by Gina Cresse
“What sort of information?” I asked.
“Before you left, you gave him a CD containing some E-mail documents?”
“That’s right,” I answered, anxiously awaiting the rest of the message.
“He took it directly to his friend at the Los Angeles Times. The guy just about fell out of his chair when he read whatever was on that CD. Apparently, about a year ago, nearly every major newspaper in the country received a copy of an FAA report containing the page that was on your CD. The anonymous informant appealed to anyone receiving the document to investigate the official record. He stated in a letter included with the report that the final version of the report contained nothing about the questionable device found in the wreckage, and that the device had disappeared from the collection of evidence found at the crash site.”
“You’re kidding,” I replied in amazement. “Did they investigate it?”
“I don’t know about the other newspapers, but your uncle’s friend did. He said he went directly to the FAA and showed them the report he received. When questioned, the FAA officials insisted it was a hoax, initiated by some radical group trying to discredit the Administration. The FAA actually produced hundreds of similar documents sent in by other, as they put it, ‘extremists’, who supposedly unveiled the true cause of that crash. Some of them stated that aliens from another planet shot down the plane with lasers. Others claimed Russian satellites were responsible. One guy even accused his mother-in-law of putting a bomb on the plane because he was supposed to be on the flight. Anyhow, the report was labeled as a hoax and tossed in a pile with all the other discredited accounts of the accident.”
“So now that this missing page has turned up again, are they reconsidering the validity of the informant’s claims?” I said.
“Your uncle’s friend says it sure looks a lot more promising than it did a year ago, but he won’t do anything with it unless he meets with the anonymous informant to establish some sort of credibility.”
“Great. Except that I haven’t a clue who the informant is. It had to be someone involved in the investigation, or someone close to one of the investigators. Whoever it is must be afraid for his life if he can’t come forward with the evidence required to reopen the investigation. Somehow, I think our own government is involved. Why else would the FBI want me out of the picture?”
“FBI? What have they got to do with this?” Craig asked.
“Those two guys who were chasing me in Geneva were FBI agents. No one knew where I was staying in Del Mar, and no one knew about Jason’s involvement in this whole thing until I went to talk to them. That very night, my boat was destroyed and Jason was almost killed. Oh, poor Jason. How is he? Were you able to get some protection for him?”
“You don’t need to worry about Jason. The director over at the Med Center in Los Angeles is a good friend of mine. I had him transferred up there and arranged for his records to be ‘adjusted’, per my instructions. As of today, Jason’s identity is that of a Mr. Juan Fernandez. Anyone looking for Jason Walters in any hospital in Southern California will be sadly disappointed.”
“What about his family? Aren’t they going to wonder what this is all about?” I asked.
“I met with his family and explained that they were better equipped up in Los Angeles for taking care of Jason. They didn’t seem to mind, especially since they live in Glendale and the commute to the hospital is much shorter.”
“That’s good. How is he doing otherwise? Is he out of the coma yet?”
“I checked on him before they transported him. He was awake and asking for you. I explained to him that you were okay, and that he needed to stay under wraps until this whole thing blows over. He seemed to get the drift. Medically, he’s going to be okay.”
“That’s somewhat of a relief, but I’m not sure how this is ever going to ‘blow over’, as you put it.”
“One thing’s for sure. We need to get you in a safe hiding place. Then we should concentrate on finding out who this mysterious informant is, and what this FAA report is all about. If there’s government involvement in some sort of conspiracy, your only hope is going to be to expose it big time—blow the whole thing out of the water.”
“Like they did to my boat?”
“Exactly.”
“I know you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you. You have to take me back to the hotel,” I told him.
“What? Why in the world would you want to go back there? Those two agents will be watching your room around the clock.”
“I know, but I have to get the computer. I think there’s something very important on it.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t found it yet, but I will,” I said.
“You can’t go back there. Tell me where it is and I’ll figure out a way to get it,” he said.
After dark, we returned to Geneva and parked a short distance from the hotel.
“You stay here. I’ll just slip in, grab the computer, and slip back out,” Craig said with confidence.
“How do you intend to do that? Aren’t you the one who said they’d be watching my room?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find some supply closet and disguise myself as a bellboy. They do it in the movies all the time.”
“Why would a bellboy go to an empty room?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Okay. I’ll disguise myself as a maid. They’re always going into empty rooms.”
“Yeah, right. A six-foot-two maid with hairy arms and legs and a five o-clock shadow. They’d never catch on to that,” I said.
“Well, they might not. They are government workers, you know.”
“Very funny. We need a plan. I have an idea. I’m going to try to lure them away from the hotel. Can you camp out in the lobby and watch for them to leave?”
“What’s your plan?”
“They must have someone monitoring all airline ticket purchases. How else would they have known to follow me here? I’ll just go out to the airport, buy a ticket on the next flight back to the states, and they’ll rush out there to try and catch me. After you see that they’ve left, you can use my key to sneak in and grab the computer. I stuffed it behind the headboard of the bed.”
