Authors: Rick Mofina
Twenty-Three
London, England
T
he British Airways 747 lifted off from JFK and the lights of greater New York City twinkled below.
As the big jet blasted upward, Kate's stomach fluttered, and she pressed her head back into her seat and blinked at the ceiling.
How long can I keep doing this?
It felt like her life was moving as fast as the jet. It was not that long ago when she'd overheard Flight 4990's dispatches on the emergency scanner and now she was bound for London at five hundred and fifty miles per hour. She'd already been working long days on this story but the look on Grace's face when she'd told her she had to leave had broken her heart.
Oh no, Mom, we're supposed to go to the zoo and the park.
I know, sweetie, but it's only for a few days. We'll go when I get back. I promise.
And
then
can we shop for my shoes?
Grace knew how to negotiate, especially since she had leverage, given that Kate had been a preoccupied, absent parent.
We'll see when I get back.
The jet climbed as Kate looked at her phone and traced her fingers over Grace's photo. In her years with Newslead, Kate had traveled on assignments across the United States, to Canada, Africa, Australia, the Caribbean and Europe. Being a reporter was in her DNA; it was who she was and how she'd made a life for herself. She was good at it. But the leaving part never got easier. In fact, it was getting harder and harder for her to take these trips. Kate was fortunate to have a friend like Nancy Clark, a retired nurse who lived alone on the floor above them. Nancy was like family, always ready and happy to look after Grace whenever she could. And now Kate had Vanessa.
I'm truly blessed to have them all in my life
.
The jet leveled. Kate lowered her tray, switched on her laptop and reviewed her files. She began making notes on what she needed to do. One person she counted on for help was her friend Betty Yang. They'd worked together at the
San Francisco Star
before Betty had taken a job at the
Chronicle
, then moved to Kuwait, where she'd started a magazine for American expats living in the Gulf. Betty's father had been a diplomat. She'd grown up in the region and had a network of connections. Kate had kept in touch with Betty, and had reached out to her for help on the crash of the Kuwaiti jet at Heathrow.
But so far, she'd heard nothing.
Somewhere over Nova Scotia, Kate grew drowsy and yawned. The only available seat Newslead had been able to secure was on this later, overnight flight, which was due to land the next morning at 8:00 a.m. local time in London. Most passengers slept through it, and before they'd lifted off, Kate had swallowed two sleeping pills to ensure she'd be rested when she arrived.
The pills were working.
She shut off her laptop, snuggled under her blanket, gazed at the stars and fell asleep.
* * *
Kate was shaken awake.
The plane bumped like a pickup truck crossing a farmer's field. As wisps of memory assembled in her brain, a chime sounded.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. Our apologies for this rough patchâwe've come upon some turbulence in our descent into Heathrow. Please remain in your seats with your belts secure, and we'll endeavor to get around it. We should have you at the gate in thirty minutes' time.”
Loud plastic creaking and crackling sounded from the overhead storage bins. The plane continued shaking and thudding. Some passengers gasped. Kate had no fear of flying but when she raised her window blind to the morning sun bathing the outskirts of London, she thought of the irony of her situation: a rough ride on a jetliner landing at the airport where one had crashed belowâthe very tragedy she was covering.
The turbulence ended some twenty minutes from landing and Kate watched the great city flow under her. As they began their approach for Heathrow's northern runway, which had remained open, the passengers became silent, almost reverent.
Runway 27L, the southern runway, was dotted with emergency vehicles; their lights flashed, and tarps covered the pieces of the Starglide Blue Wing 250 where Shikra Airlines Flight 418 had crashed. The impact tracks at the runway's threshold looked as if monstrous talons had clawed savagely into the earth to mark the tragedy.
Kate took a breath, let it out slowly and sat back in her seat as the 747 touched down to light applause for its soft, easy landing.
At Heathrow, a young British customs officer allowed Kate smooth entry into the country. She collected her bag and freshened up in a restroom. On her way to the transportation area, she passed a newsstand and the headlines of some of Britain's major national papers. The
Telegraph
: “Death Toll Rises to 15. What Caused Heathrow Tragedy?”
The Times
: “Heathrow Toll Now at 15 Dead. Investigation Searches for Answers.” And the
Daily Mail
: “Why Did They Die? 15 Killed in Kuwait Air Disaster at Heathrow.”
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 meâlet 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?”
“I think so.”
Twenty-Four
London, England
T
he graceful curved-glass facade of the St. Rose's Gate Hotel reflected the sky and a jetliner lifting off when Kate's taxi stopped at the entrance.
St. Rose's was among the new airport hotels clustered around Heathrow. The front driveway was hectic with shuttles, taxis and buses for travelers coming and going. Kate scanned the parking lot, relieved she didn't see any news vehicles.
I need this to work. This is my only shot.
Betty had told her that engineers from Shikra Airlines and experts from Kuwait's Aviation Safety Department, the ASD, who were part of the investigation into the crash, were staying at St. Rose's. Betty, apologetic for taking so long to get back to Kate, had arranged for one of ASD's investigators to meet Kate privately.
His name is Talal Nasser. He's a friend of mine,
Betty had said.
I had to set this up. That's why it took so long to get back to you.
Thanks, Betty. You're a lifesaver.
I owe you big-time for helping me, Kate. Good luck.
The reception area opened to an inner atrium overlooking a courtyard garden and waterfall. The Kuwaitis were gathered in one of the hotel's fifty meeting rooms, but Betty had instructed Kate to be alone at the bar in the Seven Seas Lounge at 3:00 p.m. to wait for Nasser. Betty had sent him a picture of Kate and he would find her.
