be stretching the bounds of probability with this story but hey this is supposed to be fiction so be nice to me and try to suspend your disbelief! :-D

Prologue

The air was heavy with the scent of leather, wood polish and cigar smoke as Ambrose Atlas picked up the heavy crystal decanter and poured out a generous measure of fine French cognac. He lifted the cut crystal glass to his nose and inhaled deeply, his lips twitching slightly as he savoured the rich oak and nut aromas. Replacing the glass he poured a second slightly less generous glass and stoppered the bottle. He carried the two glasses over to the three leather couches arranged in a U shape at the farthest end of the library. He glanced around to make sure they were alone nodding to himself as he saw that all the other chairs were empty.

"Here you are Roger." He handed the second glass to an uncomfortable looking man whose dark grey suit seemed a little too large for him. "A little something to calm the nerves heh?" Roger Clemens nodded nervously and took a gulp of the smooth vintage liquor while loosening his tie. A wealthy businessman, he had worked hard all his life to make his trucking company into one of the most reputable and respected transport businesses in the eastern United States. And now he was about to throw that all away. He tried to smile at his host and benefactor, the man who had sponsored his membership of the exclusive Manhattan club in which they were now sitting and the man who had brought him into The Forum.

Atlas smiled benevolently and settled himself opposite Clemens and next to his closest ally Pierre Moreau. "Now my dear Roger, let's see what can be done about this sticky situation you have gotten yourself into." Roger shifted nervously in his seat under the watchful gaze of Atlas and Moreau.

"I'm sure that … er … if I sell off one of the smaller subsidiaries and make some cuts, I'll … er … be able to raise some capital and repay you..."

"Oh Roger! Roger!" Atlas interrupted with a wave of his plump, bejewelled and impeccably manicured hand. "No need for that just yet. I am sure that we can come to an amicable agreement that will benefit us all. We quite understand your position. After all we have all taken a hit in the current economic crisis." Roger felt the bile rise in his throat. He couldn't imagine that Ambrose Atlas had taken a hit if his lifestyle was anything to go by. You only had to look at his handmade shoes, tailored suits, his chauffeur driven cars and private jet to see that his lifestyle hadn't been affected by the downturn. "We are all friends here and we want to help you now as we have helped you in the past. All we need is for you to help us in return."

Roger Clemens felt sick as Atlas pointedly emphasized the latter part of his phrase. "What is it that you want from me?" he whispered.

"Let's say that we have need of your services to transport some rather … delicate material." Atlas looked at Moreau and allowed himself a little smile. Moreau could see, as he could, the beads of sweat forming on trucking giant's face. Clemens ran a finger around his collar.

"What kind of material?" he stammered.

"Oh nothing for you to worry about. But we are counting on your … discretion." Again Atlas emphasized the last word and Clemens swallowed heavily. "Just as you can count on ours." At this, Moreau slid a brown envelope across the table and gestured for Clemens to open it. Clemens put down his glass and picked up the envelope. He pulled out a wad of photographs and felt his stomach turn as he saw himself sprawled across the silk-draped bed with several young girls not much older than his own daughters. Why had he accepted that invitation? He should have known better. He stuffed the photographs back into the envelope and closed his eyes. "Now don't you worry about a thing Roger. You get yourself back home to Lizzy and your delightful girls and let us handle everything. Pierre here will ensure that your loan is extended and that the paperwork is secured safely. One of our associates will contact you in a few days regarding our shipment."

A shadow detached itself from the wall and glided silently up behind Roger Clemens. He shuddered as he felt the bony fingers touch his shoulder. "Angel will accompany you to the airport won't you Angel?" The tall, pale-faced individual nodded and gestured for Clemens to follow him. "We wouldn't want you to miss your flight." Roger Clemens threw one last desperate look at the two men in front of him and knew that he had lost. He rose without a word and left the room followed silently by Angel.

Pierre Moreau reached for his cognac and swirled it around the glass. "Are you sure about this?" he asked as he watched Clemens leave.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures Pierre. Clemens is the last piece of the puzzle. If this works out we shall recoup our losses threefold and we will be back where we were before." Atlas glanced at his friend. "Not getting cold feet are we?"