“Okay. Then you meet me right here as soon as you can.”
“Right. Oh… and Craig… while you’re in there, could you grab the little teal blue sweater hanging in the closet? It cost me sixty bucks, and I haven’t even worn it yet.”
“Yes, Dear. Anything else?”
“No. That should do it. Here’s the key. I’ll see you back here as soon as I can. Good luck.”
I collected the newly purchased airline ticket, along with my passport, and stuffed them into my purse, then walked briskly away from the ticket counter toward the long corridors leading to the exits. I’d left the car parked in the unloading zone with the driver-side door open. I just needed to hurry back out of the terminal and meet up with Craig.
I rounded a corner and passed two men wearing blue suits and skinny black ties. They looked like the computer geeks I used to deal with back in college—when IBM had such a large market-share in the industry. One talked on a cell phone while the other flipped through a stack of photographs. Then I heard the one on the phone say, “She just bought it?”
I stopped and turned. So did they. We stared each other down for a brief moment, then the one with the photos pointed an accusing finger at me. “That’s her!”
I broke into a full run, darting around and through the masses of people crowding the corridors. They were right on my tail. I was on the track team in high school—the hundred-yard dash was my event. My legs reminded me that eighteen years was a long time ago. Those two FBI agents behind me may have looked like geeks in their bland suits, but they ran as if they had just graduated from the academy. I rounded a corner and spotted my only hope of losing them—a group of about seventy-five Japanese tourists. I quickly squeezed my way into the middle of the crowd and waited f
or my pursuers to pass. When they realized they had lost me, they split up—each going down a separate corridor. I slipped back out of the crowd and headed in the opposite direction.
I pushed my way through an emergency exit, setting off the alarms. I couldn’t tell which way the terminal parking was. I seemed to be on the runway side of the building. Jogging along the dimly lit wall, I rounded the corner and there, on the other side of an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, was the roadway to the short- and long-term parking areas. I only needed to climb over, then determine if I should go left or right to get to the car.
I started to climb. Gingerly, I maneuvered one leg over the barbed wire. So far, so good. Then I tried swinging the other leg over, but my pant leg caught a barb. I found myself performing the splits on top of the fence. Finally, I managed to get some slack in the fabric and released my leg from the grip of the nasty barb. As soon as I freed my leg, I slipped and fell eight feet to the concrete below.
I lay motionless for about a minute, performing a mental examination of my body’s state. Nothing felt broken. I dragged myself to my feet. My legs seemed to be working. I glanced left, then right, then spotted the United Airlines terminal sign—where I had parked the car. I hurried along the rows of cars and pushed my way through crowds of people. A couple of airport security officials were standing next to my car, discussing the possibility of towing it, I assumed.
“I’ll move it,” I assured them.
“Is this your car?” one of them asked.
“Yes. I’ll get it right out of here.”
“Make sure you do. This zone is for loading and unloading passengers only.”
“I understand,” I said as I slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
As I pulled away from the curb, I spotted my two pursuers, frantically searching the area. I eased into the flow of traffic and slunk away—unnoticed.
I met up with Craig at our predetermined meeting place. He had successfully retrieved the computer, and my teal sweater, just as we’d planned. By the time Cooper and Willis realized I wasn’t on the plane, Craig and I were on our way out of Geneva and headed toward Paris.
Chapter Fifteen
We managed to find a private charter service at a small airfield outside of Paris that took us into Italy. I spread the word at the airport that I was interested in chartering a private jet to the United States, and that money was no object. Within thirty minutes, I had a string of Italian pilots offering their services. After interviewing a few of them, and inspecting their planes, I agreed to deal with the one who asked the fewest questions. I asked the pilot how soon he could be ready to take off.
“We can go any time. Actually, our home base is in Florida. I just flew Arnold over yesterday for a short vacation. He’s the president of the company that owns the plane. I’ll fly back to the States today and return next week to pick him up. The plane is fueled, wet bar and galley is stocked, and we’re ready to go.”
“Great. I just need to make one phone call before we leave,” I said, anxious to get in the air.
I phoned Kerstin and explained I had to flee the country quickly, and I would be back in touch with her as soon as I could. She seemed distressed that we hadn’t gotten a chance to meet.
Craig and I gathered the little gear we had and boarded the jet. “What a beautiful plane,” I said, admiring the exquisite aircraft. The plush carpeting and over-stuffed captain’s chairs gave more the feeling of entering someone’s living room rather than a flying bus—a nearly two-million-dollar flying bus.
“She is a beauty. Isn’t she?” Larry, the pilot, replied proudly. “She’s a Lockheed VC-140B Jetstar. Her wingspan is nearly fifty-five feet. She’s over sixty feet long and almost twenty-one feet high. She weighs in at about forty-one thousand pounds and is powered by four Pratt & Whitney J-60 turbojets, with three thousand pounds’ thrust each.”
“Wow. Sounds like we could give the Enterprise a run for her money. How fast can she fly?” I asked, anxious to know how soon we’d be back in the States.
