The Wreck Emerged

by Joseph Webers

  He ate a lot of meals at different Starbucks cafes, not because he liked the food or coffee but because they had free Internet. He frequently went to news sites, especially American ones, to learn the fate of Wilson’s Bakery. Nothing was ever reported. In trying to find out about his team in Bakersfield, he had to endure many newscasts about the investigation into the shooting down of Air World Airlines flight 94, and an endless replaying of the interviews with the survivors. There had been no mention of Prisha, ever.

  He spent the night of July 9 in a hotel in Vienna. In the morning, the BBC London News Desk announced the arrival, complete with fanfare and many well-wishers, of the woman from Bristol and her baby girl who had survived the plane crash. One of their own. The news clip showed them coming through the airport arrival gate with much cheering in the background.

  As Rishaan changed the channel, an airline representative was presenting her with a bouquet of roses, with a clap on the back to her traveling companion. He found a German-speaking shopping channel and turned the volume up to overcome the lingering sounds of England in his ear. He wanted to throw up.

  He continued, though, to find that woman on the Internet. To Rishaan, she had become the symbol of his failure. His failure to slow the advance of global warming, as well as his failure to fulfill his promise to the only one who had ever mattered to him. Prisha Bakshi. He was the one, and he had failed. There was only one way to make it right, and he would, for Prisha, when the opportunity came his way.

  His determination took him in a new direction, Amsterdam, the city where anything goes. In Amsterdam, as he was googling her yet again, a radio station in Bristol posted a headline on their website announcing that Maggie Trillbey would be sharing her story in Cheltenham, the town where she had grown up, time and place to be announced soon. He had bookmarked that website.

  The next day, July 16, he wandered around the not-so-well-traveled areas of the city until he found a firearms shop. He looked at the displays of pistols, and overheard a customer conversing with the shopkeeper.

  “I’d like to buy that Glock 17,” the customer said.

  “Do you have a license?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t think I needed one until I actually wanted to shoot it.”

  “What do you know about firearms? I could get in trouble if I sold a gun to someone who didn’t know what they were doing.”

  “My father taught me. I will be shooting with him at a range in Zwanenburg.”

  “Okay. If you can completely disassemble and reassemble this gun, I will sell it to you. You have ten minutes.”

  It took him only eight minutes, and the sale was made.

  Rishaan pointed to the Ruger he was considering. “How much for that and fifty rounds of ammunition?”

  The shopkeeper named a price that Rishaan decided was a little high.

  “Thanks. If that’s the best price I can find, I’ll come back.”

  “If you come back, I’ll give you the ammunition free.”

  Rishaan went back to his hotel, found a YouTube video of the “Field-stripping and Re-assembly of the Ruger 9mm Security 9”, watched it fifteen times, and returned to the gun shop.

  “Back, I see,” the shopkeeper said. “Didn’t find a better deal, did you?”

  “No, not with the bullets thrown in.”

  “Do you know about pistol shooting?”

  “I learned on a Glock 17, but I would like to try the Ruger.”

  The shopkeeper was still being careful. “What’s the number one rule in firearms safety?”

  “Don’t point it at someone if you don’t intend to shoot her.”

  It just slipped out; Rishaan didn’t even realize he had said “her”. But the shopkeeper guffawed loudly and put a box of fifty bullets and two empty magazines on the counter.

  “It’s different than the Glock in that it has a manual safety lever.” The shopkeeper showed Rishaan how to disengage the safety, how to release the magazine, and how to push out the pin to start the disassembly process. The money changed hands, and Rishaan left the store with his purchases in a plain brown paper bag.

  Back at the hotel, Rishaan watched another YouTube video on how to actually shoot the Ruger. He went out to the river after that, to shoot five rounds into a sandbank, just for practice.

  The next morning, the radio station website announced that Maggie Trillbey’s talk would start at 6:30 p.m. on the following day, July 18, at the Doubletree Hotel on the A435 Highway.

