Fly by Wire

Chapter SIX

The black-clad figure was quick, skirting around the flood of a streetlight and edging up to a chain-link fence.

The fence marked the property line of the sole manufacturing site of Colson Industries. By Texas standards, it was a modest operation, one acre of land with a single large building situated at the center. Around the outside of the place, stacked against corrugated sidewalls, was a sea of pipes, casings, scaffolding, and machinery. Some of the equipment was nicely organized, while other parts lay in haphazard piles, discarded in the course of day-to-day operations and waiting for the annual scrap heap collection. The whole collection suffered from varying degrees of oxidation, the depth of red and brown measuring the length of time each component had been surrendered to the elements.

At two in the morning, the workers had long gone home. The man in black had been watching for two weeks, and so he knew there was no night shift. He had expected a longer window for his surveillance, at least another week. But the orders from Damascus had come early — tonight would be the beginning.

The lone night watchman was a man in his sixties. His presence, according to Caliph, was not intended to repel invasion, but a mere ploy by the owners to gain more favorable insurance premiums. There was little of true value in the place — lathes, casting dies, heavy machinery. Colson Industries' very specialized product weighed in at over nine tons per unit, so no common thief was going to break down a door and drag one off.

The man in black moved, pulling along a heavy canvas bag. His name was Moustafa, and until recently he would have been described as an unemployed Palestinian accountant. Four years out of Hebron University, his prospects had turned increasingly bleak. It was one thing for a country to educate a million doctors, lawyers, and professionals. Quite another to create a society, an economy that could put them to good use. Unemployed and frustrated, Moustafa, like so many of his friends, had heard the calling and turned to his faith. Turned hard.

Moustafa was glad he had encountered no one on the streets because his English was miserable. Since arriving in America two weeks ago, he had remained secluded in a safe house run by a Saudi, a student at one of the local colleges. Moustafa had only ventured from the house late at night in order to study his two targets. Other than that, he prayed, read the Koran, and watched the decadence of American television. And yesterday he had made his martyr's video. This night, in fact, would not be his time of glory. If everything went as planned, he would survive. But Moustafa's appointment with destiny was near.

At a shadowed section offence he brought his first tool to bear, a pair of heavy cable cutters. As he worked, Moustafa eyed the razor wire woven along the top of the barrier, twelve feet over his head. A dramatic selling point for the traders of security fence, he supposed, but quite useless. Like so much here, it was only for show. He made quick work of the fence, and once inside Moustafa pulled his heavy bag through the gap. He then pulled the silenced 9mm Beretta from his pocket. The gun felt awkward, unfamiliar in his hand. He was not an expert in handling weapons, yet Moustafa knew he did not need to be — the guard carried only a radio.

He pulled his heavy satchel to a spot outside the building's delivery entrance and left it there. Next to a pair of loading bays was a simple entry door. The guard had passed through earlier — he circled the grounds once or twice each night, always ending back at the front entrance where his podium, comfortable chair, and television were situated. Americans and their television, Moustafa thought.

The rear door was unlocked and Moustafa eased inside. As had been the case each night, certain lights inside the building were left on — not the full array, but enough to allow the guard to see clearly. Confirming that the man was not in sight, Moustafa pulled the heavy bag in behind him and closed the door. Leaving the bag, he began to move cautiously toward the front of the building. He saw machinery everywhere, a terrific assortment of metal pipes, hardware, and sheet metal. The smell of machine oil was thick. Moustafa did not know exactly how this place related to the strength of America. He could only trust in Caliph's vision. And in the blessed will of Allah.

The first thing that drew Moustafa's attention was not a sight, but a sound — the television. He heard thumping music and a woman's voice shouting strident commands. Moustafa raised his gun. As he rounded a huge wooden crate he saw the guard slumped in his chair. Moustafa's finger trembled on the trigger, but then, against the racket of the television, he heard the most amazing thing. Snoring. The guard was sound asleep. Allah is indeed merciful.

The man's back was to him, and as Moustafa closed in he saw the television. A group of women, wearing almost no clothing, were dancing in a line, gyrating to the beat of techno music. The women were very healthy, their tanned loins and large breasts straining against skintight coverings. A telephone number was posted at the bottom of the screen. For a moment, Moustafa found he was transfixed, staring at the crazy women. But then he tore his eyes free. Such a strange challenge, a strange temptation. He would not fall prey.

Moustafa stepped softly toward the guard. He slowly arced his arm upward and aimed at the center of the gray-haired mass only a meter away. Phht. The gun kicked back in Moustafa's hand. He saw the gray head shudder from the bullet's impact. Then the guard slumped and Moustafa saw a hole where the bullet had hit its mark. Blood and tissue had sprayed beyond, splattering across the glowing image of dancing whores. How appropriate. Moustafa raised his arm again. Caliphs instructions were clear — always make sure. Phht.

