“Because a pilot speaking English signaled a mayday and gave his call sign on a scrambled channel, which we decrypted a few weeks after the incident.”
“What was the call sign?”
“Raven Five-Zero.”
Jonathan shook his head grimly. Certainly this information was not conclusive, but it was the best he had gotten to confirm the orchid woman’s claim. Matt could have been on that plane. Possibly. But if he was, nothing gave Jonathan any clue to the reason the Pentagon would lie about Matt’s death.
Why? Was there something so secretive about the flight that warranted such immense deception?
“So is it true that Russians picked up a survivor from this crash?” asked Jonathan.
“A Soviet helicopter was cleared to fly to Gotland.”
“Why did you let them?”
“At the time we believed it was a Soviet aircraft. And the Americans never contacted us.”
Jonathan was angry. Angry that the Swedes had been so naive. That they hadn’t made any independent verification. But his anger toward the U.S. military was greater. If the allegations were true, they’d deliberately abandoned one of their own.
The climate control kicked the heater into high gear, and the vents blew out the warm air with renewed strength.
Erland cleared his throat.
Jonathan folded the flight chart and returned it to the folder. “Can I keep it?”
Erland laughed. “Impossible. You’re lucky I’m showing it to you.”
The man outside—nearly seated on the warm hood of the car—glanced at Jonathan, checked his watch, turned his back again and lit another cigarette. That’s when Jonathan noticed the bulge of his coat at waist level, a tell-tale sign of a concealed firearm, for sure.
“If your brother was indeed on board the plane, and he survived, then the answers you seek are in Russia, not here. You must go there. And when you do, I would like something that would help me.”
“I’m listening.”
“There are unusual parallels to your situation—another aircraft incident. It happened long ago. 1952. One of our military DC-3s was shot down by a Soviet fighter jet somewhere over the Baltic. We’d like to know where the wreckage is located before anyone else does. There is already a privately financed search team scouring the sea bottom to find it.”
“Why do you want to keep this secret? It happened so long ago.”
“We have our reasons. They’ll find it eventually, I’m sure. We think it is possible that one or more of the eight-man crew survived—we’ve heard that two parachutes were seen descending shortly after the plane was hit. We can’t know this yet, not until we examine the wreckage. Although Russian officials have admitted privately that they downed the plane, they’ve never said more than that. While in Russia, you may stumble on something that could help us.”
“What on earth can I do that your government can’t?” Jonathan asked as he concurrently asked himself the same question.
Erland didn’t immediately answer. “You have balls, Mr. Brooks. You’re persistent, even pestilent. You showed that today.”
“I thought you said I was foolish.”
“That too.”
Jonathan scratched the top of his head. He admitted to himself that there was no more important place to go than Russia. And he would go there right this minute if it wasn’t for Linda.
Jonathan returned the folder to Erland, who then slipped him a business card containing only the initials T.E.S., a post office box and a phone number.
“Call me if you find something useful,” announced Erland. “I wish you luck.”
“You know, my life is probably in danger.”
“Oh.”
“Someone had me followed when I arrived, and now my wife and my home have been attacked.”
“Who’s doing this?” enquired Erland.
“If I told you, you will think I’m crazy.”
Erland chuckled. “Try me.”
“U.S. intelligence services, or perhaps our military,” Jonathan said angrily. “I’m not sure yet.”
“My driver will pick you up tomorrow and take you to the airport. It’s all I can do to help.”
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, surprised at the offer. “Every little bit is appreciated.”
Jonathan opened his door. He felt uncomfortable having to avoid eye contact with the man known as Erland. But the restriction came with the territory. Spooks will be spooks, he thought, even when it seems quite ridiculous. He headed back to his room in the floating pit, feeling a deep sadness displace his adrenaline rush.
9
Not a minute of the flight from Sweden was free of worry about Linda. The plane could not have flown fast enough. Everything seemed to pass in slow motion. Just prior to boarding, Jonathan had spoken to her supervising doctor, and things were grim.
Jonathan found Gary waiting for him at the airport. Gary appeared both worried and relieved, and as Jonathan had expected, dozens of questions came his way. There was so much Jonathan wanted to share with his law partner, but he didn’t have the strength to revisit it all. He only briefly told him about the shooting in Washington, D.C., and simply asked that they talk about the details later. Right now, all Jonathan had on his mind was Linda.
Gary drove him to Charity Hospital, the city’s largest, with Louisiana’s best burn unit and the state’s densest concentration of trauma physicians. Jonathan headed upstairs while Gary parked the car. He held his breath as the petite nurse pushed into the heavy door of a private room adjoining the intensive care ward. Linda lay on the bed, her eyes closed and most of her body covered by a metallic sheet.
“She’s heavily sedated,” the nurse said, checking Linda’s IV and monitors. She then picked up her chart at the foot of the bed.
“I understand,” Jonathan uttered, the reality of the horror sinking in quickly as he resisted the impulse to rush to Linda’s bedside and gather her up in his arms.