  The pistol, two full magazines, and the other fifteen rounds were now in Rishaan’s backpack. The bus was in the station and would leave in a few minutes. Rishaan got on the bus, and that same black cloud got on with him.

  140

  Maggie arrived at the Doubletree Hotel at 6 p.m., with her mother, Jenny, and Matt. Charlotte chose a seat at the end of the back row, so she could mind Jenny’s stroller. Maggie found the host for the evening’s meeting at the front of the room, fussing over the placement of chairs, cameras, sound equipment, and a large presentation monitor.

  “Hullo,” he said. “Take a look around and see if this will work for you. The radio station doesn’t usually fret about cameras, but this is special tonight. I’ll load your photos onto the monitor and show you how to use the remote.”

  Maggie was satisfied with the setup and handed him her memory stick. After she introduced Matt, she asked, “How do you plan to conduct the program?”

  “Do you feel comfortable standing on this platform? If so, everyone should be able to see you. There are four hundred seats, so you’ll need a lapel mic or else they won’t hear you very well in the back. I’ll have three chairs, one for me, one for you, and one for Matt. At half past the hour, I’ll introduce you and you can begin. It was nice of you to indulge us all. Thank you.”

  “I appreciate the chair,” Matt said, “but this is Maggie’s show. After she introduces me and has me tell my brief part, I’ll go to the back with her mom. I’ll come back up when it’s time for questions. I know it’s really Maggie they came to see. This is her hometown and she’s a hero to them all.”

  The room was beginning to fill up. “Yes, I can stand on the platform,” Maggie said. “I may move around a bit. I’m a teacher, so I’m used to standing and talking. I’ll call on Matt to bring Jenny forward when it’s time to show her foot.”

  At half past six, the room had filled and the host began the program, introducing Maggie and dimming the lights slightly.

  She started by introducing Matt and having him tell the audience what he had whispered to her shortly after they met on the plane, how God had promised he would show himself strong for her. After he left the platform, she started her story at the point where she had gotten on the plane in Chicago.

  After about a half hour, she had gotten just past the part where the shark had thrown up Jenny, where Matt had explained that God had a plan to rescue mankind. Suddenly the side door flew open and a man wearing dark slacks and a worn light-colored Nehru jacket burst through. He ran to the front and stopped directly in front of Maggie.

  She watched as the man pulled a large pistol out of his waistband. As he pointed it at her chest, her mind flashed back for a split second to the images she saw when Matt told her of Jesus being with her forever. The car on the icy bridge, as it careened off the guardrail, missing her completely; as it hit her, putting her in the hospital with broken bones and internal injuries; and as it pushed her over the guardrail into the waiting arms of heaven.

  Her words to Lance Corporal Juan Wilson echoed in her mind, when she had described the images God showed her for him. “You may choose one,” she had told him.

  “Whichever!” her spirit responded to her Lord, who would be with her forever. Then, as his finger pressed the trigger, she was alone again with Matt on their little boat, when she looked up into his smiling face as he was saying, “Maggie, that was so much the right answer!”

  141

  JC Smalley was still in Washington, DC. Harper and Penny had gone back
to Chicago. Phil Henry had wanted JC to stay close to FBI headquarters until there was some resolution about Rishaan Chabra’s location and status. JC had found he lacked a significant job there, so he had invited Nicki to come and they had spent several days in the museums.

  In the middle of the day on July 18, Phil had called him to a meeting at Bob McGee’s CIA office, so Nicki had gone off shopping.

  “Something isn’t adding up,” Bob said, “and when I mentioned it to Phil, he said the same thing. You’re a fresh mind, so to speak, so you may see something we’re missing.”

  “Bob, have you heard anything from Rudy?” JC asked.

