by Rick Mofina
But since London, she was getting nowhere, and her frustration was growing, a problem exacerbated after her encounters in the newsroom this morning—first, with Sloane.
“Welcome back, Kate. Read your stuff out of London. Looks like your jaunt there was a bust,” he’d said. “It’s like I told you, there’s no link between Heathrow and the LaGuardia plane. Different aircraft and different airline. Just a tragic coincidence.”
“On what grounds do you come to that conclusion?”
“My sources in the industry and my read of things,” he said. “Look, now the British tabloids are reporting that Shikra Airlines had a history of maintenance issues with its doomed jet.”
“So? That’s speculation.”
“And let’s face it, it looks more and more like that Buffalo incident was pilot error and your fan mail was from a whack job.”
“What I don’t get, Sloane, is why you’re so quick to dismiss these events.”
Before he answered, Reeka approached them and addressed Kate.
“I’m going to talk to Chuck. If your airline story’s fizzled I’m going to give you other assignments. We can’t be wasting time and resources.”
Fortunately, Chuck had come over, picked up the tail end of Reeka’s comment and intervened.
“I think we need to keep Kate on this. We’re a long way from folding the tent on this one.”
When Reeka left, Chuck turned to Kate and said, “You’ve done good work, but I need you to break something on this soon. Build on what you learned in London. I know you can do it.”
At that point Kate launched another offensive, sending urgent, desperate messages to every source she had, begging them for help. It was Nick Varner who’d finally responded and suggested a private meeting at Columbus Park.
But he was already twenty minutes late and Kate’s heart was sinking.
Come on, Nick. Don’t leave me hanging like this.
She scanned the park and her phone vibrated with a text from Erich, one of her sources, a brilliant young cyber consultant. She only knew him by his first name, although she was aware he was known as “Viper” in his world. Erich was a cryptic, shadowy figure who’d done contract work for the CIA and the NSA. He’d helped her in the past and he was good.
Just finished a job in New Zealand. Been reading your stories and will help if I can when I get back to NY.
Encouraged, Kate exhaled.
This is good. I could use his expertise.
Kate thanked him, took solace in his promise and watched the fluid, calming ballet of the Tai Chi group.
“Hey, Kate.”
She turned to Nick Varner, who sat beside her.
“Sorry. I’m late and short on time.”
“I need help.”
“This is on your airline story with the email?”
“Yes.”
“What did you learn in London?”
“I learned that Shikra Airlines received an email concerning the crash at Heathrow. I think it’s linked to my Zarathustra email, the crash and the EastCloud flight.” Nick nodded, saying nothing, and Kate continued. “I was told the Shikra email was shared with the FBI. Is that right?”
Nick took his time before answering.
“Kate, give me your assurance that you won’t use anything I tell you.”
“You know you have it.”
“All right. The task force is looking at both emails as potential threats, and we’re assessing their veracity.”
“What about the connection to the flights? They’re linked, right?”
“I didn’t say that. First we have to find the sources of the threats and assess them.”
“Do you believe it’s the same source?”
“Too soon to say.”
“Can I get the FBI spokesperson on the record saying you are investigating the emails in relation to the two flights?”
Nick shook his head.
“Why not, Nick? We nearly lost the EastCloud flight. We’ve got fifteen dead people in London and somebody claiming responsibility in each case. The public has a right to know what’s going on.”
“They also have a right not to be unduly panicked and a right to a thorough investigation. Yes, making a threat is a criminal act, but we don’t have enough to shut down the airline industry based on two vague, unsubstantiated emails. We don’t know what we’re looking for yet. We have no solid evidence. You realize what would happen if this turned out to be a false alarm but got out the wrong way? People wouldn’t get on a plane. The economy would take a serious blow. And we’d be inundated with copycat threats.”
Kate cupped her face in her hands.
“Nick, can you give me an idea how close you are? How much longer before you have something?”
“I can’t answer that but I’ll tell you this. We’re using every resource we can because indications are that whoever is behind these messages is extremely skilled and intelligent.” Varner looked at his watch and patted Kate’s hand. “I have to leave but we’ll keep in touch.”
Kate sat for a moment alone, watching the old men play chess and the seniors continue with Tai Chi, as a jetliner roared over the East River.
Twenty-Nine
Hyattsville, Maryland
The stone bungalow sat back at the end of a dead-end street, sheltered by stands of oak and maples, not far from the University of Maryland.
“Baba O’Riley” thudded from the small, battered Chevy sedan that squeaked to a stop in the driveway. Setting the parking brake and leaving the motor running, the driver collected the insulated pizza bag, trotted to the door and rang the bell.
Veyda Hyde answered.
“That’ll be twenty-five seventy.” The driver slid the box from the bag.
“The pizza’s free.” She held up her phone. “You’re late.”
“No way! There was traffic and the offer says—”
“Delivered in thirty-three minutes or it’s free. You took thirty-nine minutes. I tracked your time from your call center.”