"No, of course not. It's just that you are taking a huge risk with Clemens. If he finds out what we intend to do..."

"If he does then we will take care of him. Stop worrying Pierre. We have been through this a hundred times. We have everything covered." Ambrose Atlas took a sip from his glass. They had spent months perfecting this plan, covering all the angles, all the eventualities. He had put in place contingency plans and he had resources at his beck and call should something totally unforeseen happen. After all you could never plan for the rogue element, just merely handle it when it turned up. "Now what news from our Corsican friend?"

.

"CSI:NY – CSI:NY – CSI:NY"

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Six pairs of eyes fixed him with glassy stares, looks of horror and disbelief on their faces. Mac Taylor leaned back in his chair at the head of the conference table with a sigh. This was not going well. "There a problem?"

Danny was the first to recover the power of speech. "Are you out of your mind?" he spluttered.

"Danny ..." Mac began, his face taking on an exasperated look, but he was unable to get another word in edgeways due to the barrage of questions. He held up a hand and glared at his team. "Look! You know as well as I do that all forensics labs have to be independently accredited. This is no different. "

"Why you?" asked Jo in a low voice as her eyes bore into his.

"Like I said they felt that I had the right profile for the job." For some absurd reason Mac felt a twinge of guilt under her piercing gaze. He looked away.

"But a whole month?" gasped Lindsay. "Normally it only takes a few days, a week at the most."

"They want me to do some extra training, review their personnel, help supervise the setting up of their new ballistics lab and make recommendations for additional facilities and … I'm going to take a few days on the way back to catch up with an old marine buddy I haven't seen in along while." Mac waved a hand nonchalantly as he glanced around the table.

"Whoa! You're taking a vacation?" giggled Adam which earned him a Taylor glare.

"Have you already given them an answer?" asked Sid tentatively as he played nervously with his pen. Mac inclined his head. "What about your own safety?"

"That's already taken care of. I will have a personal escort at all times."

"So you're going?" asked Sheldon looking distinctly unhappy.

"You're all perfectly capable of keeping this lab running without me for a few weeks." Mac smiled at them but his stomach flipped a little as he realized his team wasn't taking this as well as he had hoped. Danny was fidgeting in his chair and Lindsay looked positively shell-shocked. Sheldon's lips were drawn into a hard line indicating he was unhappy and he was clearly having an unspoken conversation with Sid who looked equally put out. Mac caught Jo's eye again at the other end of the table and he felt uneasy at the play of emotions he saw there. "Look this isn't the first time I've done this." They all stared at him.

Adam frowned in confusion and waved his pen in the air. "Er … done what? Accredited another lab or … gone to Iraq?"

.

"CSI:NY – CSI:NY – CSI:NY"

.

As Mac cleared up the last of his files from his desk and forwarded his calls to the switchboard, Jo walked in clearly on her way home. He smiled at her but his smile faded a little as he caught the look of anguish on her face. He took a step towards her concerned by the look in her eyes but before he could say anything Jo blurted out: "You will be careful won't you?" Mac frowned and opened his mouth to speak but again she cut him off. "Just be careful please!" She suddenly stepped forward and raising her hand to his face she planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "Please,"she whispered, and with that she was gone leaving Mac standing alone in his office, the Manhattan skyline twinkling through the window behind him and the lingering scent of her perfume filling his nostrils.

For a moment Mac felt slightly sick and he wondered if, somehow, Jo knew what he was up to but he knew that was impossible. Mac cast his mind back to beginning when his old friend had called him. Marty Schaeffer. General Schaeffer. Mac had to smile to think of his former commander as a desk-bound General. How the years had passed! It had all seemed so simple at that moment as they sat there in the overstuffed leather armchairs overlooking the Hudson savouring a fine twelve year old single malt Scotch. Mac reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph that Marty had given him. He ran his thumb over the picture. So simple. Mac closed his eyes for a second and then stuffed the picture back in his pocket. He grabbed his jacket and switched off the lights and took one last look at his office and his lab. He nodded to Adam who was watching him through the glass walls before heading out into the night.