Fly by Wire

Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

Hans Sprecht was not nervous. In truth, the idea of meeting clandestinely with someone from the CIA had grown on him. It was exciting, even dramatic. And in any event, he felt far more comfortable dealing with American intelligence agents than his increasingly nefarious patients.

He walked along the quai Gustave Ador, a busy thoroughfare that snaked through the central city and fronted Lake Geneva. Cars whisked by as cars did in Switzerland, in an organized, quick flow. As he neared the rendezvous point, Sprecht's attention was drawn to a small bird darting in and out of the street. The creature was trying to get hold of something in the road, perhaps a small insect. Yet each passing car proved a foil, the bird forced to flutter away at the last second. He thought, You risk a lot for a meal, my friend. Sprecht kept going, not wanting to know the outcome.

It was a terrifically cold day, soon to become an even colder evening. The air retained a dry, almost brittle quality, and the other people Sprecht saw were not near the park, but rather across the street, well-wrapped and scooting toward the warmth of cars, homes, and shops. That being the case, he had no trouble finding his contact.

As instructed, he was waiting near a quaint river ferry that was stilled for the season on a solidly frozen Rhone River. Also as instructed, he wore a brown scarf, a theatrical touch Sprecht had not been able to resist at the time, but something he now regretted as amateurish. The man was rather short and heavyset, which seemed a disappointment. But then Sprecht chided himself for such a meandering thought. It was crucial that he stay focused on the only thing that mattered — the deal, reaching acceptable terms and conditions.

Sprecht had, at least, resisted the temptation to require any code words or silly phrases. He simply walked straight up to the man, on schedule, and said in strongly accented English, "Hello, I am Dr. Hans Sprecht."

The CIA man forced a smile that looked vaguely familiar. This puzzled Sprecht momentarily, for he had certainly never met the man. Then he realized it was merely the expression he recognized. It had been present on certain men and women who'd set upon his practice in the old days, the more hardened sellers of medical equipment and pharmaceuticals. It was the empty smile of a hustler, a practiced liar.

"Hello, Dr. Sprecht. My name is Edwards." The reply was in effortless German, the man's breath going to vapor in the cold. The name was certainly an alias, and Sprecht gave the man a knowing look.

"Edwards" held out a guiding arm and they began to walk, the CIA man steering toward the park. The walking paths were covered in a mix of fresh snow and old slush, and Sprecht's brand-new friend gave a turn to his brand-new brown scarf to repel the cold. He said, "We have not yet completed our work of analyzing the sample you've given us."

Sprecht had anticipated this. "But you have verified the laboratory report. You know I hold valuable information regarding Caliph."

"We know you have access to a lab report that probably involves him."

They came to the Promenade du Lac and turned to follow the shore of the frigid Rhone. Sprecht lost his footing momentarily on the icy sidewalk, and the CIA man caught his elbow, helped him right himself. They exchanged a look, but neither spoke. Sprecht immediately started walking again, feeling foolish. His eager anticipation of this meeting was slipping as well. Sprecht had no desire to joust with the man. He suddenly wanted only to get their business done. Arrange his payment and disappear.

"I can tell you where to find him. This will entitle me to receive the full reward, no?"

Sprecht saw a qualified nod. "Yes…" the man hesitated, "but the source of your information, it puzzles us. How does a — how shall I put it — a retired Swiss plastic surgeon know the whereabouts of the world's most wanted terrorist?"

It did not surprise Sprecht that the CIA had moved quickly to discover his identity, what he did for a living. It had likely come when they'd researched and authenticated the lab report. He was ready. "Is that not a question," he said coyly, "which tends to answer itself?"

The man stopped and stared at Sprecht. "Tell us where you think he is, Doctor. If your information is accurate, we will be pleased to pay the entire amount."

This was most of what Sprecht wanted to hear. However, he too had done his homework. Sprecht was familiar with the gray means of moving black money. He dictated his terms and handed over a card with account numbers carefully typed. He watched as the man studied them, and reasoned from the look on his face that the CIA was indeed serious. Sprecht's terms were solid.

The American nodded.

The deal struck, Sprecht could now only pray that his information would hold true. If not, he had more to sell, but the price would be something less.

He said, "Caliph is in Mosul, Iraq."

