Rick Mofina - Free Fall

“Of course.”

“We have fifteen deaths and nearly one hundred injured passengers and crew. Let me emphasize to you that our responsibility as investigators is to determine what caused this disaster. To do so we’ll focus on indisputable evidence, not speculation and wild claims.” He held Kate in his gaze until it was nearly uncomfortable, then shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must leave.”

For several moments after Talal Nasser left, Kate sat quietly, digesting the enormity of what had just been revealed to her.

She had just landed one of the biggest stories in the world.

After ordering a coffee, she collected her thoughts, then began writing an exclusive on the link between the tragedy of Shikra Airlines Flight 418 in London and the terrifying EastCloud flight in New York. To protect Nasser, she was careful to leave out references to sources connected to Kuwait, or specifics about an email.

Investigators are assessing the emergence of a thread common to both ill-fated flights, Newslead has learned…

Kate then pulled in all the current background, public, on-the-record statements from the airlines and investigative agencies. Upon completing her piece, she sent it to New York.

“Here is good,” Kate told her cabdriver.

Shops and businesses stood on both sides of the street of the commercial section, a few blocks from Kate’s hotel in Earls Court.

It was late afternoon as she returned from meeting Nasser. She was hungry and pumped about her story, but a bit concerned.

Why am I not getting any feedback on it from New York?

She entered the Six Bells Pub, let her eyes adjust to the dim light and found a small booth. After ordering fish and chips and a Coke, she took in the two large TV screens above the bar. One was tuned to soccer, the other to a news channel. Kate checked her phone; still nothing from Newslead, so she texted Grace.

Miss you like crazy, sweetie.

She then sent messages to Vanessa and Nancy just before her order arrived. The plate was heaping, the food was good, and she’d managed to eat half when her phone rang with a call from Chuck Laneer.

“Great story, Kate, but we can’t use it.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not there yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘We’re not there yet’? We have the link. It’s why you sent me here. Chuck, it’s a world exclusive.”

“I know, but we have to nail it down. We need on-the-record confirmation on the link.”

“But we can confirm this. We received the first email. We know that’s a fact. We know both jets have the same RT fly-by-wire systems and I trust my source on the threat the Kuwaitis received.”

“Do you? Did you see that email?”

“No.”

“Do you know exactly what it says? Do you know what language it’s written in?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it exists?”

She had nothing to say. Chuck was right.

“Kate,” he said, “we need to be on the money. We can’t be wrong with so much at stake. Remember your journalism history. News outlets thought they’d identified the Boston bombers and they were wrong. One of the networks based a story critical of President Bush’s military service on false records someone supplied them and they were wrong. The press identified a security guard as the Atlanta Olympic bomber, and they were wrong. Before that, Chicago news agencies identified a Middle Eastern man as the suspect in the Oklahoma City bombing and they were wrong. We cannot risk damaging our credibility on what is a global story.”

Silence passed between them.

“Kate, you’ve done good work. I’ll weave some of your story with the copy we’ve got coming out of London and give you a byline. But we’re not touching the link until you have it nailed. You’re on the right track. You just need to take it the rest of the way. All right?”

She didn’t respond, her disappointment registering in the silence.

“All right, Kate?” Chuck repeated.

“Sure.”

After the call, defeat and fatigue washed over her. To tend to her despair, she moved to the bar, ordered a tea and stared at the TV. For the next few hours, as the bar filled, she struggled to rescue her work. She put in a call to Nick Varner at the FBI and got his voice mail, but didn’t leave a message. She texted him but he didn’t respond.

Soon she saw the Newslead stories filed from London, including one with her byline. It was straightforward with nothing about the link, and she felt another stab of failure.

“Allo, what’s this?” A red-faced man in about his late forties, thick curly hair mussed, tied loosened, a beer in his hand, stood next to Kate, smiling. “Aye been watching you. You’re lookin’ dreadfully forlorn for such a pretty bird. My name’s Dick. Can I be of service?”

Kate looked at him and grinned.

“Why yes, Dick, you can.”

“You name it. Anything you want, luv.” He smiled back.

“I want you to piss off.”

Dick’s smile vanished. He turned, cursing her as he staggered off.

Kate shook her head and stared at the TV. News reports showed footage of victims of the Heathrow crash in body bags, or covered with tarps, then cut to relatives in London and Kuwait. The agony in their faces was unbearable.

Never, ever, forget what this is really about .

Kate whispered a prayer for them, paid her bill and left.

The sun had set but it was not yet full night as she walked to her hotel. Parked cars lined the quiet street. At one point a shout echoed, and Kate turned, thinking she saw a distant shadow behind her.

Is it that drunk from the bar?

She reached into her bag and checked the address for her hotel. It wasn’t far. She crossed the street between parked cars and picked up her pace. She felt relieved a few minutes later when she entered the lobby and took the elevator to her floor.

That was crazy .

She was tired and began to undress for bed when a tiny knot of unease tightened in her stomach.

That’s strange .

Earlier, she’d unpacked a sweater and set it on the seat of the desk chair, atop a file folder that held story clips and NTSB reports. Now the sweater was draped over the chair’s backrest and the pages were peeking from the folder.

I don’t remember doing that.

She looked at her suitcase in the corner. It had been moved slightly, as well.

That’s not how I left it.

She blinked, thinking back to the moment before she’d left the room for her meeting at Heathrow. Something was amiss. Seconds later the phone was in her hand.

“Front desk, how may I assist you?”

“Kate Page in three twenty. Was there service in my room today?”

Kate heard the clicking of a keyboard.

“Checking for you… Nothing showing. Do you require service?”

“No, thanks. But can you tell me if anyone was in my room? Maintenance? Any staff for any reason?”

More clicking on the keyboard, then the clerk said, “One moment.” Kate was put on hold to Elton John singing “Tiny Dancer.” Then the clerk came back. “We have no indication that anyone was in your room. Is there a problem, Ms. Page?”

Kate hesitated.

“No. Thank you.”

Exhaustion from the flight, as well as the stresses and challenges of the story, pushed down hard on her as she got undressed.

Maybe it’s all in my head?

She reached for her phone, looked at news footage of the Shikra crash, then fell asleep with questions unanswered and mysteries unresolved.

Manhattan, New York

Deep inside the FBI’s New York Field Office at 26 Federal Plaza in Lower Manhattan, Special Agent Nick Varner headed for the Cyber Crimes floor with guilt flickering in the back of his mind.