He stripped off his jacket, draped it over a stool by the bed and sat down. He rested his palm over her hand. Her skin was cool. Her face at peace. Jonathan had always found Linda beautiful, even without makeup. Those cute freckles, and her fine, blond eyebrows. He stared at her face, its chiseled contours, its stillness accentuated by an eerie calm that enveloped the room. Calm because it was silent. Calm because all the screams and commotion—from victims and rescuers alike—that he imagined would resonate at the site of a raging fire were quelled. Calm because her injuries were hidden under the sheets that covered her. Disturbingly calm.
“How has she been in the last few hours?” Jonathan asked the nurse after explaining that he’d spoken to the doctor before his flight.
“Unchanged,” she replied solemnly, her face contorted by anxiety. “I’m afraid she has a tough fight ahead of her.”
“Well,” Jonathan said, suddenly feeling tears clouding his vision, “she’s strong enough to prevail.”
“The doctor will be in around five,” she said before walking out.
Alone with Linda, the tears poured down his face. He begged for Linda to forgive him for putting her in jeopardy. He could hear her voice in his mind. A voice that was real only in spirit. Her lips didn’t move. Her eyes stayed shut, her entire body motionless. The only sign of life was the mild rising of her chest as she breathed, assisted by a supply of oxygen through small tubes in her nose.
There was nothing he could do except believe in her strength. He leaned forward and gently pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I love you. Everything will be fine.”
It wasn’t long before Gary joined him. He put his arm around Jonathan, which was comforting in that it was so unlike Gary, the son of a plantation owner, old school and as detached from human emotion as his aristocratic roots were to the plight of slaves. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a good man, just that not all good men know how to display emotion. For Gary, it had been at rare moments, like at Matt’s funeral and at Jonathan’s wedding to Linda. And Jonathan knew Gary
loved Linda in his own way. Sure, Gary loved his tawdry stripper-wife, but as a lawyer, he respected Linda’s strength and grace and her quiet commitment to anyone important to Jonathan.
“Why don’t you get some rest,” Gary suggested. “She’s in good hands, and we won’t know much about how this happened until the morning.”
Jonathan quickly began thinking of the places where he ought to be, attempting to place some order of priority with each place, until, finally, he’d decided. He abruptly rose, put on his jacket and headed to the door. “I need to see the house.”
“Let me drive you there.”
“That’s all right, I’ll take a cab. I’d feel better if you would stay with Linda until I get back.”
Gary nodded and smiled.
Jonathan arranged to meet his brother-in-law, Derek, at the house. He simply had to know whether the fire was deliberate or not, though he had already convinced himself it was arson.
As his cab pulled up, Jonathan had trouble believing his eyes. Only one wall and the chimney of the two-story house remained in recognizable form. Everything else was a pile of debris. Derek’s patrol car was already in the driveway.
The smoky stench seeped into Jonathan’s lungs the moment he stepped out of the cab.
“I’m sorry,” were Derek’s first words. He gave Jonathan a strong hug, patting his back. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his face unshaven. He told Jonathan that he’d stayed at the hospital the first twenty-four hours straight. It was no surprise. Linda and he were the youngest of six. The closest, too.
The slab of concrete that formed the home’s foundation was blackened by the fire. Above it lay what was left of wooden beams, insulation, roofing and other structural debris. All the furniture was destroyed. Their paintings. Their photographs. Everything.
Jonathan and Derek stepped through the charred remains of the once-elegant home, one of the nicest on Pine Street.
“This is where the fire started,” Derek said, pointing to an area near the fireplace, in what was the north side of the house. “A short in the power lines leading to the air conditioning unit.”
“So it started outside the house?”
“That’s what the investigator told me,” Derek said and then leaned down, motioning with his hands at a small opening in the brick wall. “It was a freak accident. An electrical short here ignited an insulator mesh that then burned through the wood exterior, and the flames shot up the siding to the second floor, and to the roof and then engulfed the whole house. Apparently, it went real fast. It’s a miracle Linda got out alive.”
Jonathan leaned his broad shoulders on what was left of the fireplace and looked up at the covered sky. “This was no accident.”
“What’re you saying?”
“Someone did this.”
“Not in this neighborhood,” the confident officer said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Who on earth would do this?”
“Someone who wants to kill me, or send me a warning.”
“The fire investigator looked at this carefully. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s good. He tested for accelerants and found nothing. It was a faulty wire, I tell you.”
Jonathan knew Derek would have a hard time believing him. All the more because Derek was a decorated, know-it-all cop, with little tolerance for conjecture, less so from a lawyer’s mouth. So Jonathan went on to explain Vice-Admiral Scarborough’s threatening words and the drive-by shooting on his way to Dulles airport. He also told him what Tantina, the orchid woman, had said about Matt. He told him everything he knew about the Victory Lines trial.
“Jesus, man,” Derek said, his eyes wide open. “Are you kidding me?”
“This is all true,” Jonathan said.
Derek was shaken by the revelation.
“My trial is masking something far more sinister, but I can’t put my finger on it yet.”
Derek stood with his hands at his hips. “You honestly think the Navy is behind this?”
“The Navy, the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Defense Department—who the hell knows? What’s clear is I’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest, and whoever wants me off their backs has gone after Linda, probably to bring me home from Sweden before I discover anything more.” He clutched the edge of the red-brick mantle until its gritty surface began flaking into his palm.