The man whose name was anything but Edwards asked, "Where in Mosul?"

Sprecht told him. Then he told him how he knew.

"You want what?" The clerk stared at the huge woman, trying to be polite as they fenced in broken English.

"Screen — you know, for bugs." She made a wiggling, flying motion with the fingers on one hand. Her other hand was occupied with a store basket that held an assortment of items from at least three other aisles — a hammer, a screwdriver, tacks, spray lubricant, and a utility knife.

"Insecte?" He was about to tell the wench that they didn't sell insecticide when he realized what she meant. "Moustiquaire!"

He led her away and turned down the aisle where the window frames and moldings were stocked. Halfway down, a six-foot roll of window screening was shoved back into a shelf. He pulled it out and wiped off the dust — the stuff hadn't caught on yet in France.

"How much do you want?" he asked, reverting to French.

She looked confused, so the clerk made a snipping motion with two fingers. Then he held out his arms at varying widths to suggest measurement.

She grabbed roughly and took the whole thing under one arm. Her face was curled and sour. Without so much as a "merri," she waddled away, dragging the filthy roll of screen behind her. There was probably enough material to cover a dozen windows, the clerk thought.

Stupid immigrants.

They found Bastien in his makeshift office.

The room was on the second floor, a suite with large plate glass windows that overlooked the hangar bay. There, wreckage was accumulating fast, and dour workers in orange jumpsuits crawled over everything, examining and recording — pressing ahead to the inevitable truth of what had brought down World Express 801.

When Davis and Sorensen came in, Bastien was seated behind his desk studying a file. He looked tired, like he hadn't slept well. Or maybe he'd just missed his evening espresso. He didn't rise to greet them, but acknowledged their presence by saying, "I hope this is truly important. I am very busy right now." The words were taut, edgy.

Davis answered by closing the door very slowly. When the latch fell into place it did so with finality — clunk, loud and solid. Lockdown. This got Bastien s attention. He closed the file in front of him and tapped at its sides deliberately with two sets of fingers. Straightening, organizing. Davis hadn't seen what was in the manila folder, but it was very thin. Could have been empty. He guessed it held one page.

There was already a chair facing Bastien, and another was pushed against the far wall. Davis dragged over the spare to make a pair, and he and Sorensen sat. Sorensen kept silent — that had been their arrangement, although Davis hadn't told her why. He began in a calm, level voice.

"Miss Sorensen and I spent this morning in Marseille. We looked over the CargoAir factory and sat in a C-500. Have you ever seen one?" Davis jerked a thumb toward the big window. "Besides that one?"

Bastien ignored this and asked, "Surely you did not go all the way to Marseille for a factory tour. What were you looking for?"

"I wanted to check on something that's really been bothering me. You see, in the last few seconds of this crash, shortly before the airplane hit, we lost the voice recorder. And the air traffic controllers lost their transponder data at the same time. Exactly the same time. I figure the whole airplane lost power, had some kind of electrical interruption. Wouldn't that make sense?"

Bastien was silent.

"So I decided to look into it. Miss Sorensen and I went down and sat in a real airplane. That's always a good thing to do, Terry. Try to replicate things as they were at the time of the crash. And you know what? I discovered that the power did go out. Can you imagine how?"

Bastien made a quixotic stab. "The ship was traveling at an extreme speed — some kind of structural damage could easily have brought about an interruption of electrical power, perhaps tripped a generator offline."

Davis continued in a steady, unwavering tone. "The power went off because the captain turned it off." There was a glimmer of hope in Bastien's eyes. Davis removed it. "But this wasn't something sinister. In fact, it was pretty valiant, given the circumstances of the moment. And it almost worked. If Earl Moore had shut down power ten seconds sooner, I think they would have made it."

"They were running an emergency checklist. Are you saying that he was performing some part of it?"

"No, quite the opposite. It was pure intuition on the captains part. A hunch, the kind of thing that is at the foundation of putting—" Davis paused, "experienced people in positions of importance."

Bastien stood abruptly and walked to the window. He stood silhouetted by the ever-intense hangar lights and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his neatly pressed trousers. His shirt looked the same — starched and stiff. Almost like that's what was holding him up. Davis gestured to the file on Bastien's desk.

He said, "The toxicology report on the crew was due today. Is that it?"

