by Les Abend
“Well, you won’t be getting room service either,” Ryan said with a sneer in his tone.
“Good morning, Special Agent Fredricks. To what do I owe this displeasure?”
“When exactly were you going to tell me about the transactions Mike Townsend was making via union accounts?”
“Thought it was already common knowledge with you guys.”
“Now it is. But we hadn’t confirmed the transactions until a few hours ago.”
“And?”
“You had knowledge of this information and failed to disclose it. That’s obstruction of justice.”
“I went to New York for the purpose of discovery with regard to Horton and Carty and the law firm’s relationship to Mike Townsend, Bob Redmond, and the airline.” Hart snapped a Kleenex from the nightstand and blew his nose. “I’ll turn myself in to the local police.”
Ryan exhaled a long and slow breath. He said, “I get it, Captain Lindy. You were attempting to protect your boy until you had more information. But now you give me pause for concern that you might be withholding additional intelligence.”
“I’ve got nothing else, Ryan.”
“Well, I’ll be the judge of that later.” Ryan paused. “Moving along, as opposed to your clandestine tactics, I have information to share. Are you sitting down?”
Adjusting the pillows against the backboard of the bed, Hart said, “Actually, I happen to be lying down. Go ahead.”
Hart’s dad poked his head in the door and pantomimed bringing a fork to his mouth. It was breakfast time. Hart nodded. Dad’s favorite, scrambled eggs and cheese, were probably on the menu.
Ryan said, “Last night I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of your CEO and CFO. My team and I met them on the jet bridge of your airline’s flight arriving from Port of Spain, Trinidad. We fitted them for bracelets and brought them to our office.”
“Excuse me?”
“We arrested them on suspicion of money laundering…at least to start.”
“Holy shit.”
“It appears that the bankruptcy filing was long ago their strategy. Aware of the possibility that a bankruptcy judge could potentially negate a previously arranged compensation package, the CEO, CFO, and VP of Ops conspired to transfer the proceeds from their stock bonuses. The stock sales were done over time in small amounts so as not to arouse suspicion with the SEC.”
“Okay, so how did Mike Townsend and PAPA enter into the picture?” Hart asked.
“First Officer Townsend was a conduit. He deposited the stock bonus proceeds into your pilots union account and then transferred them to the law firm of Horton and Carty. He would then physically take the cash on his trips to Trinidad and deposit them in a Port of Spain bank.”
“That sounds simple.”
“It gets complicated. Horton and Carty laundered the money and then took their commission.”
“Yikes.”
“It gets better. Your Middle Eastern guy, now identified as Sayid Abdul-Qadir, was actually an accountant of sorts. He took part of the commission money from the law firm and transferred it to Syria. In exchange, Horton and Carty were paid financial advisory fees for managing certain accounts in Syria. We haven’t quite figured out the routing, but our finance geeks are still working on the forensics.”
“Terrorism? ISIS?” Hart asked.
“It would appear. But this whole plan blew up literally on the airplane when Mike Townsend physically moved the funds. That’s why these guys flew down to Trinidad in Ted Horton’s private jet. They were hoping to recover at least some of the funds before the bankruptcy filing was announced.”
“But why take the extra step of depositing money into our union account?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“So what happened to Bob Redmond? Was he getting greedy?”
“Reading between the lines of our interrogation process, it would seem Redmond was getting anxious. When he held a meeting with you, Abdul-Qadir probably saw the VP of Ops as a liability. We’re still waiting on the autopsy, but it seems likely Redmond was murdered by Abdul-Qadir.”
With a quiet rap on the bedroom door, John Lindy peered into the bedroom. He displayed a thumbs-up. Breakfast was ready.
Hart said, “Ryan, hang on a minute. My room service is at the door.” John Lindy frowned with a curious smile. Hart pulled the phone away from his ear. “Sorry, Dad. This call may take a while longer. Can you keep my plate warm for a bit?” His dad nodded, shook his head, and shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen. “So how did Mike Townsend get involved with this financial intrigue?”
“Good question. Let me tell you a bedtime story. Well…it was a bedtime story for me last night.”
With all the inflection of Ben Stein in his Ferris Beuller role, Ryan Fredricks provided a narrative of Mike Townsend’s fall from grace. The explanation was presented like a business-as-usual event.
Deliberately imitating Ryan Fredricks, Hart asked in the tone of Dragnet’s Joe Friday, “And that’s it?”
“I’m sure there are more pieces to the jigsaw puzzle, but, yes, that’s it for now, Mr. Smart-ass Airline Pilot.”
With a softened voice, Hart said, “You did good work Special Agent Fredricks.”
“Thanks.” A moment of silence passed. “I’m sorry about your airline. Back when I was a kid, it was rough on my dad and our family when the machine shop declared bankruptcy and closed its doors.”
“Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but airline bankruptcies are different. The flying public never sees a thing. It’s just the employees, the creditors, and the stockholders that suffer the most wounds.”
“Understood.”
“Anything else, Special Agent Fredricks?”
“Not at the moment. If I need your expertise, I know how to find you. Nice working with you, Captain.”
“Same.”
The line went silent and the phone displayed “Call ended.” Hart was just about to place the phone back onto the nightstand, when it vibrated again in his hand. He glanced at the display. This time it was an email alert. He tapped the email icon with a thumb, expecting to see the usual potpourri of Viagra deals and rental car specials, but one email caught his attention.
The email was from an individual. It was someone Hart didn’t recognize. His curiosity aroused, he opened the message. It read:
To: Captain Hart Lindy
From: Tonya Gibson
Subject: Crash of TransGlobal Flight 4291
Hello Captain Lindy,
I am writing this note to ask for your assistance regarding the investigation of TransGlobal Flight 4291 that crashed on approach five years ago today while landing at JFK. My father, Tom Gibson, was the captain of that flight. As you know, there was only one survivor-- a flight attendant.
Through the findings of a toxicology report, my father was said to have alcohol in his bloodstream. The NTSB listed my father’s impairment as a probable cause for the accident. The media reported my father to be a recovering alcoholic. This fact is true. However, Dad had been faithfully attending both AA meetings and the airline’s addiction program for two years prior. He was clean and sober.
With all my heart, I believe that my father has been wrongfully accused and that another probable cause is the culprit for this tragedy. Beyond the lawsuits and the financial hardships that my family will endure, it is more important that I clear my father’s name and reputation. He was a good man and a well-respected professional.
A captain from your airline spoke highly of your investigative skills. He thought that you might consider assisting my family and offered your email address. My apologies for invading your privacy, but it is my hope that you would come to our rescue. Our attorneys would be glad to discuss terms of a consulting contract.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Tonya Gibson
Shaking his head, Hart recalled the devastation of the accident. Fatalities on the airplane. Fatalities on the ground. The
death of a popular country music star. It became a media firestorm. Drunk pilots. Drug and alcohol testing prior to every flight. Why would he want to get involved?
And then Hart thought for a moment. Maybe he should get involved. If indeed this captain was innocent of causing the horrible accident, then shouldn’t the world know what really occurred? Perhaps this was a new way to give back, to pay it forward.
Hart took in a deep breath and slid off the squeaky bed. He put on a pair of oil-stained jeans and slipped the sweatshirt with the Piper Cub logo over his head. He ran a few fingers through his matted, dirty blonde hair and shuffled in his bare feet out his bedroom and into the kitchen.
Reading the paper and sipping his coffee, John Lindy sat at the round breakfast table. He glanced up at Hart and gestured his chin at the chipped dinner plate that was topped by an oversized pot cover. Hart nodded, sat down, and lifted the pot cover. He smiled at a steaming plate of mustard-yellow scrambled eggs covered in a swirl of cheddar cheese. A browned English muffin doused in butter rested off to the side.
“Thanks, Dad,” Hart said.
His father muttered an unintelligible acknowledgement and continued to read the paper. Hart scooped a fork into his scrambled eggs and looked around the battered kitchen. The Formica countertop had knife wounds and stains. Cupboards had hinges attached by only one screw, the wood marred and faded. Dishes sat in a yellowed white tub of a sink. The gooseneck faucet percolated a drop of water once every few seconds.
“I’m reading about your airline,” John Lindy said. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. We’ll see how this all plays out,” Hart said, making his first attempt at sounding upbeat.
“Was that phone call about the accident in Bermuda?”
“It was.”
“The newspaper is saying that the copilot was the criminal and the union laundered money for the airline.”
“That’s also what the phone call was about, Dad. It was the FBI agent that I worked with during the investigation. There’s a lot more to the story. Hopefully the whole truth will be released soon. So don’t believe everything you read.”
“I never do.” John Lindy dropped the paper onto the kitchen table and looked at Hart. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Yeah, Dad. I think so,” Hart said with a thin smile.
John Lindy stared at his son for a moment and then rose from the table. He grabbed his empty plate, and walked toward the sink. He asked, “How about a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, Dad. That would be great.”
Hart’s father pulled the glass carafe from the ancient Mr. Coffee machine, walked back to the kitchen table, and poured the dark brown liquid into Hart’s empty mug.
“I’m going to get some fresh air on the deck. Finish your eggs and meet me outside if you’d like,” John Lindy said. He walked away from the table, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped outside.
Not realizing that he was famished, Hart finished his breakfast in a flurry. He dumped his plate in the sink and joined his dad, who was leaning on the outer railing of the deck. The wood planking was peeled and warped, the stain almost nonexistent.
