Dressed in a loose fitting floral shirt, khaki shorts, flip-flops and topped with a wide brimmed straw hat he looked every inch the beach comber he was. She would be disappointed to see him today, living a bohemian lifestyle on a tiny isle in the South Indian Ocean.
He rented a humble bungalow off Che min Bourbier les Rails near the township of Beauvallon on the Island of Reunion. It was a designated part of France, which lay between approximately twenty-one degrees South Latitude and fifty-five degrees East in the Southern Indian Ocean, or South West of the Island of Diego Garcia. He enjoyed a simple existence on his UK pension, supplementing it with his beach combing treasures. Led by a scruffy little dog of indeterminate breeding he scuffed his way along a blinding white stretch of sand. The strong Easterly winds which had been blowing for a week now had at last settled down, and he was keen to see what fortune it had bought to his island. The shaggy dog shuffled ahead of him, sniffing the accumulated detritus along the high watermark.
The canine stopped about twenty yards in front of Churchill and began rooting around something half buried in the sand. James could see it was a blue valise and decided to investigate.
The object turned out to be a navy zip up hold-all bag, the type often used as carry on luggage in airliners. The baggage tag was still attached and readable. The overnighter was coated in mussels and seaweed, and it was definite that the container had spent several months in the ocean. Churchill picked it up and used a wire brush, which he carried to descale objects he found, to remove the build up of crud on the zip fastener holding the top of the bag closed. He rummaged through the barnacle encrusted contents and saw that the collection inside consisted of soft plush toys, now waterlogged and covered in mould and crustacean, making them useless. His searching fingers before long found the hard body of an Apple iPhone. He pushed the buttons but the screen did not illuminate. The battery was flat. He slipped the phone into one of the large pockets of his cargo shorts and continued down the beach.
His keen eyes scanned from the waves edge to the high watermark looking for anything which may be of value. He could see ahead a large white metallic object and hustled to investigate. It appeared to him to be a part of an aeroplane. Like the rest of the world, he was aware of the missing aircraft. Studying the piece revealed it was a honeycomb of fibreglass covered in aluminium, now sporting a large growth of barnacles indicating it had been floating at sea for some duration. He instinctively recalled what it represented, and scanned the beach for more pieces. He didn't have to look far before his eyes caught the glimpse another section lying on the sand. It was a torn part of an engine cowling with the symbol of Rolls-Royce still quite readable, emblazoned on it.
The rotund fellow made agile progress across the sandy beach to the treeline. The image of riches coursed through his head as he waddled his way up the palm fringed road to find a phone box. He spotted one up ahead at the intersection outside a forlorn looking shop. He eagerly pulled all his change from his pocket and requested the operator to connect him with the Malaysian Consol in Antananarivo on the nearby island of Madagascar.
The secretary was disinclined to put him through until he revealed that it concerned the missing flight MH370. It was but a few minutes before the Honorary Consul came on the line.
“Raza speaking” he answered in English, although he could communicate in French equally well.
James Winston had sufficient time to prepare himself, and stated his name, then said “ I have discovered the whereabouts of your missing aeroplane”.
Raza remained silent for a full minute before replying. “What makes you believe it's MH370?” he asked.
“ There are wing parts and an engine cowl that clearly states Rolls-Royce, plus some other bits” he said.
“I was wondering if there is any reward for finding it?” he added.
Again there was a silence on the line before the Honorary Consul answered.
“I would require verification that the pieces are from our airliner. I can assure you the Malaysian Government would be most generous to anyone who assisted us to find our missing aircraft.”
“I want fifty thousand U.S. dollars”, Churchill said.
“I do not believe that would be out of the question, Mister...?”
“Churchill”, he reminded him.
“Can you deliver me the proof Mister Churchill?” said Raza.
“How do I know you will pay me”, whimpered James.
“We are honourable men” replied Raza, “but to assure you, please send me something of what you have and I will have it assessed, and we will pay you for the other items.”
That was an acceptable compromise to Churchill, and thus he would arrange to send the bag priority mail.
His next telephone call was to the local newspaper, La Reunion. Using his passable French and a few English phrases he was put through to the subeditors` desk where he once again requested “reimbursement” for his information on the whereabouts of the salvageable parts of the missing aircraft.
The Editor agreed to a reasonable sum for the scoop and arranged for him to meet a correspondent in an hour and show him where the pieces lay.
His next call was to the Gendarmerie where he duly reported his find and explained the approximate location of his discovery.
He hailed a taxi and proceeded straight to the Post Office. There he purchased the largest pre-paid container they had, into which he stuffed the blue holdall and mailed it to the address given to him by the Honorary Consul General in Antananarivo.
Finding another Taxi took longer than he anticipated. He discovered the reporter angrily waiting for him at the designated rendezvous. The newspaperman became especially upset when James asked for the money before proceeding.
