by John Gardner
The two FBI Special Agents were trained in anti-terrorist counterintelligence: Special Agent Eddie Rhabb, a tough, unsmiling, no-nonsense character of few words; and Barney Newhouse, a laid-back Mr Nice Guy.
Looking around the room, Bond thought the people from Boeing, and both the Airline Pilots’ Association Captains, would have all made good field intelligence men for they seemed to disappear into the woodwork and would have had difficulty in catching the eye of a waiter in a restaurant.
Hughes asked Harley Bradbury and his coterie if they wanted to say anything at the start of the briefing, but Bradbury – usually an outgoing man full of charm – asked if he could wait until the end.
Everyone in the room looked, and sounded, shaken by what they had seen out on the airfield, and Hughes started a matter-of-fact general briefing.
‘I want to run over the facts and where we are, at this point in time. As most of you know, we’ve recovered the Flight Data Recorder and the Cockpit Voice Recorder. These are being studied by our people back at Headquarters, and the results will be passed on to the Farnborough team, who will be doing some of the hard work back in the UK.
‘In general terms, we’ve also established the position and type of what appear to be four bombs – not three as we originally thought – which led to the disaster. One was hidden in the starboard lavatory directly behind the flight deck; the second was secreted in the crew station and galley between what is normally the first and business classes. This second device, we think, was linked to a third explosive device below a floor inspection panel in the main cabin; while the last was fairly obvious to anyone who has viewed the tape – in one of the rear lavatories.
‘As for type and method, I’m going to ask Special Agent Rhabb to make some remarks on this.’
Rhabb stood and looked around t letter ‘T’ entwined with an ‘S’.s dyhe room in a somewhat aggressive manner. He reminded Bond of a bull lowering its head before charging. ‘The four sites of detonation were isolated during last night’s examination of the wreckage,’ he began. ‘This was not difficult given Mr Hughes’ team, who were able to map the debris very quickly. We worked under arc lights all through the night, and near the mapped areas we found the remains of at least two solenoids. We were also able to take scrapings from fragments of metal and charred wax paper in the general area of two of the sites. Our laboratories have isolated the type of explosive used. It is not the usual Semtex – international terrorism’s explosive of choice. In fact the explosive used in the front and rear bombs was Comp D – Composition D.’
He paused to look around once more and let the news sink in. ‘Comp D, as most of you are aware, is a product manufactured here in the United States and is not easily accessible. The Bureau, with the aid of the ATF, is doing a nationwide search at this moment, to ascertain if we can track down any missing amounts.
‘The solenoids suggest that the devices were activated locally. What the Brits would call a “button job.” Namely, a remote control activated from some point on the ground here at Dulles. This is borne out by news that reached me just before this briefing. It appears that before the first explosion the CVR picked up an electronic whine which alerted the aircraft’s captain and second officer. You can hear the whine quite clearly and the captain’s last words were, “What the hell’s that . . . ?” The words were immediately followed by the first explosion, and the electronic whine is consistent with a remote device being activated. The question now is how and when were the explosives placed on board and wired up?’
Rhabb again looked around, as though challenging someone to come up with the answer.
Bond slowly raised a hand and got to his feet, speaking as he did so. ‘You’ve almost certainly got this information, or will get it pretty quickly.’ He held up the last page of the fax that had been waiting for him. ‘London has faxed me information regarding the aircraft’s movements during the twenty-four hours prior to the tragedy. On Monday this particular aircraft – Zulu Two Four – did a package flight from the Bradbury base, which is Birmingham, to Tenerife in the Canaries. It was on the ground for approximately two hours, doing a turn round and collecting passengers from a similar package from two weeks previously, then returning to Birmingham, where it arrived at just before 17.00 hours. It was then taken over to the Bradbury maintenance hangar where it went through a complete ground check. This was completed just after 22.00, and the aircraft remained in the hangar until 08.00 when it was removed and flown to Heathrow for its 11.00 departure. It is my understanding that there was no special security watch on Zulu Two Four during a crucial ten-hour period. I presume you can collect the necessary information from Bradbury Airlines. Also, it is my understanding that the British Security Service already has investigators in Birmingham checking the status of that hangar and its accessibility during those ten hours during which the explosive devices could – and probably were – put in place . . .’
