Rick Mofina - Free Fall

The dire reports conveyed the magnitude of the story, and once Kate was in a taxi bound for downtown, she began working. She got on her phone, but was disappointed that she’d received no new messages of any significance.

Nothing yet from Betty.

A couple months ago, Kate had helped Betty on a big United Nations scandal involving a Kuwaiti diplomat by tracking him down and privately sharing information with her.

Come on, girl. I need your help, you owe me.

As London rolled by, her stomach knotted from the pressure she was under. She had to go beyond what was already known, to answer the most serious question.

Is the crash at Heathrow tied to the Buffalo flight and the threatening email?

The assignment was not easy.

How am I going to get inside the investigation?

Kate would need help and getting it would be a challenge. As was the case with foreign assignments, journalists at local bureaus were protective of their turf. While they may help, they considered intrusions by people like Kate, parachuted in from headquarters, an affront to their expertise and performance.

Kate sent out more messages, including one to Clive Dromey, a British security consultant and former airline pilot she’d met at a conference in Washington, DC. She’d been in touch with Dromey before she’d left New York. He’d responded to her with the promise that he had solid sources inside the investigation.

Contact me when you get to London, Kate. I’ll help you.

But Dromey still hadn’t gotten back to her. She began following up on other messages and calls she’d placed to other contacts before she’d departed New York.

It took a little under an hour to slice through London’s morning traffic and get to Newslead’s London bureau on Norwich Street.

It was situated in a granite building constructed on the site of a hat factory that had been destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a short walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more financial, business and law offices than news organizations. But Bloomberg, the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were close to Newslead’s bureau, reminding Kate that the competition was always near and that the risk of losing the story increased as time ticked by.

Newslead’s fourth-floor office was classic newsroom décor, largely open with eight desks, each with a monitor and keyboard. It looked empty. Each station was in disarray, with files, newspapers and empty coffee and tea cups. Three large flat-screen TVs were anchored to the far wall and tuned to news channels.

The wall near the reception desk featured enlarged news photos of London during World War Two, royal weddings, Princess Diana’s funeral, Beatlemania, the London subway bombings and others.

The woman at reception was tapping her pen and talking on the phone. She halted her conversation when Kate stood before her.

“Yes, how may I assist you?”

“Kate Page from headquarters in New York. I’m here to see the bureau chief, Noah Heatley, or the deputy, Ethan Clancy.”

“Oh yes, just one moment, please.”

The woman left for a small office and Kate set her bags aside. A moment later a man in his forties, not very tall, average build, stepped forward and shook her hand.

“Noah Heatley. Welcome to London, Kate. Howard Kehoe and Chuck Laneer advised us that you were coming. I trust you had a good flight?”

“A bit of turbulence, but otherwise fine. Have there been any developments?”

“Not much I’m afraid, though we’re expecting official statements of condolences from the prime minister and from the State of Kuwait.”

Kate nodded. “Noah, I was told that you’d have a hotel room, cash and other things for me?”

“All arranged, but let me be clear, Kate. We didn’t request help, and we have things covered on all fronts. As you know, the Air Accidents Investigation Branch, Scotland Yard, the anti-terrorism branch, the International Civil Aviation Organization, the airline, and foreign investigators from Kuwait and the US are all extremely tight-lipped.”

“I know.”

“But most major UK national news outlets are based here in London, making this one of the most competitive cities for news on the planet, and everyone has their sources.”

“I’m aware.”

“Yet you’re here from New York. Chuck Laneer was not entirely clear what it is you’re going to do that we can’t.”

“I’m following a lead we have based on extremely confidential information.”

“Is this the so-called Zarathustra email you’d received?”

Kate hesitated and stared at Heatley.

“Yes, but headquarters had wanted this kept quiet.”

“Reeka Beck told me-let it slip on a call, actually,” Heatley said. “I have to say, that New York would attempt to keep us in the dark about information related to one of the biggest air tragedies in the world is confounding.”

“I’m sorry, Noah.”

“It makes no sense at all. If we’re unaware, we could miss key facts that relate to the story. I’m puzzled by management’s thinking. These internecine wars don’t help morale.”

“I know, but that’s how Graham Lincoln wanted it.”

“Graham Lincoln.” Heatley shook his head. “Most of Newslead’s executives have never been journalists, a fact I find troubling. I think our news agency is due for an overhaul, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, so be it. We’ll still help you in any way we can, Kate.”

“Thank you.”

Heatley searched the top of the reception desk, found an envelope with Kate’s name on it and passed it to her.

“My apologies. Your hotel is not as close to the bureau as we’d hoped, but they have us watching expenses.”

“Thank you.” Kate put the envelope into her bag.

“Call us if there’s anything we can do,” Heatley said. “Good luck.”

Kate caught a taxi at the street corner.

She was frustrated that no one had responded to her messages and continued making calls until her taxi reached her stop. The Regal Oakmont Inn was a townhome hotel, a four-level building attached to other four-level buildings that, together, resembled pretty wedding-cake layers where Penywern Road led to the gentle curves of Eardley Crescent.

Kate’s room was no bigger than a closet. It was on the third floor, overlooking the street. She turned on her laptop and sent out more messages. Then she showered. Afterward, as she unpacked, her anxiety began to grow with her exhaustion, just as her phone chimed with a message. Her spirits rose. It was from Clive Dromey.

This could be the break I need .

Kate. Welcome to London. Hope your flight was uneventful. Unfortunately I must apologize. Everyone involved in the Heathrow crash is understandably silent. None of my people will talk to me. I’m so dreadfully sorry but I’m unable to help you.

Kate’s stomach tightened.

She refused to give up.

Again, she called the Air Accidents Investigation Branch, and this time she was put through to a recording at the press office. She called Scotland Yard and got through to the anti-terrorism branch, but they had nothing to share. She called Shikra Airlines and was read a statement she already had. She called the International Civil Aviation Organization to no avail.

Three hours had passed.

Exhaustion was taking hold and the trip began to smell like failure. Struggling to think of anything she’d overlooked, Kate drifted off. She didn’t know for how long she’d slept when her phone rang and she answered.

“Kate, it’s Betty in Kuwait City.”

“Oh my God! I’m so happy to hear your voice! Betty, can you help me?”