“I know, but the time rule says—”
“Any first-year law student could tell you that your advertised terms and conditions on the time rule are so sloppy they’re invalid. You’re late. The pizza’s free. Don’t argue with me. I’ve just taught you and your company a lesson. Consider that my tip.”
Veyda seized the pizza and shut the door just as the driver raised his middle finger.
Trailing the aroma of baked cheese, onions and pepperoni, she entered the living room where Seth waited on the sofa before a hundred-inch flat-screen TV. She set the pizza down on the coffee table, went to the kitchen and returned with paper plates, sodas and napkins. They pulled the tabs on the cans then dug into the pizza.
“Ready?” Seth chewed on his first bite.
“Okay.”
Seth wiped his fingers on his jeans and grabbed his phone, which he’d programmed to use as the TV’s remote control.
The screen came to life with Newslead’s footage showing the cabin of EastCloud Flight 4990 twisting out of control. Passengers were tossed violently like toys as the jet rolled. Bodies bounced over seats, smashed against walls. People screamed for their lives.
Images cut to news reports and the river of emergency lights in front of LaGuardia’s Terminal C. TV crews jostled with police to crowd around injured passengers on gurneys being loaded into ambulances.
“It was horrible!” one woman told reporters.
Seth finished off his pizza and picked up another slice.
Next, there came footage of the terminal’s baggage claim area, where news cameras had encircled passengers recounting their ordeal.
“People were hurled like rag dolls,” one man said.
With her eyes on the TV, Veyda sipped he
r ginger ale.
Seth belched and tapped his phone, and new footage ran, showing Shikra Flight 418 plowing into the ground at Heathrow. The right wing and landing gear broke up as the jet cartwheeled. The tail, fuselage and cockpit separated into pieces, scattering passengers before the wreckage ignited. Emergency vehicles sped to the disaster with lights flashing as rescuers worked to save lives, while others draped canvas over the dead.
Then there came news reports showing agonized relatives in Heathrow’s arrival area; some were inconsolable and collapsed.
“And now,” a British news anchor staring into the camera said, “authorities begin their long investigation to determine the cause of this horrific tragedy, the crash of Shikra Airlines Flight Four Eighteen.”
Veyda raised her palm to Seth, who slapped it in a high five.
“I told you we would do it,” she said. “Kate Page disappointed us. We selected her because her work was the best. We thought she was worthy to honor Zarathustra, to be part of history.”
“Her silence was a colossal failure.”
“Shikra was the price to be paid.” Veyda laughed to herself. “We’ll teach her a lesson. Soon she’ll be shouting Zarathustra’s praises to an awestruck world and we will rule the heavens.”
“This is our time, our destiny, baby. Everything’s in motion. For yours is the power...”
Veyda gave Seth a victory kiss, pulled away and said, “And the glory.”
Seth cued more news reports on Heathrow and they continued eating.
As images of the tragedy played out before them, Veyda basked in the knowledge that she and Seth were extraordinary humans who were in the process of making history and enlightening the world. She took quick stock of the bookcase and their new souvenirs: candles from Japan, an incense burner from India, a carving from the Canary Islands. She looked at their worktables across the room with the laptops, large computer monitors and the small desktop flight simulator they’d built. Through the patio doors, she saw the array of satellite dishes in the backyard, which was enclosed by a ten-foot hedge. They’d bought all the things they needed online.
Veyda reached for her ginger ale, reflecting on the triumphs and tragedies of her life.
She’d been six and her mother had been brushing her hair, telling her that she had an exceptionally high IQ. You’re our miracle. You’re going to accomplish monumental things when you grow up, sweetie. I know it in my heart.
Veyda let the memories flow.
Her mother’s teary smile when she’d applauded her from the audience, as she’d taken the auditorium stage to accept another academic award. As Mom had taken pictures, Veyda had searched for Dad, finding his empty chair.
Her father’s work had always come first, but her mother, a busy doctor, had always been there, like the sun in Veyda’s life. Ever encouraging, ever nurturing, ever loving, and always rationalizing her dad’s absences.
Well, he’s working on an important project and they need him at the plant. We’ll do something together next time, honey.
Veyda had been a solitary child. She hadn’t cared much for other kids. Her books and computers had been her friends. Her craving to learn had been insatiable. At times her father, when he’d been home, would explain theories and solve the mysteries behind the abstract concepts that had puzzled her.
Yes, she’d loved him then.
School had been easy for Veyda. She’d studied first at Pepperdine, then received a master’s degree in computer science from UC Berkeley. From there she’d gone on to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to pursue her PhD in aeronautic computer systems engineering. Her doctoral thesis was going to be about advanced computer engineering. She had been working on it when she’d taken a break to return home to California to visit her parents. She’d ached to see them. The brutal New England winter had deepened her loneliness and isolation.