  “Yes. It’s strange, in the same way that it was strange before. He was feeding me little bits, as if he weren’t supposed to be telling me. But he doesn’t go off on his own, and we both know that. I think it’s just a ploy. On the fourteenth, he said he was going to give me an equation, which was ‘Rishaan Chabra equals Nimit Malhotra.’ I passed that to our man in New Delhi. Yesterday, Chuck called me back and said a Nimit Malhotra had flown from the Indira Gandhi Airport to Zagreb, Croatia, on the sixth, the day they got Singh and the day Chabra escaped Allahabad.”

  “Tell me about all these maps. Phil told me about the maps Jon Whitaker found in Bakersfield, but I understand you got similar maps from India and Italy. Did China send you anything?”

  “Yes, they were so happy to get the info they gave us a copy of all their findings. We haven’t gotten much translated, but they sent us maps. We translated anything having to do with them.”

  They spread out all the maps on a table, grouped by cell. The groups were similar; there was the main delivery route for the targeted cities, city maps of those and up to a half dozen additional cities, and a map of the garage location in the city where the warehouse was located, showing where an additional delivery truck was being stored.

  “These cells had other similarities, too,” Bob said. “A visit from Chabra in early March, somewhat lax document and phone security, and all seemed to spring up around the same time, about last December. We’re getting some results back from the questioning, too. All the prisoners are isolated from each other. They all refused to talk about anything, but in every case, after five days, they started to talk. They started admitting their association with Chabra, especially when confronted with the documents.”

  JC didn’t know much about interrogations. “Is that normal?”

  “No, some are tougher than others and hold out longer. It’s almost as if they’re all following the same instructions.”

  “It seems obvious to me that Luka Stanković is involved,” Phil said. “Has he disappeared too, or has his name come up?”

  “Nothing positive about him. When Chuck called yesterday, he mentioned a strange phone call alleging Stanković was dead. They arrested Rushil Singh, but there is no body and no proof. They are trying to track this down. And his papers still haven’t surfaced. Chabra was a chemical engineer. It’s likely he and Stanković worked together on this upgrade to the chemicals.”

  “Let’s go back to the maps,” JC said. “Something is bothering me about them. I’m thinking out loud here. Why have a map to the spare vehicle? Why not simply park it in the warehouse parking lot? Or in the warehouse itself? Maybe they were trying to hide it from someone, and perhaps someone else was going to pick it up. But who?”

  “Why would they do that, JC?” Phil asked.

  “I don’t know. Do any of the documents show Singh ever coming to visit? He’s the right-hand man, so wouldn’t you think he’d come here from time to time?”

  “It doesn’t appear he ever left India,” Phil had said. “At least to come to California.”

  They had all sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking.

  JC was considering the two main players. A role reversal? Suddenly, he stood up and smacked his palm into his forehead. “DUH!”

  “What?” the other two said at once.

  “What if Singh were not the right-hand man?”

  “Okay,” Bob said. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Suppose he was the mastermind behind Chabra. Suppose Singh works for the same entity Rudy works for. Suppose Singh doesn’t care a whit about global warming. Suppose it was Chabra they were trying to hide the extra vehicle from. Suppose those maps are extra cities not known to Chabra that the extra vehicles, tanks, and chemical agent were going to visit.

  “Suppose the Russians saw a fool wanting to end global warming by any means possible and sent Singh there to egg him on. Suppose Singh brought Stanković with him. Suppose Stanković told his handlers about the agent binding with the pollution to become long-lasting.”

  “Of course!” Bob said. “They lost him, and the chemicals were bought anyway. Instead of just wiping out some cities in a few polluting countries, now Russia itself would be threatened. I see it now. All Rudy’s communications with us have been to point us toward Chabra and away from them. The prisoners may have been told that if they gave up the information about Chabra, the true perpetrators might never come to light.”

  “For what purpose?” Phil asked.

  “Ten major cities in the US. Ten major cities in China. Ten major cities in Europe,” JC said. “The world in chaos except for one place. Russia. All their major opposition would be unable to stand against them, because they wouldn’t really be sure what happened. Except now Russia is just as vulnerable as the rest of the world.”