“She’ll max out at nearly six hundred miles per hour, but our cruising speed is about five hundred and twenty.”
Another man boarded the jet and closed the cabin door behind him. “All set, Larry. Let’s hit it,” he said, enthusiastically.
“Okay. Al is our copilot,” Larry said. “Al. This is Devonie and Craig. They needed a lift back to the States, and I told them we could accommodate them.”
“Great,” Al said. “You folks vacationing here?”
Larry cut in. “We’re not supposed to ask them any questions, Al. Devonie has purchased a first class ticket with our little airline, and she has paid a premium for her privacy. I’ll split the proceeds with you, but you have to agree to her terms,” Larry said as he showed Al the bundle of cash I had given him.
“Great. Looks like I’ll be able to put that pool in after all,” Al joked. “You folks just take a seat right here and fasten your seat belts. We’ll be in the air soon. After we get to our cruising altitude, I’ll put on my flight attendant hat and dig something up from the galley. Hope you folks like prime rib.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I said as I settled into one of the seats and fastened myself in.
I hadn’t had so much fun on a flight since I was eight years old, the first time I rode the rocket ship ride at Disneyland. The prime rib was perfect, the wine was superb, and Al proved to be very entertaining. He told us jokes and recounted humorous stories all the way across the Atlantic. After we all treated ourselves to Coffee Almond Crunch Häagen-Dazs bars, Larry actually let me fly the plane. I banked turns to the left, then right. I learned about yaw and pitch and stalls, but I think I made Craig a little nervous. I was disappointed when I had to relinquish the controls so we could touch down in Miami.
“Thank you both, so much,” I said to Larry and Al as we stepped off the Jetstar. I looked back at the plane and noticed her name painted on the side. The Magic Carpet. How appropriate, I thought.
“Listen, Craig. I’m going to stay here in Florida for a while. They shouldn’t be able to find me here—at least for the time being. I think you should go on back to San Diego and let Uncle Doug know I’m okay.” I couldn’t let him know my real motivation for wanting him to go on ahead without me. I was beginning to feel too comfortable with his company. I found myself relying on him to share the burden of the load I was carrying, and I couldn’t let that happen. Too dangerous. Better to face the murderous villains who were after me than to let anyone get close to my heart. If I had to, I’d be cold and rude so he would go. That had always worked in the past.
“No way. I’m not leaving you alone to fend for yourself, Devonie,” he insisted.
“I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself. Besides, so far, they don’t know who you are. I sure as heck don’t want them to go after you like they did Jason.”
“They won’t come after me. And as far as letting your Uncle Doug know you’re okay, you can call him yourself.”
“No. I don’t think I should chance it. I’m sure they’re tapping his phone. They could probably trace any call right back to me. Besides, I’d like to get word to his contact at the L.A. Times about the FBI chasing me all the way to Europe. You could do that for me.”
It took a lot of convincing, but I finally persuaded him. I saw him off on his flight back to San Diego, then caught a cab to a nearby hotel.
“I need to do some work from my room. Is there an Internet connection available?” I requested at the front desk.
“Certainly, Miss Smith,” the clerk replied. All of our executive suites are well equipped for today’s high-tech guests. You should find everything you need at the desk in your room. If you have any problems, just call down to the front desk and we’ll do our best to take care of you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I powered up the laptop and launched Internet Explorer, then started my search. I entered my search criteria—Flight 9602. There were about five
hundred matches returned. I started at the top of the list and began reading articles. Several hours had gone by and I hadn’t found anything that helped in any way. I ordered room service and had dinner sent up. By three in the morning, I was ready to give up for the night and get some sleep. I decided to check the last entry in the group I was working on before turning in. I clicked on the title and waited for the page to load.
A very simple page painted itself in front of me. It contained only a button with a picture of an envelope on it. I clicked on the button and was brought into an E-mail editor. I began typing:
I have come across some evidence that would indicate the crash of Flight 9602 was not due to pilot error as the official FAA report states. Possibly, some electronic device may have been present on the plane that caused the navigation equipment to malfunction. There seems to be some danger in reporting this evidence to the officials, as I have found myself in fear for my life. If you can help me, I would much appreciate it.
I delivered the mail to the E-mail box, closed down Internet Explorer and shut down the computer. I laid my head on the pillow and shut my eyes. The two-headed snake continued to torment me from the sandy beach in my dream.
Chapter Sixteen
San Diego—August 1995
Amanda Powers was kneeling in front of the porcelain commode when the doorbell rang. She had been crying and vomiting constantly since she woke up. The morning sickness hadn’t subsided, as the doctor had hoped, but she was reluctant to take any of the drugs offered to her. Her mother-in-law answered the door. It was the mail man delivering a package. Emily brought it into the bathroom for her mother.
“Look, Mommy. It’s a present,” she said.
Amanda lifted her head, glancing at the box. It was a package from David. The funeral was over two weeks ago. He had mailed it from Mexico, the day he left on that horrible flight. She reached over and took the package from her little girl.
