Souls.
The Ghost let the word find a way through him. Abruptly, he felt those deaths. Perhaps his humanity was not as buried as he had feared—or hoped.
‘What about the pilots?’
‘The commander, Kurt Weber, had more than three thousand hours’ flight experience with this model of aircraft. He was certified as an instructor. His co-pilot, Rudi Stammler, was his former pupil and had more than five hundred hours’ flight experience. Both men were physically fit and considered exemplary aviators.’
‘Was there a distress call?’ asked a red-haired woman.
The press officer adjusted his notes. The Ghost knew he was playing for time. There was no official line on the transmission. Despite himself, the Ghost felt his interest focus on this disciplined spokesman. How would the distress call be handled?
‘I see that none was received by ground staff.’
‘Are you certain? Amateur radio enthusiasts reported–’
The press officer smiled briefly at the woman. In German, he said, ‘We cannot comment on what radio enthusiasts might, or might not, have received.’
‘They heard a male voice that they described as ‘agitated’,’ she persisted.
The press officer laced his fingers. ‘At this stage, nobody can–’
‘He spoke a single word. ‘STENDEC’.’
Heads turned towards her.
‘Spelled?’ asked a man.
‘We have no comment,’ the press officer said, leaning close to his microphone. ‘However, I would ask that you make your information, and your source, available to Dr Óskarson of the BFU. Next?’
‘Please,’ she continued, ‘can you comment on the fact that the last transmission of the pilot corresponds to that of the British South American Airways airliner Star Dust?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You refuse to comment?’
The press officer removed his glasses. ‘Frau…?’
‘Frau Doktor Birgit Weishaupt, Jump Seat.’
‘Frau Doktor, many of us with aviation experience will know the story of the Avro Lancastrian.’ He dropped into English as though it were a lower gear. ‘Now let me be brief. There can be no connection between this morning’s crash and that of an aircraft whose trace left radar screens fifty-five years ago. As a mark of respect for those who died today, I will not discuss such, shall we say, fantastic irrelevancies.’ He stared at the journalist for a moment longer, then replaced his glasses. ‘We have time for one or two further questions.’
The Ghost felt the attention of the journalists loosen. If DFU323 were still in flight and set to crash, that would be news. But it had crashed already. The story was over, and they would see no fresh angles from this modernist room and its water-tight press officer, who again noticed Dr Weishaupt’s hand, and nodded reluctantly.
‘If the flight originated in Berlin and was going to land in Milan, what was it doing over the Bavarian national forest so far to the east?’
‘At this stage, we can only speculate. A navigation problem, for example, would be consistent with radio communications failure.’
‘Not hijacking?’
The Ghost looked at his knuckles once more. He was surprised to find himself embarrassed. He could answer every question they had about DFU323, and more, but he was outside this discussion. He was hardly here.
‘We do not rule out anything at this stage. That is all.’ He nodded once, and, with that, the conference was complete. The journalists understood and immediately began to talk, to smooth the edges of the story between them. The Ghost lost no time in approaching the spokesman. The man was winding up the power cable for his laptop and had an impatient expression.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry. My name is Hermann Glöder. My grandson was on the flight.’
The press officer glanced at Cory’s lapel. Seeing no press badge, he frowned.
‘Mr Glöder, you should not be here. I am, of course, terribly sorry.’
‘I need to know what happened to the boy. I-’
Cory seemed to choke. As the press officer clapped his shoulder and passed him a handkerchief, Cory leaned on the lectern. There was a white oblong in his hand no larger than a cigarette. It interfaced with a USB socket on the man’s computer.
‘I would be happy,’ the press officer continued, ‘to have you taken to the hotel where the relatives are staying. There you will be…’
Cory pressed the handkerchief against his forehead. He saw computer files flashing by as though they were faces in a passing train.
‘… and Dr Óskarson will keep you fully informed of…’
PassagierlisteDFU323.pdf
‘… there are practicalities involved, as I’m sure you understand. Mr Glöder? They have commandeered a local school for the… the remains. I could arrange a chaperone. Here, let me help you stand.’
Cory interrogated the document for a name. He found it on the third page.
Passenger 25F: Frau Doktor Saskia Dorfer.
An address in Wedding, Berlin.
‘No, thank you. I will find him.’
Cory, the Ghost, moved away. There was a quietness in his walk, and even the older journalists stopped talking as he passed through them.
Chapter Seven
Berlin, two hours after the crash
Viewed from the S-Bahn carriage, the low, violet sky above Berlin took Jem back to mornings camping on Dartmoor when she was a teenager—when she was a good girl, outdoorsy and bookish rolled into one. She smelled grass instead of the snug carriage air. She felt the dull, scratched handle of a pot instead of the metal frame of the seat in front of her. I’m looking at your future, Good Girl, she thought, trying to project her thoughts backwards, and it features rain, umbrellas and a metric assload of rye bread.
Jem took her prepaid mobile phone from her rucksack. She dialled Wolfgang’s number.
‘Pick up, you lazy git.’
He did not answer.
‘This is what’s happened,’ she said to his answer machine. Her vernacular was back, and it was a dish she would serve cold for Wolfgang. ‘I’m still in Berlin. Yeah, deal with it. I got as far as the airport, but I had to cut and run. I couldn’t go through with it. I don’t want to play any more. I’ll explain. I’m on my way back to yours.’ She looked at the information board at the front of the carriage. Orange letters slid by, as if on their own business. ‘I’ll take my time. Sleep. I’ll bring croissants.’
There was no need to think of Saskia. That story had ended. Curiosity: satisfied.
She twisted her fist around the metal handle of the seat in front. Revved it. Instead of the carriage seat, Jem saw one in the double-decker bus that had taken her to St Maynard’s School. She had once put her teeth on the metal rail just to feel the bus through her skull. The metal had been cold and oddly electric. Jem: hanging onto the bus by her teeth. Her hands in their fingerless gloves. Neeeeow. Her friends laughing.
And now this.
At her changeovers, she loitered on the platforms. She crossed Berlin in long, thoughtful strokes. Zigging one way, zagging the other. She was brittle but cheerful as she turned into Wolfgang’s road. It was raining and paper ribbons fluttered from the low branches of the tree near the launderette. Cars planed through the water. Jem was happy in the puddles. She could handle a doobie-doob-doob around a lamppost and a no-nonsense look from a German policeman. All the while, she worked on the speech she would give Wolfgang. It would make her intentions to leave him clear as crystal. She would fly east. She would watch the Urals pass beneath her aeroplane and move on to her Plan B.