Smith/Janson cut in, obviously annoyed that Bond had provided the information before him. ‘. . . I have the same information, Mr Hughes,’ he snapped. ‘I can also confirm that the Security Service is there, on the spot – with police backup – investigating the distinct possibility that security was breached. They are convinced that the devices were placed on board during that window of opportunity.’ Saturday morningriIQ
If anybody had doubts regarding the true nature of ‘Smith’s’ work description, his little speech shattered them.
‘Do we know if further security checks were carried out at Heathrow?’ Hughes asked, a sombreness coming into his voice.
‘They’re looking into that . . .’ began Smith.
‘Unlikely . . .’ Bond overlapped.
There was an uncomfortable silence followed by Pop Hughes asking if Harley Bradbury would like to comment.
‘We face a problem here.’ Bradbury’s usual charm was there, but anyone looking carefully saw the change in his eyes: a kind of wariness underlying the concern which followed the tragedy. ‘Yes, Mr . . . er . . . ?’
‘Boldman,’ Bond lied.
‘Mr Boldman’s information regarding the operation and whereabouts of Zulu Two Four on the day before this cowardly act of terrorism is basically correct. However, my legal adviser,’ he gestured towards a dark-suited and jowled, silver-haired man sitting to his right, ‘Charles Groves feels that it would be inadvisable for me to comment on the question of security in Birmingham.’
‘That indicates you could have problems in that area?’ Pop Hughes seemed to be doing a relaxed good-old-boy performance, but Bradbury did not miss a beat.
‘Mr Hughes, it means that I am a businessman with many companies under my general control. I have learned to share responsibility. Further, and to tell you the truth, I do not know every single thing concerning all aspects of Bradbury Airlines. It would be foolish for me to speculate at this moment. I’m awaiting a report from Birmingham. My main concern is for those who have lost their lives in this wanton act of violence, and for those whose lives have been changed by the sudden deaths of loved ones. It would be premature to speculate about the security arrangements at this moment.’
Pop shrugged. ‘Okay, sir. Anything else you want to say? I should add that we all feel distress over this terrible act. Anyone who has been out there at the scene already feels the anguish, and I for one can say that, in nearly twenty years of doing this kind of work, this is the worst I have ever seen.’
There were mumbles of agreement in the room, then a moment’s silence during which Bond thought he felt a slight tremor within the building. Nobody else appeared to have noticed so he put it down to an aircraft on take-off.
‘What’s happening now,’ Hughes had started again, ‘is that our good friends from the Aircraft Research Establishment at Farnborough are taking over. We have people out at the site labelling and collecting every morsel of the wreckage. We hope to have this completed by tomorrow night when a Hercules will arrive to transport the wreckage to the UK. Once there, they will do their usua
l thorough job of detection.’ He added that at least one member of the FBI would eventually be joining the team at Farnborough, while on both sides of the Atlantic anti-terrorist and security officers would carry on with the investigation.
‘We shall, of course, be eventually holding our first official Board review here. Probably in about a month,’ he concluded.
The meeting broke up, but Bond hung around for ten minutes or so, talking to the people on the NTSB team and, lastly, to Smith who was still not a happy man.
‘I’ll carry the can for this one,’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, which reminded Bond of a bad ventriloquist. ‘They’ll have me back home and I’ll probably spend the rest of my days fer ‘Hiptadreting out the situation at Birmingham.’
‘Nobody’s claimed responsibility then?’ Bond asked.
