Rick Mofina - Free Fall

It struck her that Munro Carlson could’ve been the mystery friend Erich had referred to. She sent Erich a quick message, then called Chuck in New York, who listened intently to her update.

“Good work,” he said. “We need verification on all fronts. Can you scan the documents?”

“There are too many.”

“Okay, then photocopy them and Fed-Ex them overnight to me here, and to Tim Yardley in DC. Make sure you watch the copies being made so nothing goes astray.”

“Isn’t this risky?”

“Yes, but we don’t have many options. I’ll get Yardley to study the records, to push his national security sources on Overlord, Cole and this Munro Carlson. I’ll get Hugh Davidson to do the same here. Verification is critical on all fronts. You know what to do, Kate.”

She set out to search for Robert Cole when she got a message from Munro Carlson with a link.

This just went up on YouTube-check it out. This guy really looks like Robert Cole. You’ve got to look into it.

Kate couldn’t believe it.

What’s going on? Is this really Cole? What’s at stake here? I’ve got to find him.

She took a breath and worked with renewed urgency.

There were too many R. Coles in California, let alone the thousands across the country, for her to search for him alone. She studied Cole’s face in the group photos in the documents and estimated an age range, then called the legal documents and public records agency Newslead used and got them to search for property and court records. Given that Richlon-Titan’s headquarters was in Burbank, she reasoned that Robert Cole lived there and had asked for a search of the vicinity. If that failed, they could expand it to the surrounding communities of Glendale, North Hollywood, Toluca Lake and Griffith Park.

Their food came and they ate as Devon showed Kate the images he’d taken of Carlson. They looked good. By the time they’d finished eating, the records agency had called with an address in Burbank for Robert Cole, previously employed at Richlon-Titan.

Devon pushed his Jeep hard westbound on the 210 Freeway. During the one-hour drive, the agency also sent Kate court records concerning Robert Cole’s vehicular manslaughter case in the death of his wife, Elizabeth, and injury of his daughter, Veyda.

Veyda. That’s the person the man in the video is addressing. So that’s got to be Cole in the video. What’s Veyda’s role here?

Kate resumed studying the case.

“This is so tragic,” she said to Devon while reading the documents as greater LA flowed by.

The Cole residence was in Burbank’s Hillside District, on a tranquil street. It was of mixed style, a ranch bungalow with a touch of Spanish influence-a low, broad house with stucco walls and a red-tiled roof.

A man in his late twenties came to the door.

“Kate Page, from New York. We’re looking for Mr. Robert Cole or his daughter, Veyda.”

The man shook his head.

“Nobody here by that name, sorry.” He scratched his head. “Wait. I think that’s who used to own this house before my mom and dad bought it.”

“Did Mr. Cole leave a forwarding address?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Could we talk to your parents?”

“They’re in Europe on vacation.”

“Could you send them a text?”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s an urgent business matter and we need to reach Mr. Cole.”

The man pulled his phone from his back pocket and typed.

“I think they’re in Dublin. Not sure what time it is there.” After sending the message, he looked closer at Kate and Devon. “Who’re you with?”

“Newslead, the newswire service. We’d like to reach Mr. Cole confidentially. It’s very important.”

“This has got nothing to do with my folks, right?”

“Just Mr. Cole.”

A chime sounded on the man’s phone and he read the message.

“Dad says he doesn’t have an address but thinks that Cole moved to Idaho or Wyoming, some place like that. Maybe even Canada. Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

Kate and Devon tried a few other neighboring doors but it was futile. No one knew where Robert Cole had moved to.

“Let’s try Richlon-Titan.”

Richlon-Titan’s world headquarters was in a ten-story glass building. Its dark blue mirrored windows reflected palms and the blue California sky.

“Kate Page, from Newslead.” She placed her card on the reception desk. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hub Wolfeson on an urgent matter.”

The receptionist’s eyebrows rose a bit.

“Mr. Wolfeson? Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but he should know who I am and it’s urgent. Tell him it concerns Robert Cole, Overlord, and the recent aircraft incidents in London and New York involving RT systems.”

The receptionist jotted a few notes. “Please, have a seat.”

Kate joined Devon at a marbled wall of water. Next to it were huge portraits of RT airliners. Two minutes became five, then fifteen.

Kate tapped her notebook on her leg.

Wolfeson should indeed be familiar with her name, given all the crap with his nephew, Sloane F. Parkman. She hoped her unannounced visit made him nervous. Heels clicked on the polished floor and she turned.

“Ms. Page?”

A woman about Kate’s age in a power suit and flawless makeup arrived.

“Shannon Bree, executive director of public affairs.” She had an Australian accent. She didn’t extend her hand. She was using both hands to hold a single piece of folded paper. “I’m afraid Mr. Wolfeson is unavailable. He’s in Vienna.”

“Well, I have questions on a number of urgent matters.”

“Yes, we’re quite aware of your reporting and I’m afraid given the circumstances of the ongoing investigations we can’t comment. We do express our condolences to the families involved and we underscore that we’re cooperating fully with officials in the United States and the UK. The safety of the flying public is our paramount concern.”

“I have questions about Robert Cole and Overlord.”

“Yes, but for privacy reasons we cannot comment on former employees or their past activities. I’m sure you understand. It’s all here in our formal statement for you.” Bree handed Kate the paper on RT letterhead, which echoed what she’d said. Then she offered a gleaming, officious smile.

“You made our cutoff by a whisker,” the Fed-Ex agent said after accepting Kate’s packages for Washington and New York.

After she’d shipped the documents, Devon dropped her at the hotel, where Kate kept working. She called Chuck and vented her frustration over not finding Robert Cole or confirming much more on Overlord.

“Did Tim or Hugh have any luck?”

“Not much. But don’t worry about it. The trip’s paid off,” Chuck said. “We have a good foundation. You can pick it up when you get back to New York tomorrow.”

Kate then called home and spoke with Grace, Vanessa and Nancy. Hearing their voices lifted her spirits. Afterward she took a hot shower then pored over the Project Overlord records. Much of it was technical.

Kate shifted her focus to read Robert Cole’s court records on her phone, this time more carefully. Dear Lord, this is so tragic . After absorbing the details on Elizabeth Cole’s death, Kate had to struggle to shove away the images of her own tragic car crash. She forced herself to keep reading. She paused when she came to sections concerning Robert Cole’s daughter, Veyda, to replay her father’s video plea, then resumed studying the records. Veyda was a doctoral candidate at MIT where she was working on aircraft systems engineering.

Veyda was following in her dad’s footsteps. She’d know where her father was; maybe she’d know about Overlord, too. But Robert Cole’s words from the video echoed in her mind: Whatever you’re doing or thinking of doing, please stop… I’m begging you… Kate went online to try to find an email or some way to reach Veyda Cole.