Kate was fifteen minutes early. She ordered a Coke and checked her phone for new messages. She had two. The first was from Chuck in New York, where it was midmorning.
How's it going?
I've got a possible lead.
Good, keep us posted.
The second message was from Reeka.
Have you got anything for today for me to list on the story schedule?
Give me a break, Reeka
.
Shaking her head, Kate bit her bottom lip as she typed.
Not yet but I'm working on it.
Kate began reading the latest online reports on the crash. Not much new had surfaced in the British press, and nothing from the Associated Press, Reuters or Bloomberg had linked it to EastCloud.
Kate went back to the warning message.
Your story's good, but it's wrong. What happened to that jet will happen again. I know because I made it happen and unless you announce my triumph, we'll make it happen again. This time it'll be worse. Watch the skies. We are Zarathustra, Lord of the Heavens.
Again, Kate began weighing the factors of the EastCloud flight and the tragedy at Heathrow when a man approached her at the bar. She guessed him to be in his late forties. He had a neatly trimmed beard that accentuated his dark eyes. He was above-average height and wore a well-cut suit that flattered his build. He had a leather-bound binder tucked under one arm.
“Excuse me, are you Kate Page?”
“Yes, I'm Kate Page.”
“Talal Nasser. We have a mutual friend who suggested I talk with you.”
“Yes. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Perhaps we'd be more comfortable over there.” He nodded to a booth that had just become available. Kate reached into her bag to pay her tab. “I've taken care of it,” Nasser said.
“Thank you.”
A moment after they were seated a server appeared.
“Would you like another drink?” Nasser asked.
“Sure.” Then to the server, “I'll have another Coke, please.”
Nasser ordered water. When they were alone they exchanged business cards. He studied Kate's briefly before slipping it inside his pocket.
“I'm here as a courtesy to Betty,” he said. “My father's one of Kuwait's more progressive businessmen. She wrote a nice story on him, and my family considers her a very good friend.”
“I understand.” Kate glanced at his card. “You're a lead technician with the ASD?”
“That's correct, and in meeting with you, I'm violating the protocol for air-accident investigation. Therefore you must never use my name or any information that might identify me. This is strictly confidential.”
“Agreed.”
Nasser glanced at his watch.
“I'm afraid I have little time. We're meeting at AAIB headquarters with the NTSB and other officials, so we should come to the point.”
“May I take notes?”
Nasser nodded.
“What do you suspect is the cause?”
“We're too early into the investigation to know. The crew is in stable condition in the hospital. The AAIB recovered the flight data recorder yesterday.”
“Did you listen to it?”
Nasser nodded.
“Does it give you an indication?”
“It might point to a systems issue or it could be a human factor. It's too soon.”
“Are you aware of a recent incident with EastCloud Flight Forty-nine Ninety from Buffalo to New York City?”
“Yes.”
“It was a Richlon-Titan aircraft with the same fly-by-wire system as the Shikra Blue Wing.”
“We're aware.”
“Will you be looking for a link?”
He hesitated for a moment, rubbing his chin in concentration.
Kate remained silent, waiting for him to answer.
“I shouldn't tell you this,” he said.
Tell me,
Kate thought.
Tell me
.
Nasser looked as if he was reappraising her.
“Betty spoke highly of you. She said you could be trusted to be responsible with sensitive information.”
Kate nodded, inviting him to continue.
“You're aware,” he said, “that the International Civil Aviation Organization encourages countries to share risk advisories and information about threats?”
“Yes, I picked that up in my research.”
“Recently, there was a threat against an aircraft.”
“You're talking about the threat I received at Newslead?”
“We've been advised of that, through the ICAO and the NTSB, but no, I'm talking about a threat that came to us.”
“What?”
“Our embassy here in London received an anonymous email suggesting unspecified harm to an aircraft.”
Kate froze. This was huge.
“Was the Shikra flight targeted?” she asked. “Were there any demands? Can you share a copy?”
“Hold on, please.”
“Was it from Zarathustra? Do you have the details?”
“No, I didn't see it. I was only briefed on it.”
“Was it sent before or after the crash?”
“I believe it was after. But I'm not clear on that.”
“Can you get a copy and share it with me?”
“I don't think that's possible.” He glanced at his watch. “I know it was with Kuwaiti security, who were assessing its credibility with British authorities and the FBI.”
“Do they have any suspects?”
“No, we've not heard anything like that.”
“Isn't the airline industry concerned? Shouldn't you be taking some sort of action or warning the public?”
“We take these matters most seriouslyâsafety is our top priority. But allow me to give you some context. I'm told that the email we received was vague, with no specific details. This kind of threat is not uncommon. Whenever we have details in these matters, such as an implied action against a specific flight, or information that could make a threat more credible, then we take immediate action by alerting the public and investigating. If needed, we'll ground a fleet or halt operations, but that's a major undertaking.”
“But you cannot rule out the possibility that the two emails are linked and that someone may have caused the problems to both flights?”
“That's a dangerous, hypothetical leap, Ms. Page.”
“But you can't rule it out, can you?”
“No, at this stage, nothing can be ruled out.” Nasser leaned forward. “I shared this information with you as background with context. I'm being forthright out of respect for our mutual friend who assured me you could be trusted to handle information with the appropriate sensitivity.”
“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, âWe'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.