  “So what do we do now?” Phil asked. “The threat has pretty well been neutralized this time, but they may try it again somewhere else.”

  “Not with that formula,” JC said. “They know what would happen in their own country if they used it anywhere in the world. What I’m curious about, is why didn’t they simply take out these cells themselves?”

  “Because the plane was shot down, and then it surfaced,” Bob said. “Once that happened, they had to let it play out. Otherwise, when we found out the details and the suppliers, those cells would be gone. They wouldn’t have a Rishaan Chabra and global warming to point the finger at. I imagine they had a Plan B to take out the cells if we didn’t figure it out in time.”

  Bob started writing a few notes. “The first step is to let them know we’re onto them. I’m going to accuse them through Rudy. Based on his response, I’ll then ask why we shouldn’t tell the whole world. First, though, I need to get this to my boss for his okay.”

  Bob came back in five minutes. He looked at his watch. “It’s about three. I got the okay from the boss. We worked out the language, and I contacted Rudy. I’ll meet him in the usual spot in a few minutes.”

  Bob showed Phil and JC the note he was holding. It said, “We know what you’re trying to do.”

  142

  The man squeezed the trigger as hard as he could, but nothing happened. “I hate you!” he had shrieked, but in his fury, he had missed the step of moving the manual safety lever to the armed position. Trembling with rage, he attempted to flip the safety lever, but managed only to depress the button that released the magazine, which thumped softly onto the carpet floor.

  By this time the onlookers were starting to recover from their temporary paralysis. An off-duty bobby realized there was still a live bullet in the chamber. He rushed forward. A man and a woman on the front row darted in front of Maggie to shield her. Maggie gently pushed them aside, and stood exposed to her attacker.

  Suddenly, the man threw the gun down and fell to his knees, wailing loudly.

  Three men near the front, realizing the danger was past, forced him to the floor, face down on the carpet. The man offered no resistance, but kept wailing mournfully, softer now. Several 9-9-9 calls went out simultaneously.

  The bobby who had retrieved the gun and magazine came over to Maggie. “Are you all right?”

  Maggie, shaken, nodded. “Do you know this man?” he asked her.

  Maggie was breathing deeply, perhaps too deeply, as the bobby reached her. He grabbed her by the elbow to steady her until she could st
and on her own. Then she relaxed.

  “I need to sit down,” she said. “No, I’ve not seen him before. I could tell by looking at him, though, that he saw something just now.”

  “I just got back from India where I was in security for the Diplomatic Corps. Do you know what he is saying?”

  “No, but he does look Indian. I don’t know any of the Indian languages. He seems to know English, though.

  “Yes, he does. It is Hindi. He is basically saying, ‘I’m sorry, Prisha.’ Apologizing all different ways.”

  About that time the police arrived. The host of the meeting filled them in on what happened, and they pulled Rishaan to his feet and handcuffed him. They were about to drag him away, when Maggie rushed over and said, “No! Wait!”

  The host said, “Inspector, this is Maggie Trillbey, the woman this man tried to shoot.”

  “Before you take him away,” Maggie said, “I want to talk to him. Have him sit in that chair.”

  She got down on one knee, even with the man’s face, which he had buried in his hands. “Look at me,” she said. “What did you see?”

  The man looked up and tried to point behind her, but the handcuffs restricted his arms. He burst into tears.

  143

  Bob was back quickly. “I gave him the message,” he told Phil and JC. “He just played dumb. So I said, ‘India, Serbia, United States, China.’ He said, ‘Yeah, so what?’ I said, ‘We can let this play out in the world, but there is no need to scare everybody, especially in your own country.’ He knew exactly what I meant, about the pollution carrying the nerve agent to Russia, so he said, ‘What do you want from us?’ I told him we knew Rishaan Chabra wasn’t the mastermind, even though he might think he is. I also told him we would never let this happen again. I told him we wanted some acknowledgement.”

  “Since we stopped it before anything happened,” Phil said, “it would be really hard to tie them to anything. What did Rudy say?”