by Rick Mofina
His name is Talal Nasser. He’s a friend of mine, Betty had said. I had to set this up. That’s why it took so long to get back to you.
Thanks, Betty. You’re a lifesaver.
I owe you big-time for helping me, Kate. Good luck.
The reception area opened to an inner atrium overlooking a courtyard garden and waterfall. The Kuwaitis were gathered in one of the hotel’s fifty meeting rooms, but Betty had instructed Kate to be alone at the bar in the Seven Seas Lounge at 3:00 p.m. to wait for Nasser. Betty had sent him a picture of Kate and he would find her.
Kate was fifteen minutes early. She ordered a Coke and checked her phone for new messages. She had two. The first was from Chuck in New York, where it was midmorning.
How’s it going?
I’ve got a possible lead.
Good, keep us posted.
The second message was from Reeka.
Have you got anything for today for me to list on the story schedule?
Give me a break, Reeka.
Shaking her head, Kate bit her bottom lip as she typed.
Not yet but I’m working on it.
Kate began reading the latest online reports on the crash. Not much new had surfaced in the British press, and nothing from the Associated Press, Reuters or Bloomberg had linked it to EastCloud.
Kate went back to the warning message.
Your story’s good, but it’s wrong. What happened to that jet will happen again. I know because I made it happen and unless you announce my triumph, we’ll make it happen again. This time it’ll be worse. Watch the skies. We are Zarathustra, Lord of the Heavens.
Again, Kate began weighing the factors of the EastCloud flight and the tragedy at Heathrow when a man approached her at the bar. She guessed him to be in his late forties. He had a neatly trimmed beard that accentuated his dark eyes. He was above-average height and wore a well-cut suit that flattered his build. He had a leather-bound binder tucked under one arm.
“Excuse me, are you Kate Page?”
“Yes, I’m Kate Page.”
“Talal Nasser. We have a mutual friend who suggested I talk with you.”
“Yes. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Perhaps we’d be more comfortable over there.” He nodded to a booth that had just become available. Kate reached into her bag to pay her tab. “I’ve taken care of it,” Nasser said.
“Thank you.”
A moment after they were seated a server appeared.
“Would you like another drink?” Nasser asked.
“Sure.” Then to the server, “I’ll have another Coke, please.”
Nasser ordered water. When they were alone they exchanged business cards. He studied Kate’s briefly before slipping it inside his pocket.
“I’m here as a courtesy to Betty,” he said. “My father’s one of Kuwait’s more progressive businessmen. She wrote a nice story on him, and my family considers her a very good friend.”
“I understand.” Kate glanced at his card. “You’re a lead technician with the ASD?”
“That’s correct, and in meeting with you, I’m violating the protocol for air-accident investigation. Therefore you must never use my name or any information that might identify me. This is strictly confidential.”
“Agreed.”
Nasser glanced at his watch.
“I’m afraid I have little time. We’re meeting at AAIB headquarters with the NTSB and other officials, so we should come to the point.”
“May I take notes?”
Nasser nodded.
“What do you suspect is the cause?”
“We’re too early into the investigation to know. The crew is in stable condition in the hospital. The AAIB recovered the flight data recorder yesterday.”
“Did you listen to it?”
Nasser nodded.
“Does it give you an indication?”
“It might point to a systems issue or it could be a human factor. It’s too soon.”
“Are you aware of a recent incident with EastCloud Flight Forty-nine Ninety from Buffalo to New York City?”
“Yes.”
“It was a Richlon-Titan aircraft with the same fly-by-wire system as the Shikra Blue Wing.”
“We’re aware.”
“Will you be looking for a link?”
He hesitated for a moment, rubbing his chin in concentration.
Kate remained silent, waiting for him to answer.
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said.
Tell me, Kate thought. Tell me.
Nasser looked as if he was reappraising her.
“Betty spoke highly of you. She said you could be trusted to be responsible with sensitive information.”
Kate nodded, inviting him to continue.
“You’re aware,” he said, “that the International Civil Aviation Organization encourages countries to share risk advisories and information about threats?”
“Yes, I picked that up in my research.”
“Recently, there was a threat against an aircraft.”
“You’re talking about the threat I received at Newslead?”
“We’ve been advised of that, through the ICAO and the NTSB, but no, I’m talking about a threat that came to us.”
“What?”
“Our embassy here in London received an anonymous email suggesting unspecified harm to an aircraft.”
Kate froze. This was huge.
“Was the Shikra flight targeted?” she asked. “Were there any demands? Can you share a copy?”
“Hold on, please.”
“Was it from Zarathustra? Do you have the details?”
“No, I didn’t see it. I was only briefed on it.”
“Was it sent before or after the crash?”
“I believe it was after. But I’m not clear on that.”
“Can you get a copy and share it with me?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.” He glanced at his watch. “I know it was with Kuwaiti security, who were assessing its credibility with British authorities and the FBI.”