The newsman followed him through the soft sand along the high tidemark, cursing that he was collecting the particles in his shoes. He forgot his discomfort the moment he laid eyes on the engine cowl with it's Rolls-Royce signature, and the large piece from the wing. His Nikon camera now worked overtime.
Within twenty minutes a Police Car arrived. The senior officer strode down the beach to the newspaper reporter busily photographing the debris from all angles. The Gendarme briefly scanned the wreckage, and pulled his radio from his belt and spoke urgently to his superior. His instructions were clear, even to the two men standing opposite.
“I want your names,” he commanded, “then you will have to leave the beach”.
The officer requested the newsman’s camera, but without a warrent he was powerless to secure it. Knowing when to depart, the reporter gave his name and contact details. He then high tailed it back to his car to file the exclusive story, which he was certain would give him a great deal of kudos, if not a bonus for the photographs.
A crowd of twenty people had gathered at the edge of the sand when the two gendarmerie cars arrived. The municipal Police Chief extricated himself from a black Citroën and took control. He directed his officers to move all civilians back to the roadway and station themselves at the locations of the airframe pieces.
James Winston Churchill took advantage of the commotion to steal quietly away from the scene. His previous dealings with the law had made him wary of being questioned and perhaps losing his reward. The time was now approaching ten o`clock and the heat of the day was rising rapidly. He sauntered to the cool shade of his favourite bar, “The Peanut”. Small and secluded in a tropical setting of palms and ferns it suited his lifestyle, and the manager-come-barman was an expat Englishman like himself. The place had few patrons this early as he levered his considerable derrière onto his preferred barstool at the corner of the bar. The attendant named “Flavio”, was multilingual in English, French and Spanish with a smattering of Italian, said, “the usual?” referring to his customers penchant for an icy fruity rum drink.
“Yes”, was the rejoinder, “make it a double, I need it.”
James Churchill leaned in close to the barman and, bringing out the iPhone asked if he had a charger for it. �
��I don't think so....let me see”, replied the multi-lingual bartender, but searched through the accumulated charging devices beneath the bar. “Doesn’t look like these will do it”, he answered, “but I have a contact who will have one”, he assured. James handed the iPhone over to his cohort who put it under the counter, and settled back contented to enjoy his afternoon.
Chapter 39
Usually Embassies and Consulates employ surveillance counter-measures to stop outside spying on their communications and personal.
The smaller diplomatic legations, did not have the resources. They were mostly staffed by casual representatives who had managed to secure the title Honorary Consul, by having a vague connection to the country granting the designation. The work was not normally difficult, consisting of lost passports or transgressions of the law. Many such agents performed the service for little financial recompense, merely in return for having diplomatic number plates and duty-free goods.
The National Security Agency in Washington D.C. monitored all Embassies and Consulates in every country on the earth. It's satellites and listening stations fed a continuous stream of intelligence into their computers, hidden in an undisclosed location in the United States.
Using sophisticated algorithms, the data received was analysed for words, phrases, and numbers which would alert the processor to print out information to be later dissected by an officer of the bureau.
Having been made aware from news reports, that debris, possibly from the ill-fated flight of MH370, had been found, Richard Battley had requested the NSA forward any relevant accounts of sightings to him. He perused the printout in front of him with consternation.
He had been expecting that some parts of the `plane would have broken off and floated up somewhere on a shore in the Indian Ocean. He was afraid that any debris found could reveal clues about what actually happened.
Unfortunately for him it washed up on a coastline controlled by France and the pieces had been transferred straight to Paris for forensic analysis.
Another disturbing snippet was the conversation between one James Winston Churchill and the Malaysian Honorary Consul in the Seychelles. He had spoken of a flight bag belonging to a passenger which he would dispatch post-haste for a fee.
Battley wondered if the bag contained any revealing evidence. He would need to intercept it before it arrived in the hands of the Malaysian Authorities.
Chapter 40
Curt and Kim were on their mobile telephones as soon as the vessel came within coverage.
The survey ship was returning to port after her unsuccessful search in the southern Indian Ocean. They had both watched the television reporting concerning the recent finding of the aircraft parts. The pieces washed up on the island of Reunion off the East coast of Africa.
Curt was sure his boss would recall him after the abortive search. It came as a surprise when ordered to the French Island of Reunion off Madagascar, to inspect the aeroplane wreckage recently found there.
He dearly wanted to see the pieces close up which might reveal a great many clues regarding the fate of the aircraft.
Kim dropped him off at his hotel where he collected his forwarded mail. Sitting in his room he took advantage of the time to grab a cup of coffee and look through his post. Discarding the majority of it as being unimportant he opened his copy of “Stars & Stripes”, the American Services news magazine, to which he had subscribed since leaving the Navy.
Commenced in 1861 during the civil war, the newspapers' intention was to be independent of the government and merely report on the activities of military personnel at their stations across the world. His habit was to look through the obituaries to see if any of his old shipmates had passed away. He recognized no names, however his eye was drawn to one Carl Meredith, who had lost his life in an air accident. The details were vague but it occurred in training off the coast of Aden in the North Indian Ocean. He had been a fighter pilot serving aboard the aircraft carrier “Carl Vinson”, on her way into the Red Sea for deployment. He pondered a moment before a thought struck him. Could the fleet, with their multiple radar systems employed have been in the arena of the missing flight, it was an intriguing prospect.
