The interview concluded. They returned to the hotel to draw up a synopsis of their request to present to the Malaysian Government.
Once back in the room, Curt opened his laptop and formulated the appeal directly to the Prime Minister, Mahathir Mohammad. He encrypted the cypher with a program on his computer and with trepidation he connected to the hotels` wireless internet. He transmitted the document.
Chapter 58
“They just went live,” proclaimed the man from the NSA into the telephone.
Richard Battley listened intently to the voice on the other end before commenting. “Where are they and what are they looking for?”
“In Vienna Austria,” he replied. “They sent an encrypted file to the Malaysian Government. We will decode it but it will take time. I have no idea where and to whom they have spoken.”
“Let me have that report ASAP,” Battley ordered and terminated the conversation.
Nothing came to mind as he pondered what information there was to glean there.
Patience was not one of his virtues, but without further knowledge he would have to wait.
Chapter 59
Try as they might by exploring the ancient city and it's profusion of attractions, they too became frustrated by the delay in furthering their investigation. Three days later they received the phone call they were waiting for.
Klaus Meir informed them he had managed to collect the raw data for the area and time period they requested. “ I have the permission from our director, Professor Jan Broz. If you will come tomorrow I will work through it with you,” he said in his Germanic way.
Impatiently they made an appointment to meet at 9 AM.
Again Klaus met them at the entrance of the Vienna International Centre who took them immediately to the lecture theatre.
Excitedly he explained what infrasound was. Whales and elephants used it to communicate over long distances he told them. Outlining the differences between the normal acoustic arrays and those specialized in detecting the ultra low frequencies, he illustrated how they might be exploited find their quarry.
He exhibited a quarter size reproduction of the instrument.
A large interactive screen behind him revealed the network of devices the organisation had situated throughout the world. He touched the electronic surface. The picture zoomed in until it showed the area of concern to the investigators.
“We have detectors here, here, here and here.” he said pointing to the Cocas Islands, Sri Lanka, Parapat in Indonesia and the Chagos Archipelago. These are the closest arrays to your area of interest. “We also have them in Reunion Island and Western Australia,” he added.
“I have extracted data from each of them and found a recording of what could be an encounter at the time suggested. Unfortunately, I cannot pinpoint a precise location owing to the fact that the closest array was down for 20 minutes during the moment of the suspected impact,” he hesitated.
“Which position was not operating?” enquired Curt.
“The one at Diego Garcia,” answered Klaus with a wry smile.
Curt and Kim eyed each other for a long moment. Their faces betrayed what they were thinking..
They thanked the engineer for his efforts before returning dejectedly to the hotel.
Once inside the room, they mulled over the circumstance of what this news meant. There was no doubt now that their investigation was being derailed by a third party.
“We need to absent ourselves from here,” Curt announced. “I had to use the internet to deliver the request to the Prime Minister. I fear we may be in mortal danger if our pursuers find our location. It won’t take them long to figure out why we are here.”
A plan was already formulating in his brain. They needed to remain covert if they were to communicate their report out to the world.
“If we turn to the embassy there is a good chance they will confiscate our notes, files and electronic devices,” he stated, “I believe whoever is derailing our investigation wants a specific finding, and that is, that Zaharie flew a suicide mission for some unknown reason, into the Southern Indian Ocean, where the wreckage remains irretrievable.”
Kim looked dejected but added, “We need to take this information back to the Malaysian Government. The truth must come out. Until the aeroplane is recovered there is no way to positivly identify if the passengers and crew were alive or dead when the plane was shot down. I believe Kuala Lumper will jump at the chance to deflect suspicion away from the pilot.”
“Pack your things, we’re going shopping,” Curt demanded resolutely. He quickly readied his gear, and with Kim racing behind him, made for the door.
They checked out using credit cards, which they knew would be traced, and leaving the bags with the ever helpful concierge, headed out.
They caught a taxi and asked the driver to recommend a used car yard. He drove them to a clean and professional looking establishment in West Vienna.
Curt approached a sales representative and requested to view some used cars. After appraising several he settled on a white Opel Corsa hatchback. It was similar to an American compact.
The salesman thought it unusual for a customer to want immediate delivery, but after filling out a considerable amount of paperwork, and transferring the money, the two investigators set off.
“My thoughts are whoever is undermining us will be watching the airports,” Curt explained as they drove back to pick up their belongings. “With no border crossings within the European Union, we can travel unhindered until we decide the best place to leave from,” he added as they left the hotel.
“Have you determined where the safest exit would be?” Kim queried.
“I have considered it and I believe the best would be the Netherlands. The reason? It is the location of The World Court, and if we are intercepted we could seek asylum there. Amsterdam has direct flights to Kuala Lumpur,” he suggested.
Programming their destination into the vehicles' navigation, they set off on the E49 autobahn toward Pilson in Germany.
