The rain had cleared by dawn, leaving Manhattan scrubbed in a brittle, cold sunlight. From the penthouse balcony, the city below looked like an oversized chessboard—and for the first time in three years, I was playing as the Queen rather than a pawn.

At nine in the m

Port Newark at midnight was a graveyard of industrial steel, bathed in the sickly, jaundiced glare of towering sodium floodlights. A thick, freezing fog rolled off the dark, oily waters of the bay, wrapping around the massive shipping cranes like shroud linen. The air

Two days after the failed raid at Port Newark, a silent, heavy snowstorm enveloped the city of Montreal.

High above the freezing streets, in a luxury penthouse suite located in the prestigious Golden Square Mile, Jean-Luc Moreau sat behind a massive desk of poli