Smith thought for a minute, as though working out if he were speaking with the enemy. Eventually he decided that it was safe. ‘I gather we’ve had a couple of crank calls and that’s it. It’s not the old enemy for sure. Personally, I think this is devastating for Bradbury. I wouldn’t rule out big business being behind it. Those huge conglomerates would cut one other’s throats. It’s a dirty old world.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Don’t need to. You’re Bond, aren’t you?’
‘Is that a shrewd guess or are you acting on information received, as our wonderful policemen would say?’
‘They told us to expect you to be nosing around. As far as our people are concerned, you have a reputation.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Remember, if you eavesdrop you never hear good of yourself.’
‘You people should know.’ He grinned at the Security Service man, winked, then made for the elevator.
The receptionist, Azeb, was still on duty, so he asked her if the Principessa had arrived safely.
‘I haven’t seen her yet, Mr Boldman. I have a key all ready for her as well. Maybe she’s been held up.’
When he got to the room he saw the red message light flashing on the telephone. He scanned the telephone instructions and discovered that the hotel was equipped with a voice mail service, so he punched in the code and waited while a disembodied voice told him there was one message waiting for him, then Sukie’s voice came on the tape, low and urgent.
‘James, I think I have problems. I might have to go to ground. Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch, but things are getting a mite dangerous. If possible, I’ll meet you at the Villa Tempesta, it’s just outside Pisa, on the road to Viareggio. If anything does happen to me, remember the acronym COLD. I have to . . .’ She was cut off with a sudden intake of breath which made the hairs on the nape of his neck tingle. The message had been logged in at three fifty-one. He grabbed the local telephone directory and riffled through the Yellow Pages to find the number for the nearest Hilton, punching it in as though he were trying to inflict damage on the instrument.
‘I’d like to speak with one of your guests, if she hasn’t checked out,’ he began as soon as the operator answered. ‘The Principessa Tempesta.’
There was around a minute of silence on the line, then a male voice. ‘Who was it you wanted?’
‘The Principessa Tempesta.’
‘Who’s calling.’
‘Boldman. James Boldman.’
‘Are you a relative, sir?’
Without even thinking, he said, ‘Yes. A cousin.’ Then, as the dreadful thought hit him, ‘Why? And who are you?’
‘Detective Pritchard. DCPD. Where are you speaking from, sir?’
Bond told him, even giving him the room number.
‘Okay, sir. I would like you wait where you are. Put your telephone down and I’ll call you back.’
The telephone rang again almost instantly, and it was the same voice on the line. ‘Okay, sir. I’d like you to wait in the hotel. You can go down to the lobby if you like. If it helps, you’ll see me arrive in a squad car within the next ten minutes. Saturday morningriIQ’
The line went dead and Bond thought about his safety. Was this Detective Pritchard for real? Was he something to do with what Sukie had called COLD?
In the foyer of the hotel Azeb had disappeared and there were now two uniformed doormen, not the one he had seen before.
Just over ten minutes later a police cruiser pulled up, a uniformed cop at the wheel. The passenger uncurled himself from his seat and headed into the foyer: a tall, broad-shouldered, tough and stone-faced man.
Bond thought twice about it, then decided to go along with things, walking forward to meet the approaching man who had the slightly flat-footed gait of a policeman. He wore an unbuttoned grey topcoat over a grey suit. The jacket of the suit was also unbuttoned – ‘all the better to get the draw on you.’
He thrust out his hand. ‘Detective Pritchard?’
‘Mr Boldman? and in their
4
A CHILL DOWN THE SPINE
What had once been the black Lexus was hauled off to the side of the road near the main entrance ramp to Dulles International. Warning cones, reflectors and yellow crime scene tapes cordoned the tangled lump of scorched and twisted metal.
Several police cruisers, a tow truck and an ambulance were parked in front and behind the remains of the vehicle, while criminalists, police photographers and a mixture of uniformed and plain-clothes officers were within the charmed circle marked by the tapes.