Finished with the guard, Moustafa noticed a small security monitor that alternated views of the place from different cameras. There was also a telephone on a pedestal and a few buttons that might have been alarms. This too had been addressed in his orders. Leave it. It was too complex to deal with properly. And if the next part was done well, none of it would be of any use. Caliph had considered everything. Which was why he had so frustrated the Americans. Why he had become a legend.

Moustafa retrieved his satchel and went to stand in the middle of the place. He took a few moments to study things in the half light of the cavernous building, sorting through by the guidelines he had been given. Then he went to work.

Moustafa identified two fifty-five gallon drums marked diesel, and another marked waste oil. He found some empty cardboard boxes, a few pieces of upholstered furniture, and stacked these around the drums. He also found an assortment of small cans that contained — if the labels could be trusted — paints, solvents, acid, and machine oil. These went on top of the drums. He then found a hammer and used the claw end to breach each drum at the midpoint of height.

Fuel spilled out over the floor, the acrid stink tearing at Moustafa's nasal passages. He found a clean rag and held it over his nose and mouth. Next, he took the three packages from his satchel. He knew nothing of the formula that had been used, but Moustafa immediately recognized a smell similar to that of fireworks. The bundles were tightly wrapped in plastic, the simple fuses exposed. He placed them with care, one near each drum.

Moustafa stepped back and evaluated his work. As he did, his senses were keen for any disturbances outside. He heard nothing worrisome. As he reached into his pocket for one of the two butane lighters, sweat dripped into his eyes despite the cool air. He flicked the lighter and a flame sparked obediently to life. But then Moustafa snuffed it and cursed under his breath. He had nearly forgotten the last step.

He pocketed the lighter and looked straight up. In most buildings, dealing with the sprinklers might pose a problem — the spray heads were obvious enough, but pipes were often hidden, concealed above painted drywall or a lattice of Styrofoam ceiling panels. Here, however, in a factory setting, all Moustafa had to do was track the lines visually. He followed a series of painted metal pipes through joints and connections, searching for the main line. He felt like he was surveying some massive circulatory system, and in a sense he was — in the event of a fire, these were the arteries that would carry the building s emergency lifeblood.

It took only two minutes. A larger section of pipe led down along one wall and into the concrete slab. There, just above ground level, was a simple valve with a circular handle. It was even labeled for his convenience: emergency sprinkler shutoff. Like turning off a garden hose, he thought. Moustafa turned the valve full clockwise until it stopped. He considered using the hammer to break the pipe above the valve, but Moustafa decided against it, reasoning that he didn't want the water already overhead in the system lines to flood down across the floor. It seemed logical enough.

He went back to the drums and flicked his lighter again. Moustafa worked quickly now, an effort to keep the explosions nearly simultaneous. He had been told this was not critical, but Moustafa took pride in his work. The six fuses, two for each package, were simplicity itself — a cigarette, and secured around it with plastic cable ties, four matches, the phosphorous tips grouped at mid-length. He had practiced at the apartment and found the configuration to be incredibly reliable, the cigarettes turning to ash at a rate that would give him between four and five minutes. In an idle moment, the accountant in him had calculated that each complete fuse had cost twenty-eight cents, most of this going to the American government as a tobacco tax. A delicious irony.

Moustafa lit the fuses in a flurry and ran out the same way he had entered — the back door and the hole in the fence. Once in the street, he slowed to a quick walk and did not pause to admire his work. Not yet. Two blocks away he heard the explosion. Still, he did not look back. Instructions. Get away immediately. Soon Moustafa would be needed for another task, his martyrs mission, and nothing could jeopardize this.

Only upon reaching his car, near a deserted warehouse four blocks away, did he venture a look back. Colson Industries, whatever it was, was out of business. Flames licked high above the roof, their pulsing orange glow reflected in the thick haze above. Moustafa felt pride in his success. But he also felt a tugging sorrow, apprehension. In a matter of days there would be another fire, similar he supposed. And that spectacle would represent his funeral pyre, his departure from this world.

Moustafa turned away, not wanting to watch. He would do his sacred duty. Allah would give him the strength. He began driving carefully toward the safe house. There, Moustafa would check his computer for any last instructions from Caliph. There, Moustafa would pray.

High in a Fleet Street skyscraper, two Barclays financial analysts were seated at adjacent desks. Each had two computer terminals, and the man and woman multitasked nimbly between their screens, deciphering information from one machine while the other spun through commands, then vice versa. As if this was not enough of an overload, stock tickers ran a sliding banner on the wall in front of them, all the major movers and indices represented.

The trading day was about to commence and, as was their custom, the man and woman scoured the Internet for traces of bad luck, disaster, or scandal, anything that could sway their specialized sector — energy. The problems usually came from the Middle East — pipeline attacks in Iraq, seaborne tanker politics in the Straits of Hormuz. Lately, Nigeria and Venezuela had been doing their share of damage, and pirates around the Horn of Africa had been acting up again. But this morning was quiet. No petro-tragedies, and little activity from Hong Kong, where the overnight volatility coefficients had been unusually low.

