Free Fall (25 page)

Fifty-Six

Boston, Massachusetts

R
achel Rinchley twisted and untwisted the strap of her briefcase as she rode the T from MIT to the downtown City Hall stop.

Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I shouldn't be doing this.

She questioned herself repeatedly while standing across the street from the nine-story, crescent-shaped complex known as Center Plaza.

No, I have to tell them. They have to know.

Rachel entered One Center Plaza, passed through security, clipped on her visitor badge and went to the sixth floor, the location of the FBI's Boston Field Office.

She waited in the reception area until the agent she'd spoken with earlier on the phone, Kay Howard, came out and took her to a quiet office.

“We appreciate your coming downtown, Ms. Rinchley. What's the important information you wanted to share with the FBI?”

Rachel withdrew her copy of Veyda Hyde's troubling doctoral paper, passed it to Agent Howard, then proceeded to tell her why she was convinced that Veyda was the author of the Zarathustra emails.

“She's brilliant,” Rachel began. “She used to be known as Veyda Cole, and she was originally researching aircraft systems engineering, computational engineering, controls, communications and networks, until her mother was killed...”

Fifty-Seven

Ottawa, Canada

I
n downtown Ottawa Tucker Ollenck rubbed his reddened eyes.

He hadn't slept since he'd read the news story online about the FBI's search for the people behind the Zarathustra emails in connection with that plane crash in London.

He knew exactly who that was. Problem was, he wasn't sure if he should alert the FBI.

He went to the window of his fifteenth-floor office in the Canadian capital, where he worked with a global IT firm, and stared at the Peace Tower for an answer to his dilemma. After a long, troubled moment, he returned to his desk, went to the FBI's website for the New York Field Office.

He scrawled the number on yellow note paper.

He rolled down his sleeves, slid on his jacket and told the office manager that he was taking an early lunch.

Tucker walked east across the Mackenzie King Bridge, over the canal to the Rideau Centre, the major downtown mall. He bought a disposable phone and a prepaid card. Then he went back outside to the bridge, and while gazing upon the canal toward the castle-like spires of the Chateau Laurier Hotel, he made an anonymous call to the FBI in New York.

After a few general questions he was put on hold.

Several moments passed, and he was connected.

“FBI, Agent Brock.”

“Sir, I've got information about your search for Zarathustra.”

“Go ahead.”

“I don't want to give you my identity.”

“That's fine. Go ahead.”

“I went to Stanford and became good friends with Seth Hagen. The guy's a computer engineering legend. He made a fortune developing video game systems, but he became something of a social recluse, said he didn't really like people.”

“Okay...”

“He sort of dropped off the grid, but I kept in touch. I think I was one of the few people he talked to. Then he surprised me when he said he'd met this girl, Veyda, online. Seth never praised anyone, but he told me how she had a brilliant mind and he was in love. She was attending MIT, but dropped out. He said her paper about some wild theory on the philosophies of Hegel and Nietzsche had blown him away.

“He let me read it before I had dinner with them when I was in Washington, DC. I'll never forget it. The paper was chilling. It supported killing people to advance society. I got such a weird vibe off Veyda. The woman struck me as being even smarter than Seth, but very, very scary.”

“Scary how?”

“Her eyes. It was like she was dead inside. I honestly thought they had both lost their minds the way they were talking about extraordinary people, free will, the right to commit crimes without conscience. It was all kind of disturbing.”

“Do you have a surname for the woman?”

“The woman's name is Veyda Hyde. The email excerpts could've been pulled from her paper. I swear that's her. Moreover, she was studying aircraft computer systems at MIT. See, it all fits.”

“What else can you tell us?”

“The last I heard, they were living at Seth's place in Hyattsville, Maryland. I'll give you the address.”

Fifty-Eight

Denver, Colorado

V
eyda was behind the wheel of their rented Ford Escape.

Seth consulted the dash-mounted GPS while studying the storefronts as they rolled along Colfax Avenue.

