PROLOGUE:

Police chief Ewan MacGill furrowed his dark bushy eyebrows, which were as bushy and crimson as his hair. When he spoke, his loud, confident voice penetrated the stunned silence that hung in the air like a smothering blanket.

"Here lies the mighty Nakatomi Plaza," he announced to his colleagues, "the mystery that everyone forgot about."

His officers looked up at him, watching intently as he stood in front of the huge pile of glass and steel that now lay in a sorry heap on the ground. Since the infamous events in 1988 that had transpired, the entire area surrounding what was left of the proud skyscraper that once stood tall was now deserted. Even the rats and crows seemed to have found a better place to be.

"You all know the story of Nakatomi Plaza, which was seized by terrorists thirty years ago."

Catching the eye of more than ten blank stares, he proceeded to explain. "On Christmas Eve, 1988, a large group of terrorists broke into Nakatomi Plaza and took everyone hostage. Several hours later, Nakatomi Plaza mysteriously exploded, presumably killing everyone in the building. The previous Interpol team's investigations were rendered fruitless."

A long pause followed, as everyone took in what he said.

"Because they had trouble shifting through that pile of rubble?" a trainee cop asked nervously, eyeing said pile with a worried eye.

MacGill nodded in affirmation.

"But sir," the young cop protested, "if our predecessors couldn't find any reason as to why this building blew up, after all these years, doesn't that suggest that there really is nothing to go on? That we're fighting for a lost cause?"

"We're not," MacGill replied, the unspoken do not cross me unless you want to get kicked out of this job on your backside implication clear in his voice. "Now, any clues as to how this building collapsed give us a good clue about the plot of the terrorists, but also it tells us a fair bit about the likelihood of the terrorists having been the ones that blew up the building. If they did, there is a high probability that at least a few could have survived the blast. And there lies our missing link to the recent attacks made by German radical groups."

"You mean to say that the bombing of all those Asian countries could be linked to something that happened thirty years ago?"

"If the terrorists survived, they could have reformed their little band under different names. Of course, the original band of terrorists must be all dead or retired by now, Hans Gruber was already in his forties when the events took place," MacGill said. "Which means he'd be pushing seventy now, if he's still alive, that is. For all we know, he could be running his gnarled fingers all over those nice millions he's collected as we speak."

Although MacGill's face remained calm, there was an edge in his voice. This often happened whenever he was getting excited about solving a case. "The descriptions of the younger terrorists bear a strong resemblance to the original Nakatomi terrorists. Remember, these could be their kids or even grandkids that we are talking about. The survival of the terrorists that took Nakatomi could be the missing link to these guys that are now terrorising Asia and the countries surrounding her."

"What does it matter?" another cop spoke up. "Why can't we just arrest the bastards before they do even more damage, without all this faffing about who their parents were?"

MacGill glared at him. "You think we're not trying? Just how many times have we tried to stop them, only to have them vanish on us? Every bit of information on them we can get our hands on is vital, especially information like this. Now go on! Hurry!"

Hurrying soon proved to be fairly pointless. For hours, the officers shifted through the rubble, trying to identify pieces of rusted steel that cut their hands and pulled at their muscles. MacGill joined in - even though he did not have to do the donkey work himself, it had been too long since he'd had a case as interesting as this, and he was dying to solve the mystery. However, the best he managed to salvage was something that looked like a piece of ruined plastic. He wondered aloud if it could be what was left of one of those old-fashioned wireless radios that hadn't seen the light of day for many years now. "They would've had to have cut the phone lines so nobody could call for help," he mused to himself. "So this would've been their only method of communication."

"How old do you reckon this particular model could be?" one young police officer asked.

"Can't have been all that new, even when it was being used by the terrorists," MacGill muttered. "Very few people used radios even back then, because of how telecommunication was evolving. Cell phones had only just started becoming popular; maybe Hans felt more comfortable using a more old-fashioned device. I doubt cell phones were above his pay grade."

"Ah."

As they were hard at work, they almost did not notice a young man that had wandered over to watch. His hair was dark brown and parted neatly in the middle, albeit with tell-tale traces of oiliness and scruffiness, as though he'd put in less effort than usual into maintaining his appearance than usual. His clothes were in a similar manner, carefully chosen but slightly rumpled, and his tie was ever-so-slightly askew. He stood in silence for a long time, his arms folded across his chest as his beady eyes roved around the surrounding area with a calculating look, an amused half-smile playing on his thin lips.

"How can we help you?" a policeman finally asked, seeing the man wasn't about to bugger off any time soon.

"You're trying to find out what happened to Nakatomi Plaza." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, it's been giving us a bit of trouble," the policeman, Matthew, admitted. "Now-"

"You needn't fill me in on the details; I happen to know more about this building than one might think," he interrupted, noticing how he had piqued the officers' interest. "Not to mention you can gain more information from me than from digging through this pile of scrap metal."

"And what do you know?" MacGill asked, sceptically.

"I know how and why it got blown up. And I also know how my father managed to escape, successfully hoodwinking the police into believing him dead."

MacGill stared at him. The fact that Hans Gruber had survived was new to him, but... "Hold on boy, did you just say-?"

"Yes, sir," the man replied, calmly. "Hans Gruber is my biological father."

MacGill stared at the lad, looking for any body language cues that might give any hint of something ranging between a childish joke to a sinister plot. However, either this man was a master at lying, or he was sincere. And judging by the twinge of a German accent that made its way into his speech every now and then, as well as the tell-tale velvety drawl that was rumoured to be a characteristic of the males in the Gruber family lineage, it was more likely the latter. MacGill scoffed inwardly the moment this thought entered his mind, however. A sincere Gruber? There was a higher likelihood of hell freezing over.

"You are unable to arrest my father, he was killed ten years ago," the man continued, misinterpreting MacGill's piercing look. "He is buried at the church near his hometown, if you want to have a look."

"Hold on, lad," MacGill said, "How can we be so sure you aren't lying through your teeth? I've seen plenty of that in my time, believe you me. If your father and uncle were anything to go by-"

"Shall we take him up to the station, sir?" one officer asked, putting an end to the argument.

"Yes, and be quick about it. If he is lying, this will be one big lesson to learn," MacGill said seriously.

"Most knew my father as a thief and a murderer," the boy, who'd introduced himself as Friedrich Alexander Gruber, said. "He was cold, calculating and fiercely dedicated to what he referred to as the 'noble craft of thievery'."

MacGill and the other police officers exchanged bored looks that evidently said, Just why did we decide to waste our time on this?

"Look, this is all very touching and all," an older policeman said sarcastically, "but what the hell has this got to do with how the Nakatomi Heist happened, or how that building ended up in ruins seconds after the helicopters landed?"

"It has everything to do with it, sir," the boy replied. "His childhood, his past, made him the terrorist and thief everyone would remember him for. To understand his motives for breaking into Nakatomi Plaza, to understand why he did the things he did, you need to understand him."

If Friedrich turned out to be lying, he would be forced to pay a hefty fine for wasting police time. However, if the boy's story proved true, Ewan MacGill could get much further in this investigation of Nakatomi Plaza than he ever could have dreamed.

He tersely nodded. "Go on."

Friedrich Alexander Gruber took a sip of water out of a glass that was sitting on the desk, and began his story.