It was the young woman who spotted the first article, a quick blurb on the Houston Chronicles Web site. She said, "Olson Industries had a fire last night. Their primary furnace manufacturing operation has been decimated. It's going to be down for six to nine months."

The man, older and more experienced, did not even reply. He typed the name of a Russian corporation into his own computer. The results came immediately. "Bloody hell!" he said. "Petrov I. A. burned to the ground!"

The woman's voice took an edge. "There's one other manufacturer, right? Isn't it Dutch —"

"DSR," the man spat, having already typed the full name. The wait seemed interminable, but when the computer finally gave its answer, the man exhaled a deep, controlled sigh. "No, nothing there. DSR is fine."

The two looked at one another. If they had been corporate planners they might have viewed the events in strategic terms, a market opportunity worth targeting. If they had been policemen they might have been curious about the coincidence on a criminal level. As it was, the two financial analysts did their job. They got on the phone.

In the first thirty minutes after the London market's opening gavel, Barclays was on the leading edge of a small wave. Futures indices for gas oil, heating oil, and unleaded gasoline blendstock rose three percent. DSR traded up twelve.

Some people had trouble sleeping on airplanes. Davis could sleep anywhere. He had snoozed on a metal pallet in a C-130 transport, crashed on the deck of an Aegis class missile cruiser in the Red Sea, and slept like a baby in an ice cave during Arctic survival training. So when he got to France after a long night in a Boeing 777 first-class sleeper, he was fully rested.

His first stop was the airport restroom where he ran an electric razor over his face and splashed cold water on the back of his neck. He also donned a fresh polo shirt — dark green and dull, just how he liked it. Diane had bought him a pink shirt once, tried to tell him the color was something called "salmon." Jammer Davis knew pink when he saw it.

From Paris he caught the TGV, a high-speed train that would deliver him to Lyon in less than two hours. He took a window seat in an empty row, settled back as the train began its smooth, quiet acceleration. Not like a Boeing, he reckoned, but quick all the same. In no time, the urban center of Paris gave way to soft brown pastures. Trees vacant of foliage and tawny hedges waited patiently for the coming of spring. Davis watched the countryside roll by, a misty morning blur at almost two hundred miles an hour.

He had spent three years in France as a teenager. His father, a sergeant in the army and a linguist, had been assigned embassy duty in Paris, and so Davis had attended a high school for Foreign Service dependents. He'd grown to like the country, enjoy the people. In the course of it all he had picked up a new language — and a new sport. Davis had played high school football in the States. In France he'd seen the local kids playing something similar, only without the pads. Davis liked the idea, and rugby had become his game.

The train flowed over the track easy and quick. Davis closed his eyes, tried to let his mind go blank. It didn't work. The upcoming investigation was already there, cluttering his mental screen like hard rain on a windshield. He had experience in both military and civilian investigations. The military versions were close to the vest — clipped press releases, no-nonsense colonels staring down cameras. But what most people didn't see in the military boards was the infighting, the flag-grade politics that went on behind the scene. Colonels and generals trying to pitch blame and catch credit. But at least the military inquiries were quick. A month, two at the outside. Civilian accident boards, like the one he was about to wrestle, could take a year or more. And Davis, by nature, was not a patient man.

Aside from the time involved, there were other differences. Since 1947, the business of investigating civil aircraft accidents had been regulated by an agreement known as the Chicago Convention, or more specifically, an obscure subsection called Annex 13. Among the more important provisions was the tricky terrain of jurisdiction. Aircraft, by nature, were transient beasts — they could crash in one country, be registered in another, and owned by a party in a third. Annex 13 declared that the "state of occurrence" governed the authority to investigate a crash, falling back on registration should an airplane go down in international waters. So it was, the investigation of World Express 801 would be administered by France. More specifically, the Bureau Enquetes-Accidents, or BEA.

Davis would have preferred that World Express 801 had gone down elsewhere. England, Ireland. Or Lichtenstein, for that matter. France was peculiar, one of the few countries that always ran dual investigations— the traditional safety side that he would help guide, but also a parallel criminal version where prosecutors tried to make names for themselves, tried to tie someone to a post for cobblestone target practice. In the case of World Express 801, they might go after individuals who worked for the manufacturer, CargoAir; or the operator, World Express. Captain Earl Moore and First Officer Melinda Hendricks, posthumously, would at least be spared that indignity.

Davis dozed for the last hour of the trip. The TGV dropped him right at Lyon s Saint Exupery International Airport. He exited through the rail terminal's high, fan-shaped arches. From there he could have walked to the investigation command center. Instead, Davis found a cab.

It was late morning when he arrived at the crash site.