Bastien nodded, still facing the open hangar.

"And it's negative. Alcohol, drugs, carbon monoxide. Everything negative. There was no chemical impairment on the part of either pilot, no loss of cabin pressure."

Bastien turned immediately and opened his mouth to speak.

"Human factors," Davis said, cutting him off.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were going to ask me how I could know all that. Human factors. That's the term you guys use, right? You see, Terry, I know you have a Ph. D. in clinical psychology and all, but this isn't a clinic. It's the real world, with real people. And I understand people. Which is strange, because I don't always get along with them — you know, in a social way. But I know what makes them tick. I'm pretty sure I understand Earl Moore. I understand exactly what he did and why he did it. So now I'm trying to understand you."

Davis let that settle.

"This toxicology report is only preliminary," Bastien argued. "Far from conclusive."

Davis ignored the comment. "Some of the things you've done, professor, they don't measure up."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about hotel bar tabs, press conferences, dead horses, popped circuit breakers. Being a man of science, I'll let you pick the metric."

Bastien glared, but Davis saw no fire behind it. This was not a man about to corkscrew himself into the ceiling and toss them from his office. Which he could have done. Thierry Bastien was a man getting washed away, his thoughts channeled into that deep groove dug by fact after inescapable fact.

With a nod toward his partner, Davis said, "Do you know what happened to me and Miss Sorensen last night? We were accosted. A group of four thugs tried to hurt us. Maybe worse." Davis saw something in Bastien's gaze. He'd scored a hit.

"There are dangerous sections in every town," Bastien said weakly. "Living in America, surely you know this."

"It might have been that, just a random bad experience. But I'm going to find out. And you know what else, Terry? I'm going to find out why this airplane crashed. It might take some time, but the cause will become clear. You see, I'm going to take this whole investigation and dump it into a big sifter. And then I'm going to start shaking. Bit by bit, little pieces of mud and filth are going to get rinsed out, and in the end I'll be standing there with a few shiny nuggets of truth. Right there in broad day—"

"All right, Mr. Davis! All right!" Bastien roared. "You have made your point. I admit that my theory about a possible suicide involving the captain — it was premature." He slapped the file on his desk. "This evidence does not support it. I can understand that you are upset."

Davis did not raise his voice. He stayed firm in his chair and, if anything, his words fell more quiet. "You don't read me right, Terry. I'm not upset. I'm actually very content." Davis turned his palms inward. "This is me when I'm content. You see, I'm sure that everything is going to become very clear. Very soon. Which brings me to Miss Sorensen."

Davis saw Sorensen stiffen in her chair. He hadn't told her what was coming — hadn't asked because she might have said no. He addressed a motionless Bastien. "Have you noticed Miss Sorensen? I mean, I know she's cute and all, but have you really noticed her?"

This got Bastien's attention. He looked at her suspiciously.

"She doesn't have a lot of input into our investigation, does she? She listens, but doesn't say much. That's because she's not really an accident investigator. In fact, she doesn't even work for Honeywell."

Sorensen shot him a look that asked, Do you know what you're doing? Davis gave her a subtle raised finger.

Bastien said, "I hope you will not tell me that she is some kind of reporter."

"Oh, no. For you, far worse. She works for the CIA."

Bastien's eyes went wide.

"Yes. That CIA," Davis said.

"Why would American intelligence be interested in our proceedings? This is wholly unacceptable!" Bastien sank into his chair and addressed Sorensen. "We cannot have someone such as yourself involved in this inquiry. I will see to it that your credentials are revoked immediately!"

Davis said, "I'm not sure you want to do that. You see, her presence here has nothing to do with airplanes or safety reports. There are some very suspicious people connected to this inquiry, the kind of people the CIA watches. The kind of people who confront others on sidewalks with knives and guns."

That did it. Bastien cracked.

He slumped forward on the desk, two hands concealing his face until they rubbed back along the sides of his head. The man that was then revealed looked instantly older, haggard.

Davis stood and leaned forward over the desk. But it wasn't with menace. He looked Bastien squarely in the eyes, and for the first time pronounced his name correctly. "Thierry… tell me what the hell is going on."

Bastien nodded, looked at Davis, then Sorensen. He seemed close to tears.

"Yes. Yes, I must tell someone."