That visit home had been the last moment of happiness Veyda would know. It had been a beautiful time, right up to the point when her father had decided messages about his work were more important than her mother’s life.
In the quiet of the night she’d heard crumpling metal, breaking glass, seen the sky spinning... Through a curtain of blood, she’d seen her mother’s shoe. She’d been pinned under the car... Her father had been on his knees holding her mother’s hand as she’d cried Veyda! with her dying breath...
The world Veyda had known ended that day because of her father.
Vehicular manslaughter. That’s what he’d been charged with, but his lawyer had had it reduced to a misdemeanor and kept him out of prison.
In the forty-eight hours after the crash, doctors had been uncertain Veyda would survive. Her skull had fractured in four places and she’d suffered a concussion. But somehow she’d fought back, beating the odds, regaining enough strength to demand she be allowed to attend her mother’s funeral in Clear River.
Standing at her mother’s gravesite, Veyda’s thoughts had swirled in a maelstrom of medicated anguish. She’d kissed her mother’s coffin and placed a rose upon it before it descended into the North Dakota ground. But it had been the sight of her broken father, peering into the hole with his tear-soaked face, that had crystallized one clear thought.
You killed my mother.
Veyda had grown to hate her father more with each passing day, hating him for sacrificing his family incrementally over the years, until it culminated in their final, life-altering tragedy.
What was worth more to you than my mother’s life?
She’d hurled that question at him one night as he’d sat alone in the dark, drinking. She’d bludgeoned him with it until he’d fallen to his knees before her.
I am in hell because of what I did. Nothing will ever change that. I will never ask for your forgiveness, Veyda, because I have no right to it.
After the tragedy she’d lived in California with him—the doctors had thought it best—while she’d recovered. A nurse had visited regularly. For weeks Veyda had endured jackhammer headaches so severe they’d brought on spasms and hallucinations. Then there’d been the nightmares. She’d undergone drug therapy and counseling, telling her psychiatrist that she had changed, that she was no longer Veyda Cole.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
Months after the crash she’d achieved a degree of recovery. On the outside, she’d appeared to be coping with her loss and her injuries. Yet in her heart something had cleaved. She’d barely been able to stand looking at her father, let alone speak to him. She’d wanted to return to MIT and finish her PhD as her way of honoring her mother’s memory.
The estate had been settled, with Veyda receiving a large sum of money from a trust her parents had established and additional money from her mother’s life insurance policy. Veyda had been planning to move back to Cambridge, when one day she noticed her father gathering her mother’s belongings to donate to charity.
Don’t you dare touch her things! I’ll do that, Veyda had told him.
She’d waited for a time when he was out of the house then, through tears, began boxing up her mother’s clothes, jewelry, pictures and other items, selecting what to donate and what to keep. Touching a favorite sweater, holding it to her face, breathing in her mother’s scent, tracing her fingers over her rings...it had all been so hard, and the more she’d tried, the angrier she’d got, until she’d been consumed again with rage.
Why, why, why did he do this?
Her fury had boiled over, and she’d stridden into her father’s study and to his computer. He was careless with his passwords. She’d known where he’d kept them. She’d begun opening his folders, files, his emails, going to those dated around the time of the crash. Her university studies and her research had enabled her to understand his work easily—there were times they’d discussed it—but she hadn’t known what specifically had consumed him that day unti
l then.
Flight-management systems.
That’s it? A debate over the interpretation of a security review? That’s what couldn’t wait? This is why my mother died?
Suddenly, Veyda’s brain had spasmed, pain knifing through her skull, so excruciating and piercing she’d found herself on the floor in a fetal position, her head clasped in her hands to keep it from tearing apart.
Her screams had resounded in the dark, empty house.
Veyda felt a hand on her shoulder, jolting her out of her reverie. She turned and looked at Seth.
“Everything okay?” he asked. “Do you want that last piece of pizza, babe?”
Thirty
Hyattsville, Maryland
Seth stopped the video, concern rising on his face.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked at her long enough to ease his worry before putting the last slice of pizza on his plate.
“Okay, then, I’m getting another soda. Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
Seth went to the kitchen and Veyda returned to her thoughts of that dark time after her mother’s death and how she’d rejected her father’s offer—more like a plea—to drive her to LAX. She’d taken a cab in the predawn light, leaving the house in darkness, knowing that she’d never return.
The life I knew is dead. It’s gone.
Her heart in turmoil, she’d been unable to sleep on her flight.
Veyda had read, finding comfort in her mother’s favorite philosophers. Then she’d turned to her own—Hegel and Nietzsche.
As her jet flew over America, she’d read nonstop.
She’d read with ferocity and yearning, squeezing meaning out of every word, sentence, concept and idea with desperation because somehow, at that moment, she’d felt like her life depended upon it.
At one point in the flight, she’d been hit with a severe headache, and took medication. As it did its work, Veyda had gazed down at the world below and had an epiphany.