Chapter 60
I know what your up to, Richard Battley expressed to himself. He was perusing the decoded message the investigators had sent to the Malaysians. It revealed to him they had sought help from the CTBTO to establish the point of impact for flight MH370.
He had to admire their resourcefulness and tenacity. Had he thought to disable the arrays he would have, but at least his operative on Diego Garcia had taken one down for the crucial time period. There was still damning evidence of an impact, but they would not be able to pinpoint with accuracy where the aeroplane hit the ocean. It was alarming nonetheless.
He conspired with the embassy in Austria to have them detained as a matter of national security, should they show up at an airport. They were undiscoverable with their cell phones off, but he knew they would have to use passports to exit the country. He could wait.
A message came through a few moments later from his watcher in the NSA that a Curt Joyner had requested a bank transfer to a car dealership in Austria. Battley immediately ordered an operative go to the place and check. An hour afterward the informant reported that the quarry had purchased a compact vehicle and headed away. He had not indicated where he intended to travel. He had acquired the description and registration.
Richard gave the man instructions to rent a fast car and prepare to give chase. The agent hired a Porsche 911S.
Battley spread a map of Europe before him, and speculated on the most logical exit point for the two fugitives.
Chapter 61
The journey across Europe was fast yet tiring. They had decided to make use of the many Inns which catered specially for travellers on motoring holidays. They were cheap, clean and booking for one night was normal. They had driven 500 kilometres when it was time to refuel. They turned off the motorway and found a cute little village with an Inn that proclaimed Vacancy from a flashing neon sign. They took up the offer. Paying by credit card, they were not unduly concerned as it was only for one night.
They would be long gone before any pursuers could ascertain where their location..
They could not perceive how speedily the NSA would be able to track the transfer.
The Porsche 911 was travelling at 180 Kph down the autobahn when the cell phone rang. It contained two men dressed in black outfits. The passenger picked up the call and grunted his acceptance of the information.
“They stopped for fuel at Wiesbaden. That’s a small town outside Frankfurt, step on it,” he grumbled. The powerful engine responded immediately pushing the sports car even faster.
Chapter 62
Tired and arse weary, the two investigators fuelled the car, and found lodging at an Inn simply called “Singers”. They were greeted by a huge man who welcomed them into the tavern, proudly pointing out that it had been in their family for two hundred years.
The owner carried the bags in his large hands up a steep flight of stairs two steps at a time, before waiting at the door to the room. On entering Kim was delighted when she observed the furnishings were genuine period pieces, and the massive four-poster was covered in an authentic down filled comforter. The accompanying pillows were huge, taking up the top third of the bed.
“This will suit nicely,” she said with a mischievous wink at Curt.
After settling in the pair dined In House, thoroughly enjoying a meal of schnitzel, potatoes and sauerkraut. Feeling well-fed and in need of a stroll, they decided to venture out and explore the centre of the old town. It had turned chilly in the evening so Kim slipped into a bright pink coat.
Walking hand-in-hand like young lovers they window shopped their way down the main street, when Curt tripped on a loose paving stone. At that moment the establishments` plate glass beside him exploded in a shower of crystals. Instinctively they dived behind a row of cars parked at the curb.
“That was a shot,” Curt said unnecessarily. “The’re using a silencer”, he added. Kim slid out of her pink jacket and reversed it, now turning it into a black camouflage covering.
“Can you use one of these?” she whispered, handing him a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard 380 compact pistol.
Asking an American if they can use a handgun was like querying a cowboy if he could ride a horse, he imagined. Curt nodded and took the weapon not questioning where she obtained it.
He wriggled his body behind the vehicle shielding him until he could see around the outside wheel. The moment he took a glimpse the tyre exploded, rubber slicing into his cheek. He did manage to see a figure clad in dark attire moving toward him, a large pistol with silencer extended in front.
Sliding his ample frame under the rear of the car he could see the feet of his assailant moving rapidly toward his position. Using the laser sight on the pocket-sized weapon, he lined up on a suede boot and fired.
The gunman fell to the side as he lost his footing. Curt rolled out from behind his protection and squeezed the trigger as soon as he nailed the target. The American was an excellent shot. His assailants head exploded in a red mist as the .38 calibre bullets found their mark.
Lights came on in the adjacent windows at the sound of Curts` unsilenced firearm.
A piece of cobblestone flew up an inch beside his head. He twisted himself around to see a second gunman taking aim at him. He instantly believed he was a dead man when abruptly his pursuer froze, unable to move. Slowly his legs buckled under him, and he fell to the street.
Kim stood up from between two cars and gestured toward a narrow lane running betwixt the shops. The pair ran into the darkened gap and heard the oncoming sirens of the police.
They raced through the rear alleys until they saw a lane way leading them back to the street containing the hotel. Kim had reversed her jacket again and replaced the pistol in the leather holster built into the pocket. Breathlessly they entered only to find their host standing guard inside.
Curt explained they heard what appeared to be shots and had hurried back.