Holding his cup of steaming coffee, Hart asked, “What if I stay here for a while, Dad? I could take some time off from the airline and help you run this place.”
John Lindy turned to face his son and said, “You have gone insane.”
“Seriously, Dad. I could use a break.”
“Is this one of those help-the-poor-old-man sympathy things?”
“No. It’s not. Well, maybe a little bit.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure, Dad.”
In the distance, the rumble of jet engines grew louder. The sound competed with the chirping birds and the rustle of the leaves. Instinctively, both men gazed up into the pale, blue sky. A twin-engine jetliner was silhouetted against the atmospheric canvas, its two contrails flowing behind in a billowing straight line of white.
Watching the airplane, Hart said, “You know, Dad, I think our wise, old buddy Captain Peters was right.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s no longer the magic of the Bernoulli Principle that creates the lift to keep airplanes airborne. Greed keeps those airliners airborne. Those wings are made from paper. That’s all they are. Just paper wings.”
Hart shook his head. Maybe it was time to refocus his priorities. He had a lot to consider, perhaps a new life chapter. He put an arm around his dad’s shoulder and smiled.
08:15 EDT
Wishing she could stop crying and feeling angry all at the same time, Robin Townsend crossed her arms and stared out through the glass sliding doors at the canal. A seagull perched on a piling flapped its wings and then launched skyward but not before depositing a splotch of white, the act an apropos reflection of her mood.
The Tiara that the girls had brought home after their abduction was still tied up at the dock. It was evidence, a crime scene. When the hell were they going to move that fucking yacht! The boat was a reminder of all that had gone wrong. It was a reminder of what she would never have.
How were they going to survive? Although $500,000 in insurance money sounded like a fortune, it would only last so long. She couldn’t believe that was the only policy Mike had purchased. She should have paid closer attention to their finances. She should have paid closer attention to their marriage.
Robin heard a shuffling of feet and turned to see her daughters approaching. Ashley was holding her laptop, the lid open. The girls were smiling. Kim was pointing at the screen.
“Mom, we have something to show you,” Ashley said.
Stepping behind the girls and looking over their shoulders at the laptop screen, Robin said, “Okay. I hope it’s something funny. I could use a laugh today.”
Kim said, “It depends upon your perspective, Mom.” Kim pointed at a number on the screen. “This is Ashley’s online investment account. Do you remember when Dad set us both up with college funds?”
“Yes, but I never paid much attention. My understanding from Dad was that you really weren’t doing much except depositing some of your allowance.”
“Mostly true, Mom,” Ashley said. “But…do you see this balance?”
Squinting, Robin stared at a number. She read aloud, “Two million, two-hundred-three thousand, four-hundred eighty-two.” Robin reflected for a moment. “Is that dollars?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s dollars,” Kim said with a smirk.
Clutching Ashley gently by the arm and whirling her around, Robin asked, “Where did that money come from, Ashley?”
“It came from Dad,” Ashley said.
“Please explain.”
Ashley pursed her lips and then opened her mouth. She said, “Dad told me that he was involved with an investment that was making us lots of money. He wanted to keep it a secret, so he periodically deposited the proceeds into my account.”
“You’re serious?” Robin asked with raised eyebrows. Her thoughts wandered. She remembered the months they had borrowed from a savings account to pay the bills.
“Dad got me interested in finance. I learned about investing. My portfolio did well. I almost doubled Dad’s deposits.”
“My little sister is a badass!” Kim exclaimed, raising a fist in the air. “And all this time I thought she was a Girl Scout!”
Robin plopped down onto the arm of the sofa and said, “And you kept this a secret?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. Daddy made me promise. And honestly it just seemed like a game to me.” Ashley waved her hand across the laptop screen. “They were just numbers on the computer, not dollars.”
“Who else knows about this, Ashley?” Robin asked.
“Just the three of us.”
“It has to stay that way. Do you girls understand?” Robin said, staring into the wide eyes of both daughters. Kim and Ashley nodded in unison. Mentally crossing her fingers, Robin hoped the FBI wouldn’t make a new discovery. The three of them just might be all right.
Robin began to smile for the first time in days. “Thanks for making me laugh, girls.”
*
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LOCKOUT by John J. Nance
The newest aviation thriller from New York Times bestselling author John J. Nance. “A wild ride in the night sky.” (Capt. “Sully” Sullenberger, author of New York Times bestseller Sully). Whoever electronically disconnected the flight controls of Pangia Flight 10 as it streaks toward the volatile Middle East may be trying to provoke a nuclear war. With time and fuel running out, the pilots risk everything to wrest control from the electronic ghost holding them on a course to disaster. “As good or better than any of his previous works. Hop aboard Pangia flight 10 - if you dare.” (Charles Gibson, former anchor ABC World News)