Derek scratched his jaw and looked deep in thought for a moment. “So that’s why the guy—the one in the car accident—was following you, huh?”
“To keep an eye on me, or to kill me. Perhaps I’m being watched right this moment. Now, nothing would surprise me.”
“Just a moment.” Derek flipped open his cell phone and started dialing.
Jonathan listened. Derek called his precinct and demanded that an officer be posted immediately to Linda’s hospital room.
“Thank you,” said Jonathan, puzzled that the thought had not come to him first. “You’re right, she could still be in danger.”
“What about you?” asked Derek, holding his thumb on the keypad ready to dial again.
“I’m in their crosshairs, all right,” replied Jonathan as he walked toward where the kitchen once stood. The refrigerator was toppled to one side and charred. The stove was covered by a slab of rooftop, the shingles still nailed to their support. The countertops and cabinets had vanished.
“Where are you staying tonight?”
Jonathan initially thought a hotel. Or at his office. Or even at Gary’s place in Mandeville. But then all those places felt unsuitable. “I don’t know.”
“Stay with us. Caroline will cook you a good meal.”
Jonathan wanted to accept. No one will attack a cop’s house, he thought. Not a guy like Derek, who wasn’t shy about the way he slept: naked with a 45-caliber handgun under his pillow. How Caroline put up with it was a mystery.
“No thanks, Derek,” Jonathan said. “I’ll probably stay at the hospital.” He didn’t want to tell him the real reason: if indeed Scarborough was behind this, there would be no police force strong enough to protect him. They’d kill Derek and Caroline and Nick and anyone else they thought was in their way. Jonathan could not allow the already tragic circumstances to metastasize.
Derek took Jonathan to his place in Metairie only to give him his car, which he’d parked there for safe keeping after the fire. It had been in the driveway and survived with only a few scratches. Linda’s car, on the other hand, had burned in the garage and been towed away.
* * *
November in the Big Easy is often sunny and mild, a time when the air usually feels less humid and people more tranquil. But today, none of this would prove true. Jonathan drove under the dark, cloudy skies, his mind rehashing everything he’d tackled in Sweden, compounded with visions of Linda laying on her intensive care bed, fighting for her life. It was a wonder he could concentrate enough to drive his car. But he knew exactly where he was headed. His burning desire to discover the truth had identified the most pressing destination of all. He’d already pondered the wisdom of the difficult demand he was about to make, and he’d already made up his mind half a dozen times since his plane landed. Now it was merely a matter of making it happen. And without delay.
Metairie Cemetery was the final resting place for many famous people, such as JFK assassination lawyer Jim Garrison and Civil War General Pierre Gustave Beauregard, along with former Louisiana governors and senators. More importantly for Jonathan, it was the venue he’d chosen for Matt’s grave and those of his parents. Jonathan had set foot there on five occasions since Matt’s death, the last time nearly a year ago. The experience was too painful to make it a more frequent ritual. And this was the first time he’d come without Linda.
The cemetery was filled with graves, all above ground, as New Orleans’ high water table required such practice. His parents were buried near a large oak tree on Avenue M, at the south end of the property. Their graves were neither ornate nor large. No towering marble to send a pretentious posthumous message to passersby. No gaudy sta
tues. No Italian marble. They were just right. Simple above-ground stone tombs with names and dates. Plain enough to symbolize the modest lives his father and mother had lived despite having accumulated great wealth. Jonathan briefly remembered his father’s voice as he was succumbing to cancer. “I’m no national hero,” he’d said. “I’d rather my ashes be sprinkled over a bayou.” Jonathan hadn’t done that, at his mother’s insistence.
Matt’s grave was a short distance away. Jonathan walked more slowly. The scent of flowers and freshly cut grass filled his lungs.
1965 to 1989. He read the dates, but for the first time his gaze at his brother’s tomb was accompanied by hope. An infinitesimal speck of hope that this grave was not necessary. Somewhere in his mind he heard Tantina speak, and Hark translating her words. He pictured her finger pressed against Matt’s photograph, her stunned expression burned into his memory. Perhaps it was Matt that she had seen. Maybe the Soviets spared his life. But there were so many maybes.
He stared at the grass at the base of the tomb and as if divinely ordered to do so, he quickly gave his decision a final blessing.
The cemetery’s business office was what one would expect: neat, quiet, with no one pressed for time. Jonathan asked to see the manager, a portly man in his mid-fifties, who greeted him in the waiting room.
“I’m having Matt’s body exhumed,” Jonathan declared in an authoritative tone, as if he needed to make himself feel more convinced of his decision. “And I’d like your cooperation.”
“What?” the manager asked, his face so surprised it told Jonathan he’d never been asked that before.
“I’m not sure the person buried there is my brother.”
The man returned an incredulous sneer. He crossed his arms but didn’t say anything. Not until Jonathan told him he’d make sure it was done in the coming days.
“Now, hold on,” said the manager, turning to his assistant’s desk for a paper and pen. “What’s your name again?”
“Brooks.”
“And your family member?”
Tranquility Denied Page 12