They drove through menacing sections of the city with vacant lots bordered with wire fencing, abandoned buildings laced with graffiti and fortresslike liquor stores. But those areas eventually gave way to cafés, renovated businesses and new townhomes where Colfax Avenue had cleaned up.

They were taking the next critical step in their plan—a quick meeting and transaction with a man named Nash.

Before they'd boarded their flight to Colorado in Washington, Seth had hustled to work out the details for what they needed.

We did a lot of volunteer outreach at school, like computer seminars in federal and state prisons,
Seth had told Veyda, while sending off messages in preboarding.
The aim was to help them stay abreast technologically for when they were released. I kept in touch with a few guys, because you never know when you might need their expertise. Here, I just got a response. A friend has arranged for a contact in Denver to help us get what we need. His name is Nash. Details to follow. We're good, babe.

But now that they were here, they hadn't heard a word from Nash. And driving up and down the same blocks of Colfax was making Veyda uneasy.

Seth had done some exceptional work sending the Zarathustra emails through her father's computer, making his address in Clear River, North Dakota, appear to be the source point for Zarathustra. But with each passing minute, the video her father had put out was getting more hits and tweets. It lacked details, but sooner or later the police were going to be alerted to it. And that story Kate Page had written asking for people to contact the FBI could be problematic.

Veyda glanced at the time and bit her bottom lip while assessing the facts in their favor. They were so far along, so advanced in completing their plan, that the chances of anyone getting close enough to stop them in time were nonexistent.

Still, she kept an eye out for patrol cars.

“You're sure this is the right time and place?”

“Positive,” Seth said. “Nash said to be in this area and he'd text me. There! Down the block on the corner. There he is, the guy in the checkered shirt. Pull over.”

Seth dropped his window and Nash stepped up to it.

He was in his early forties. He wore a lumberjack shirt over a white T-shirt and jeans. He was of medium build, had thin blond hair and a face ravaged by acne. He was holding a paper bag from a fast-food outlet.

“Are you Nash, Blade's friend?”

He nodded. “You Seth?”

“Yeah, and this is Veyda. Get in.”

Nash climbed into the backseat.

“Have you got it?” Seth asked.

“I got it. Pull into the parking lot behind them golden arches up there.”

Veyda drove to a far corner of the lot and parked. Seth got in the back. Nash withdrew a handgun from the bag and passed it to Seth.

“This is a forty-caliber pistol, very powerful. It's unloaded. Here.” Nash tapped the gun. “This is the safety.” He made it click. “See? This way—on. This way—off. Got it?”

Seth nodded.

Nash reached into the bag.

“Here's a magazine. I'm giving you three.” He took the gun from Seth. “Slide the magazine in like this.” It clicked. “Press here to release it and it drops like this.” Nash demonstrated. “Try it.”

Seth completed the action a few times.

“Good,” Nash said. “Here's the chamber indicator to tell you a round is in the chamber ready for firing. So all you do is load the magazine, check the indicator, turn off the safety and fire. Got it?”

Seth nodded, tried the process a few times. Then he unloaded the gun, activated the safety and put everything in the bag.

“One thousand cash.” Nash held out his hand.

“I was told it would be five hundred.”

“One thousand, or no deal.”

“Is the gun untraceable?”

“It is and I don't want to know why you want it. I don't give a rat's ass what you're up to. Do we understand each other?”

“Perfectly.”

Seth reached into his pocket and peeled at a roll of bills, putting most of them in Nash's hand.

“It's all there.”

“Good,” Nash said. “Our business is done.”

After Nash got out and walked away, Seth got into the front and put the bag under the seat.

“That was smooth, Seth.”

“Very smooth, and we've got plenty of time to get to our point and set up. We have our insurance. We're ready for all scenarios. We're going to do this.”

“Nothing's in our way now.” Veyda reached out, taking his hand in hers. “Nothing's going to stop us.”

Fifty-Nine

Manhattan, New York

T
he boardroom windows at the FBI's New York Field Office opened to a view of the Brooklyn Bridge and a jetliner on its approach to LaGuardia.

No one at the table was looking.