Two other cars were also off the road, their shaken occupants being assisted by a team from a Rescue Squad truck. Red and blue lights twinkled and portable floods bathed the obscene lump of metal, making it look like a piece of sculpture on view in a museum of modern art. Light snow whirled around the scene.
‘We don’t expect you to identify anything.’ Detective Matt Pritchard led Bond under the tapes. ‘Certainly not the body – what’s le responsibilityat stepmotherft of it.’
Bond swallowed hard. Once out of the squad car he had smelled the familiar odour. The mixture of burned paint, and above it the sickly scent of singed human flesh. He wanted to gag or vomit, but kept himself in check. This was no time to show weakness of any kind, for he knew what the big policeman was doing.
‘Sorry about your loss, Mr Boldman.’ Pritchard had leaned forward and touched him briefly on the left shoulder, as they were sitting in the hotel foyer close to the coffee shop. ‘You’re the only person we can find who knew the victim . . .’
‘Victim?’
‘I think you’d best come and see for yourself.’ The detective stood, gave him a fleeting smile, then asked if he would please come with him to the site.
‘Site?’ Bond rose, a reflex to the cop’s movement.
‘The murder site, Mr Boldman.’
As they walked towards the hotel door, Bond knew exactly what was happening. He felt sick at heart about Sukie, yet at the same time he knew the way experienced police officers’ minds worked. If Sukie were truly dead and they discovered a family member, however distant, staying nearby then that family member immediately became suspect. So Bond was the prime suspect – probably the only suspect – in whatever had happened. The cop had not asked him if he had seen her recently, or even when he had last seen her. Those questions would be the Sunday punches he would throw – probably with at least one other police officer present.
In the few seconds it took to walk to the doors he debated with himself whether to stop this now and tell the truth – something he would eventually have to do – or wait and let Pritchard play the thing out. The latter choice seemed to be the obvious decision, so he kept quiet and now here he was, standing coatless beside the tangled wreckage, freezing cold and with the terrible stench of death in his nostrils.
Two mega-sized plain-clothes men stood downwind of the chewed and jagged remains of what had once been the car.
‘ME shown up yet?’ Pritchard asked them.
‘Just gone, Matt.’
‘They’re going to remove what’s left of the body any minute.’
‘Criminalists done everything?’ from Pritchard.
‘What can they do? Pictures’ve been taken and they’ve picked up a few bits and pieces.’
‘Ain’t gonna get no fingerprints from that. Gonna lift it onto a flatbed and take it to the vehicle lab.’ He pronounced it ‘vee-hickle’.
‘Come take a look, Mr Boldman.’ Pritchard strode through the increasingly heavy snow towards the wreck.
As they drew close, Bond could make out the general shape of the smashed metal. The rear of the car, together with the roof, had been blown away. There was, in fact, no sign of either boot or roof. The remainder of the car looked as though it had been in some kind of crusher. On the driver’s side he could make out a fragment of the steering wheel. Lower, as he stood close, there was a shape: black and burned as though it were some part of a beast with a scaly body. The head had been reduced to something resembling a large charred coconut which had melted, producing three irregular holes towards the top, and a long dark gash below. As he looked, Bond also made out what had once been arms and hands, curled up in what forensic people call the typical ‘boxer position’ of a burned body.
He was aware of Pritchard turning and calling to the pair of big cops – ‘Anything">‘Which of the wives? Luigi’s or AngeloyE that could identify her?’
The reply was carried away on the swirling circles of snow, but the detective seemed content, and the larger of the other two cops began to trudge towards one of the cruisers.
Pritchard drew Bond back from the wreckage, saying they would not be long.
‘What actually happened?’
‘Well it wasn’t a Fourth of July firecracker. Lucky nobody else was killed. She was just taking the bend here when the car exploded. There was one car in front and to her left, and another just pulling out to overtake. Drivers are pretty shaken but I’ve only had reports from over the phone. The story is that the rear exploded. The gas tank, I suspect, because a sheet of flame ripped through the car and the driver starting to overtake says he had the impression of another explosion.’