“Do they have any suspects?”
“No, we’ve not heard anything like that.”
“Isn’t the airline industry concerned? Shouldn’t you be taking some sort of action or warning the public?”
“We take these matters most seriously—safety is our top priority. But allow me to give you some context. I’m told that the email we received was vague, with no specific details. This kind of threat is not uncommon. Whenever we have details in these matters, such as an implied action against a specific flight, or information that could make a threat more credible, then we take immediate action by alerting the public and investigating. If needed, we’ll ground a fleet or halt operations, but that’s a major undertaking.”
“But you cannot rule out the possibility that the two emails are linked and that someone may have caused the problems to both flights?”
“That’s a dangerous, hypothetical leap, Ms. Page.”
“But you can’t rule it out, can you?”
“No, at this stage, nothing can be ruled out.” Nasser leaned forward. “I shared this information with you as background with context. I’m being forthright out of respect for our mutual friend who assured me you could be trusted to handle information with the appropriate sensitivity.”
“Of course.”
“We have fifteen deaths and nearly one hundred injured passengers and crew. Let me emphasize to you that our responsibility as investigators is to determine what caused this disaster. To do so we’ll focus on indisputable evidence, not speculation and wild claims.” He held Kate in his gaze until it was nearly uncomfortable, then shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you. Now, if yo
u’ll excuse me, I must leave.”
For several moments after Talal Nasser left, Kate sat quietly, digesting the enormity of what had just been revealed to her.
She had just landed one of the biggest stories in the world.
After ordering a coffee, she collected her thoughts, then began writing an exclusive on the link between the tragedy of Shikra Airlines Flight 418 in London and the terrifying EastCloud flight in New York. To protect Nasser, she was careful to leave out references to sources connected to Kuwait, or specifics about an email.
Investigators are assessing the emergence of a thread common to both ill-fated flights, Newslead has learned...
Kate then pulled in all the current background, public, on-the-record statements from the airlines and investigative agencies. Upon completing her piece, she sent it to New York.
* * *
“Here is good,” Kate told her cabdriver.
Shops and businesses stood on both sides of the street of the commercial section, a few blocks from Kate’s hotel in Earls Court.
It was late afternoon as she returned from meeting Nasser. She was hungry and pumped about her story, but a bit concerned.
Why am I not getting any feedback on it from New York?
She entered the Six Bells Pub, let her eyes adjust to the dim light and found a small booth. After ordering fish and chips and a Coke, she took in the two large TV screens above the bar. One was tuned to soccer, the other to a news channel. Kate checked her phone; still nothing from Newslead, so she texted Grace.
Miss you like crazy, sweetie.
She then sent messages to Vanessa and Nancy just before her order arrived. The plate was heaping, the food was good, and she’d managed to eat half when her phone rang with a call from Chuck Laneer.
“Great story, Kate, but we can’t use it.”
“Why not?”
“We’re not there yet.”
“What do you mean, ‘We’re not there yet’? We have the link. It’s why you sent me here. Chuck, it’s a world exclusive.”
“I know, but we have to nail it down. We need on-the-record confirmation on the link.”
“But we can confirm this. We received the first email. We know that’s a fact. We know both jets have the same RT fly-by-wire systems and I trust my source on the threat the Kuwaitis received.”
“Do you? Did you see that email?”
“No.”
“Do you know exactly what it says? Do you know what language it’s written in?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it exists?”
She had nothing to say. Chuck was right.
“Kate,” he said, “we need to be on the money. We can’t be wrong with so much at stake. Remember your journalism history. News outlets thought they’d identified the Boston bombers and they were wrong. One of the networks based a story critical of President Bush’s military service on false records someone supplied them and they were wrong. The press identified a security guard as the Atlanta Olympic bomber, and they were wrong. Before that, Chicago news agencies identified a Middle Eastern man as the suspect in the Oklahoma City bombing and they were wrong. We cannot risk damaging our credibility on what is a global story.”
Silence passed between them.
“Kate, you’ve done good work. I’ll weave some of your story with the copy we’ve got coming out of London and give you a byline. But we’re not touching the link until you have it nailed. You’re on the right track. You just need to take it the rest of the way. All right?”
She didn’t respond, her disappointment registering in the silence.
“All right, Kate?” Chuck repeated.
“Sure.”
After the call, defeat and fatigue washed over her. To tend to her despair, she moved to the bar, ordered a tea and stared at the TV. For the next few hours, as the bar filled, she struggled to rescue her work. She put in a call to Nick Varner at the FBI and got his voice mail, but didn’t leave a message. She texted him but he didn’t respond.
Soon she saw the Newslead stories filed from London, including one with her byline. It was straightforward with nothing about the link, and she felt another stab of failure.
“Allo, what’s this?” A red-faced man in about his late forties, thick curly hair mussed, tied loosened, a beer in his hand, stood next to Kate, smiling. “Aye been watching you. You’re lookin’ dreadfully forlorn for such a pretty bird. My name’s Dick. Can I be of service?”