Agents were studying a one-page synopsis.

Developments were popping in the Zarathustra investigation. The credibility of a link to the Shikra Airlines crash at Heathrow and the incident with the EastCloud Flight 4990 was growing stronger with each passing moment.

Gil Morillo, assistant special agent in charge, chaired the briefing.

He made a quick roll call of those in the room and the people whose voices echoed through the speakers of the teleconference line. They included brass from the deputy director's office and the FBI's National Security and Criminal Cyber Response Branches at national headquarters in Washington. Nick Varner was on the line from the resident agency office in Williston, North Dakota, along with agents in offices across the country.

“Let's get to it, people,” Morillo said. “First, we'll be taking part in another multiagency briefing with the FAA, the NTSB, the Transportation Security Administration, Homeland Security and the US Air Force shortly after this call.”

Murmurs at the growing magnitude of the case rose around the table as Morillo continued.

“Okay, you've got the summaries. We've had some solid leads from tips called in. We've been expediting warrants and moving quickly. You have updated biographies on our persons of interest—Seth Simon Hagen, Robert James Cole and his daughter, Veyda Charlotte Cole, aka Veyda Hyde. Nick, can you update us regarding Clear River?”

“We're still processing the evidence found at Cole's residence, all of it related to flight systems. We've determined he boarded a flight at Bismarck to Minneapolis ending in Washington, DC.”

“What's the status from the Washington office on locating him?” Morillo asked.

“Negative so far,” Agent Harold Davenport responded. “He flew to Washington before becoming a subject. We've talked to American Airlines and the TSA. We're working with local agencies here to locate him or determine if he's taken another flight or mode of transportation.”

“Baltimore,” Morillo said, “what do you have?”

“We've executed warrants on the Hyattsville residence and on Hagen and Hyde,” Agent Allyson Meeson said. “We're still assessing evidence from the house, which includes documents concerning flight operations and systems. We've just determined that our subjects flew from National in DC to Denver International. We've alerted the Denver office. Mitch, over to you.”

“Right,” said Agent Mitchell Butler in Denver. “Our subjects rented a Ford Escape at the airport. The rental agency confirms two people at the counter. We're now in the process of obtaining warrants to track the rental vehicle's location through its GPS and other devices.”

“Okay,” Morillo said. “Nick, can you get on a plane to Denver ASAP and support the office in locating Hagen and Cole?”

“Will do.”

“Gil, it's Mary Ritter with the deputy director's office at headquarters.”

“Go ahead, Mary.”

“A few questions before I brief the deputy, who'll be briefing the director. Have we determined if a clear threat exists on a specific aircraft or flight?”

“Not at this time,” Morillo said.

“And what is the FBI's assessment of a threat at this time?”

“Given events, the facts and evidence known so far, and the expertise of the people involved, we feel a very credible threat is evolving. Our priority is to locate and question the three people we've identified as potential suspects.”

“Thanks, Gil,” Ritter said. “This will top the director's agenda before he heads into his daily national security meeting with the White House.”

Sixty

Washington, DC

T
he memo from the NTSB chairman was urgent and terse.

All staff listed were to cooperate immediately and fully with the FBI in its criminal investigation into the emails linked to events concerning Shikra Airlines Flight 418 and EastCloud Flight 4990.

Jake Hooper's name was on the list.

He read it a third time, shuddering in disbelief. The memo validated the rumors going around the floor about incredible developments in the cases.

The FBI had found the source of the emails; the FBI had evidence pointing to interference with the flights; the FBI had suspects with a connection to the NTSB; there was a puzzling video posted by Robert Cole; the White House was involved.
Finally, the rumors had turned to fact. FBI agents were here now, questioning people in Major Investigations Division.

“Jake?”

Hooper saw Anson Fox, his supervisor, at his door.

“The FBI's waiting to talk to you in Six Hundred D. Take nothing.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“No, they need information, and they need it fast. Let's go.”