There was a subdued knock on the door so he was`nt sure if had heard it. When it came a second time, he opened it. Kim stood there cradling an ice bucket which held a bottle of wine.
“Were you going to leave me without saying goodbye?” she purred.
Curt looked down at the cat-like eyes, her pearly teeth, showing through the wide smile. Instantly all previous thoughts made way for with others.
“No.. not at all, come right in”, he guiltily replied, as he bent downward and kissed her.
He uncorked the wine. The sexual attraction they held for one another was palpable. Within minutes, they fell into each others arms before making passionate love.
Time was moving toward the afternoon when they showered and dressed. Kim casually looked through the pile of mail and the opened copy of the “Stars & Stripes” spread out on the small breakfast table. She was poreing over an article about the troops in Afghanistan when Curt emerged from the bathroom.
“This is an engrossing read. I imagined it would be lot more rah rah then this. It's quite a well written piece”, she said with approval.
“Yeah, a lot of famous journalists got their start writing for them,” Curt responded.
“ I found something in there that I want to follow up on”.
Curt outlined his theory about the timing of the passage of the carrier group through the Indian Ocean. It would require a conversation with the Captain regarding any contact the fleet may have had with their missing aircraft. He sought authorization from his boss to line up an interview.
She listened intently and could only concur that it sounded feasible.
His flight to Reunion was not for another forty-eight hours and while he desired her company he actually wanted to do some work on his hypothesis. He was not aggrieved when she declined his invitation to stay.
“You're not the only one who has work to do”, she offered by way of explanation.
They parted with a kiss, assuring each other they would communicate or text daily.
Curt checked his watch and decided to put in a telephone call to his senior. It would be six P.M. yesterday, but he was sure the chief would be in his office.
“Hi Boss, it's me”, he stated, “I'm about to leave for the Island of Reunion to check out the aircraft debris which washed up there as you asked, but I have a theory that I want to explore. Can you get me an interview with the Captain of the Carl Vinson?”
Curt explained how the radar coverage of the fleet may have inadvertently detected the path of the missing 777, and receive approval to follow that lead.
The head of the NTSB would have to make the call. The Boss assured Curt he would persuade her the request was a material part of the investigation and inform him of the outcome.
He finished the telephone call and delved into the large flight bag to find several maps of the Indian Ocean, covering the northern and southern regions.
He fished out the map which encompassed the north and east expanses, illustrating Christmas and Cocas Islands.
Taking a red marking pen from the satchel, he traced the route of the group from the Timor Sea through the relevant section of the ocean.
Using his knowledge of aircraft carriers he could determine the approximate speed and direction it would take. He constructed a timeline from the vessels' departure from Hawaii, and deduced it would have been in an area west of Christmas Island when MH370 disappeared from radar observation.
His instinct told him he was onto something important and worth exploring.
Chapter 41
Zahid Raza the Honorary Consul of Malaysia, had picked up the parcel sent by James Churchill. Standing by the roadside in front of the Post Office in downtown Antananarivo, he noticed a nondescript Renault slowly drive up to him. A single silenced shot entered his heart, and he collapsed
to the pavement. Before anyone could react, an arm stretched from the half opened door and snatched the package from his now dead hands. The Renault speed swiftly away. No one saw anything useful to the subsequent police investigation.
Chapter 42
The flight from Australia to Reunion required one stop to change airlines, and he decided to use the time en route to gather his thoughts. He had`nt noticed the passenger beside him slip into her seat, but when he heard her say “hello there” he raised his head from his work and saw it was Kim.
“What the”, he exclaimed without finishing the sentence. A quizzical look on his face.
“ I asked my boss if I could come along, and he ok`d it”, she said by way of explanation.
He was pleased she had joined him. It was much better to have her here to bounce his ideas off, and so greatly engrossed in their deliberations were they, that notwithstanding the flight took six hours, the time passed with them barely noticing. Curt had spread his chart out on the seat back tables and explained his methodology for his assumption that the carrier fleet had to have been close to the neighbourhood that the airliner disappeared. They pondered the likelihood the remains washed up on the remote Island were from their missing aircraft. If they had drift charts available, they could be more confident.
It was late afternoon when the second part of the flight touched down in Reunion. They collected the bags, and selecting a reasonably priced hotel, grabbed a taxi avowing to further explore on the morrow.
Their first inquiry was to the Gendarmerie to obtain permission to see the detritus. The disappointing news they received was that the police had gathered all the pieces from the beach. The army connfiscated them and hurriedly dispatched them to France on a military aeroplane. Furthermore the Ministre des Armees had taken over the investigation and all inquiries were to be directed to them.
In The National Interest Page 8