Kate looked at him and grinned.
“Why yes, Dick, you can.”
“You name it. Anything you want, luv.” He smiled back.
“I want you to piss off.”
Dick’s smile vanished. He turned, cursing her as he staggered off.
Kate shook her head and stared at the TV. News reports showed footage of victims of the Heathrow crash in body bags, or covered with tarps, then cut to relatives in London and Kuwait. The agony in their faces was unbearable.
Never, ever, forget what this is really about.
Kate whispered a prayer for them, paid her bill and left.
The sun had set but it was not yet full night as she walked to her hotel. Parked cars lined the quiet street. At one point a shout echoed, and Kate turned, thinking she saw a distant shadow behind her.
Is it that drunk from the bar?
She reached into her bag and checked the address for her hotel. It wasn’t far. She crossed the street between parked cars and picked up her pace. She felt relieved a few minutes later when she entered the lobby and took the elevator to her floor.
That was crazy.
She was tired and began to undress for bed when a tiny knot of unease tightened in her stomach.
That’s strange.
Earlier, she’d unpacked a sweater and set it on the seat of the desk chair, atop a file folder that held story clips and NTSB reports. Now the sweater was draped over the chair’s backrest and the pages were peeking from the folder.
I don’t remember doing that.
She looked at her suitcase in the corner. It had been moved slightly, as well.
That’s not how I left it.
She blinked, thinking back to the moment before she’d left the room for her meeting at Heathrow. Something was amiss. Seconds later the phone was in her hand.
“Front desk, how may I assist you?”
“Kate Page in three twenty. Was there service in my room today?”
Kate heard the clicking of a keyboard.
“Checking for you... Nothing showing. Do you require service?”
“No, thanks. But can you tell me if anyone was in my room? Maintenance? Any staff for any reason?”
More clicking on the keyboard, then the clerk said, “One moment.” Kate was put on hold to Elton John singing “Tiny Dancer.” Then the clerk came back. “We have no indication that anyone was in your room. Is there a problem, Ms. Page?”
Kate hesitated.
“No. Thank you.”
Exhaustion from the flight, as well as the stresses and challenges of the story, pushed down hard on her as she got undressed.
Maybe it’s all in my head?
She reached for her phone, looked at news footage of the Shikra crash, then fell asleep with questions unanswered and mysteries unresolved.
Twenty-Five
Manhattan, New York
Deep inside the FBI’s New York Field Office at 26 Federal Plaza in Lower Manhattan, Special Agent Nick Varner headed for the Cyber Crimes floor with guilt flickering in the back of his mind.
He hated that he had to ignore the latest plea for help from Kate Page, especially since he’d invited her to keep him posted on matters concerning the Zarathustra threat.
Sorry, Kate, I just can’t get back to you
right now.
Varner closed her most recent message on his phone and studied other information. The cyber team had not yet identified the source of the Zarathustra email. He was concerned because by this time, in the majority of cases, the FBI’s cyber experts would have yielded the information needed to provide a suspect, a physical address, a warrant and an arrest.
They had nothing like that so far.
But are they close? That’s what I need to know.
Varner’s concern had mounted since he’d been advised of the email the Kuwaitis had received shortly after the Shikra crash in London.
He read it again on his phone.
Sorrow and pain for one of your planes –Z
It lacked details. It was written in Kuwaiti Arabic but signed with a plain Z and it had been sent to a general public email comment box at the Kuwaiti Embassy in London some twenty-four hours after the crash. The Z—it could represent “Zarathustra.” In the wake of the Shikra crash, Kuwaiti intelligence had shared it with Scotland Yard and the UK’s National Crime Agency, and the FBI through its legal attachés at the US Embassies in London and Kuwait City. Investigators were working on determining the source, its credibility and any connection to the previous threat.
Varner stepped off the elevator into rows of white-topped desks that took up half the floor. Each was occupied with agents and cyber experts working nonstop on analyzing every type of suspected cyber activity imaginable.
Ron Sanchez’s face was bathed in the blue glow of the monitors at his desk, a portrait of sober concentration as he worked. The top button of his crisp white shirt was undone; his tie was loosened.
“Got anything for me?” Varner said.
Sanchez reached for his ceramic coffee mug and sipped from it without pulling his eyes from the three monitors at his station. He shook his head slowly.
“What do you make of the Kuwaiti email, Ron?”
“We’ve got Paplinksi and Wong on it and they’re in touch with the Brits and Kuwaitis.”
“Great. So where are we with Zarathustra?”
Sanchez’s shoulders rose as he inhaled, let his breath out slowly and turned to Varner.
“The sender of the email is using onion router technology. That is, they’re attempting to ensure secrecy by randomly routing the message through a multitude of places online, wrapped in layer upon layer of encryption.”