In the room down the hall, agents Len Brock and Deacon Palmer waited on one side of the table for Hooper. They began by taking Hooper's information from his driver's license, then they showed him a photograph of Robert Cole and the short video he'd posted.

“Can you identify this man?” Brock asked.

Hooper said nothing.

“Mr. Hooper, can you identify this man?”

“Sorry, this is all— It's disturbing. Yes, that's Robert Cole. I've worked with him on several investigations.”

Then they showed him photos of Veyda and Seth Hagen.

“I don't know them,” he said.

“Can you tell us where Robert Cole is?”

“He lives in North Dakota.”

“Do you know his location at this moment?”

“No.”

“You say you worked with him. When did you last see him?”

“At his wife's funeral. That was a long while ago.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

“About four or five months ago.”

“By phone or email?”

“Over the phone.”

“What was the nature of the conversation?”

“How he was doing. He also offered his insights into investigations. After that, he called and offered his views on every ongoing aircraft investigation we had going. He was drinking heavily and not coping well. It got so I didn't respond. I felt bad. He left me messages in the wake of the incidents with the EastCloud and Shikra flights.”

“What did they concern?”

“I don't know. His last one was a voice message. He was drunk, incoherent. I deleted it. It was tragic because he was a brilliant engineer and he ended up a broken man. I think he called to offer help because he wants to redeem himself for the guilt he carries for his wife's death.”

“Do you think he's capable of remotely interfering with commercial aircraft, like the flights in this case?”

“Yes and no.”

“Explain that.”

“He helped design Richlon-Titan's fly-by-wire system and he worked on Project Overlord, the technology promised by the president after 9/11. You know about Overlord, right?”

The agents nodded.

“Well, if anyone would know how to attack a jetliner's controls remotely, Robert Cole would. So yes, he has the expertise. But I don't believe he has it in his heart to commit such an act, even with his personal problems. The man I knew was dedicated to safety.”

The FBI agents exchanged a look then tapped Veyda's photo.

“What about his daughter? MIT told us she has one of the highest IQs in the country. She was studying flight systems engineering. Is she capable? What's the meaning of Robert Cole's video plea to her?”

Hooper looked at Veyda's embittered expression. Her eyes were pools of sadness and rage.

“I don't know.”

“Mr. Hooper, we want you to alert us should Robert Cole, or Veyda, or Seth Hagen, contact you.”

“I will.”

“As a precaution, we're going to execute warrants on your phone and all devices to monitor them.”

* * *

After his interview, Hooper left the room and passed Bill Cashill's office. The door was open and the man invited him in.

Cashill stared at his computer monitor, his face ashen.

“You just spoke to the FBI?” Cashill asked, keeping his eyes on his screen.

“Yes. Did you talk to them?”

Cashill nodded without looking at Hooper: “So you're vindicated, Jake.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was looking at conventional causes in both flights. I focused on them because of my years in the business. I'm a linear thinker. I wasn't open-minded enough to even consider the possibility of a remote cyber breach of both planes. You were. For me it was out of the realm of possibility.”

Hooper stepped in and closed the door.

“Bill, no one in the world could've suspected Cole, his daughter and this other suspect, whoever he is—”

“Boyfriend, according to the FBI agents who questioned me. Seth Hagen's her boyfriend, and some sort of computer wizard, too. The three of them are good if they're able to override the system. I mean, they just left us in the dust, except for you.”

“Bill, we should urge Richlon-Titan to ground everything with an RT system now. We should issue an alert, get the FAA to put out an airworthiness directive.”

Cashill dragged his hands over his face.

“I've been yanked off the EastCloud and Shikra investigations.”

“What?”

“People are protecting themselves. This is moving fast up the chain. Reed Devlin's taking over as the IIC. He's with the chairman and the board right now. The chairman will take part in a national security meeting with the White House, the Joint Chiefs and the whole gang later today to assess the situation and give direction on the response to it.”

Hooper leaned back and his shoulders thudded against the door. His mind raced with regret at not responding to Robert Cole's messages.

Could all of this, the deaths, the danger and the fear, have been prevented if I'd talked to Cole when he called me?