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!"