Herr Singer gave the guests a grave look as he saw the bloody scratch on Curts` face and the dirt on his coat.
“You can sleep now,” he stated as he locked the front door and picked up his shotgun, before retreating back to his own quarters.
The two fugitives spent a sleepless night despite the ultra comfortable bed. They made ready to leave early in the morning. Their host met them in the lobby.
“You will have breakfast now,” he stated in that German way of making things sound more like an order than a question.
Despite their protestations, his insistence led them to eat a meal of soft-boiled egg accompanied by toast, coffee, and slices of sausage and cheese. He placed the local newspaper on the table. Translating the headlines for them, he said, “it states there was a drug related shooting in the village last night. This was the sound you heard”, he responded emphatically.
“You will have a safe journey now,” the host advised as he took the cash payment and ushered them through the door.
Back on the street they wended their way rapidly to the parked car and were onto the splendid German road system in less than fifteen minutes.
This time they used back routes to navigate the way to the Netherlands via Belgium.
Tired but safe they at last arrived in Amsterdam in late afternoon. After booking into the Zoku hotel in the Jewish Quarter, Kim announced she was heading for a quiet nap while Curt decided he wanted to explore the city.
Upon his return he obtained an airline schedule from the desk. There was a suitable flight the following evening. He asked the hotel clerk to make the booking for them. He explained they would pay for the tickets on arrival at the airport.
They slept late and decided to appear at the air terminal at the last minute before check-in. They had no doubt that as soon as they paid for the tickets and presented the passports, their deception would be revealed. With the airline staff hustling them through immigration, customs and security they boarded Malaysian Flight 17 to Kuala Lumpur as the flight closed.
Chapter 63
“Shit!” was the expletive Richard Battley used when he received the news. He had just acquired word that the two investigators had boarded a flight at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. He had not contemplated they would elude him by besting his agents and avoiding his people all the way across Europe to Holland, but he conceded it was a splendid ploy on their part. They had outsmarted him this time.
He considered his options. With no assets in position to board the flight, he resigned himself to implementing a scenario with which he was most uncomfortable.
He took a specific phone, a burner, from his office safe and briskly walked to that secure place in the cemetery where he could have a secret conversation without being overheard.
The call was answered in Russian. “Olek speaking, who is this? I am in the middle of a war here. State your business and get off the line,” said the Ukrainian.
Olek Melnyk was a contemptuous fellow who would do anything for money. He was a large man showing the signs of middle age. He had amassed a fortune by selling young girls from the Balkan states and stolen Russian military equipment, to every rogue and rebel group on the planet. He was in also a Colonel in the FSB, the new adaptation of the infamous KGB.
Battley disliked him intensely, nonetheless, he had proved useful on black operations. He spoke the language fluently and had no problem communicating his requirements to him.
Olek listened to the man from Washington's request for assistance before deciding on a re-numeration amount. “Half a million in US Dollars,” he quoted.
Battley baulked at the sum. It was outrageous, but he was desperate.
“You want me to do the job or not?” the Ukrainian retorted, “I'm busy fighting a war here, I don't have time to bargain.”
“Go ahead, I will transfer the money right away. Usual bank account?” the man enquired. The answer came in the affirmative. The caller added the approximate time the airliner would be overhead and the assigned transponder code 3376 he had obtained from the submitted flight plan.
There was no need for further conversation, the pact was done. A muted beep from Oleks’ iPhone announced the payment. No-one could envisage the consequences foretold by that insignificant sound.
The FSB Colonel made an urgent phone call to the town of Kursk just inside the Russian Border with the Ukraine. He spoke in pressing tones to the officer in charge. The Ukrainian forces were devastating their positions through the use of fighter jets he told him, “I need the BUK” he said.
The BUK SA11 was a Russian missile launcher, a mobile anti-aircraft system, incorporating stand alone RADAR and electronic tracking. Designed to destroy everything airborne from helicopters and drones to high-flying fighters and bombers, it was a formidable weapon.
Manned by trained Russian troops, it could deploy within minutes.
Travelling through the narrow lanes and streets of border villages, the unit made fast time as it weaved its way into the disputed region of Donetsk and Slovyansk. It stopped in a field adjacent to a hamlet and set up for attack. The operator surveyed a radar display plotting all the aircraft heading in their direction. There were four bogies. He targetted the illuminated dot transmitting the transponder code 3376.
Salomia Andrusenko was sipping her first cup of tea for the day, when an almighty whoosh startled her. It was four AM local time. The noise caused some of the hot tea to spill down her apron. Looking out the window she saw a strange military vehicle sitting in the newly ploughed field. A long smoke trail ascended into the pre-dawn sky. Within a minute the sound of a bang from somewhere above caught up with her, and she realised the war of the separatists had moved to their little village. She and her husband had no interest in politics, after all, politicians and generals had never done anything for the poor farmers. She put down her cup and stood in front of the holy icon on the wall and prayed for redemption.
In The National Interest Page 13
