Agent Cheng appeared in the doorway.
Riley waved him in.
“Kissi, it’s me. I’ll try and sneak away tomorrow afternoon. I should be home around four. Call if you can. Love you.”
Cheng smiled. “If I don’t call mine every day, I catch heat too.”
“Kissi is short for Bhekisisa,” Riley said, feeling the need to explain. “I can deal with heat. Once, I was gone for five days and never called. When I got home, our horse stable population had increased by two occupants, and our savings had decreased by $18,000.”
Cheng approached the wall behind Riley’s desk.
“So this is the famous ocean picture I’ve heard about. Looks like someone’s reflection in the water. Is it you?”
“Look closer,” Riley said, printing an email message. “Below the surface.”
Cheng stared deeper. “Oh, it’s a fish. Wow, it’s a huge fish. His mouth looks big enough to swallow someone’s head.”
“Someday it’ll be the other way around, pal,” Riley said. “How’s the investigation?”
“Progressing.”
“Anything strong?”
“No. One of the Milwaukee detectives reported that there was a death at a local bar on the north side of the airport on Layton Avenue. It happened just before the Delta departure.”
“What kind of death?” Riley asked, his interest piqued.
“Don’t know the details other than it was apparently a male with a heart condition,” Cheng answered. “I only saw a summary report. I’m heading over there myself to follow up. It’s an American Legion Post.”
“Does Mitchell International record its departure gates?”
“Every one. So does O’Hare. Inside and out.”
“Tell Mr. Cortez that I want all videos of Flight 771 the whole time it was parked,” Riley ordered, “from the security checkpoints to the ramps. I expect them in one hour.”
“What is it, Jack?” Cheng wondered.
“NTSB thinks someone might have placed an explosive device inside the cockpit, in a box or some type of container that wouldn’t arouse any suspicion — something that had the ability to force an explosion downward. We need to check it out.”
“That’s interesting,” Cheng commented.
“No, it’s not. It’s scary.”
“Why is that?”
“Read Cortez’s status.” Riley reached for the printer tray and gave the document to Cheng. “A Delta gate agent said she saw the captain carry a metal container on board. She said it looked like a kid’s lunch box.”
“Enter.” Professor Faiz Al-Aran acknowledged the knock on the door of his Q5 luxury suite on board the Cunard Line’s flagship, the Queen Mary 2. The ship was docked just one hundred miles off the African coast.
He closed his laptop and rose from a desk that was positioned between two balcony doors. He’d chosen not to use the room’s desktop PC because the ship’s IT staff monitored the network, and any emails with system, server, or transmission failures would appear in paper copy outside his cabin door.
A steward appeared with a food service cart.
“I’m terribly sorry about the regulations, sir,” the man apologized in a stout British accent. “We’ve slid into port so quickly I’m afraid the luncheon grill had to be turned down. We couldn’t manage your pancakes. We did find a bit more fruit. We know how you enjoy the papaya.”
“Thank you, Kerry,” Al-Aran replied, peeking under one of five silver-capped lids. “What is the weather forecast?”
“Oh, I suspect another day of sun as usual. The Canaries are known for it. Will there be anything else?”
“I was thinking of sport fishing — something large and aggressive.”
“Very good, sir. I know an Australian gent who runs a reliable business out on Lanzarote. He charters the Ana Segundo, a deep boat sixteen meters long and four or five wide. He rents a variety of smaller craft too. He’s a gruff little chap but he’s honest and very knowledgeable. He’ll put you on tuna, marlin, wahoo, and several species of shark. Mako, blue, and hammerheads rule these waters. The locals say you can’t even dangle your legs overboard. We’ll be pulling in there tomorrow, so you’ll have a good ten to twelve hours free. It’s on the north end of the big island near Orzola. I’ll send someone ’round with a map.”
Kerry nodded graciously and closed the door.
Al-Aran returned to his laptop.
PartyLuvr30308: Greetings from the Atlantic. It looks like I’ll be able to fish for a trophy after all. I’ve always wanted to catch a shark.
Toothdoc2b: I’m glad to hear that you’re enjoying your cruise. Tell me more.
PartyLuvr30308: Big time! Stayed out late last night. So much so that I haven’t paid much attention to world events. In fact, I’ve never even picked up a newspaper. Too busy enjoying the ocean views. Of course, we’ve all heard about the airlines.
Toothdoc2b: It’s a mess. Seems everyone here is upset. A real pain to deal with.
PartyLuvr30308: Any idea on when things might get back to normal?
Toothdoc2b: I don’t think anyone knows.
PartyLuvr30308: Too bad. Any upcoming vacation plans?
Toothdoc2b: Think I’ll check out California. Maybe LA, San Diego, or even San Fran. I hear the food is great.
PartyLuvr30308: San Diego is really nice. The weather should be warm and dry this time of year, if you can handle it. Take care.
Toothdoc2b: I can and I will.
Akil logged off and drew open the window curtains. At 3:00 a.m. it was still eighty-seven degrees in Las Vegas. The Strip had been deserted all evening: the flight ban had definitely made an impact. Akil noticed something on the room table. Gaudy red with metallic gold lettering, a business card advertised a variety of female escorts.
Akil tore the card in half and opened his Qur’an.
The airline crash had been both a human and an environmental disaster. Rival groups argued about which was worse. A quiet and peaceful respite threatened by suburban growth, the Fontenelle Forest Nature Center was a two-thousand-acre oasis of forest, prairie, and wetlands. A peaceful home for contented wildlife and lush, varied vegetation, the preserve was dually referred to as a very rare ecosystem and the largest deciduous forest in Nebraska.
The animal losses were difficult to tally. The loss of trees was not. The sight of huge sections of disease-tolerant American elm raised by countless hours of nurturing now flattened or burned by Airbus debris, was especially sad. Most of Flight 605’s wreckage was scattered in a quadrant just beyond the Missouri River in an area framed by the Chickadee, Hickory, and Linden Trails on the northwestern edge of the forest. The plants that managed to avoid the initial heat and flames ultimately died from the residual chloride left by six thousand gallons of diluted, aqueous, film-forming foam.
NTSB investigator Scott Hoover, a member of the debris recovery team specializing in hydraulic and power systems, waded through a creek in Childs Hollow. He stopped to examine a piece of round metal tubing half-buried in muck. Using a small shovel, he carved away a top layer and exposed what appeared to be a piece of nose landing gear. He spotted the charred remains of the piston shaft covered in black melted rubber, presumably from one of the tires. Something caught his eye.