Keys to the Kingdom

by Bob Graham

  A wave of anxiety settled over Tony as he heard the phone receiver slam down. The embassy calls had consumed over ten minutes, and no results—at least no results likely to have a good effect on Tony’s timely return to the United States or his career path at the State Department.

  There was no plan C, beyond accepting Ms. Lim’s offer of assistance with a future flight.

  Tony looked down the concourse. He noticed a neon sign for The Prop, a bar on the mezzanine level and outside the security zone. He took the escalator, walked past a mall of retail shops and local and international fast-food outlets, seated himself on a steel-and-leather barstool, and ordered a Singapore sling. Under a propeller from a vintage Pan American clipper, he selected a spot at the bar with an unobstructed view of the runways.

  More than a thousand meters beyond Tony’s range of vision, on the perimeter sidewalk outside the cargo warehouse of the Kuala Lumpur International Airport, a man with a furled umbrella under his left arm gazed at the main east-west runway. Due no doubt to the recent thunderstorm, it was unusually congested, with eleven aircraft in line awaiting authorization to taxi toward the takeoff point. The storm had left its signature in the form of a heavy mist that hovered over and partially obscured the tarmac, further delaying flight operations.

  The man glanced at his watch. It was 7:12. He calculated that Malaysia 9724, ninth in the queue, would not be airborne for at least another thirty-five minutes. He went inside to confirm for the second time that his package of medical devices had been delivered by DHL and placed on the aircraft. Reassured, he took a cup of green tea and relieved himself in the WC before returning to the exterior of the warehouse.

  By 7:39, the last of the aircraft in front of Malaysia 9724 had completed its takeoff roll and was lifting into the sky. As Tony watched, the flight he so much wanted to be on was moving into position at the head of runway L14.

  The Boeing 777-300 started its takeoff run. Although he had grown up in a Hialeah neighborhood, north of the Miami airport, and for all of his youth had watched airplanes of all descriptions take off and land, it was still a source of mystery how these Goliaths could break their bonds with earth.

  The plane moved at a steadily increasing rate of speed until it reached 174 knots. The main gear was off the runway and the undercarriage was withdrawing inside the fuselage. The aircraft crossed the fence at the southeast corner of the field and commenced a slow turn to the right.

  As Tony rose from his stool and began to gather his still-damp coat and suitcase, he glanced back and noticed a thin stream of black smoke flowing from the underbelly of the Malaysia plane. It was making a tighter turn than required for a departure route. He could see a red glow emitting from the passenger windows over the right wing. The nose of the 777 was straining to elevate itself, while the mass of the aircraft was descending.

  The right wing dipped, exposing a gash in the composite material. Suddenly, the nose shook violently as the Boeing lost its flight speed and stalled and the right wingtip dropped as if it were an arrowhead pointed to the ground.

  A flaming object of the same proportions as a human being spilled into the air five hundred feet above the runway. A second and third tumbled out. According to the subsequent Malaysian Aviation Authority report, 9724 was in flight for fifty-one seconds before its right wing slashed through twenty-two automobiles parked in the distant lot of the airport, and the 777 cartwheeled and came to rest on the motorway that formed the airport’s western perimeter. An explosion of flame, higher than the control tower, engulfed the fallen aircraft.

  Two seconds later, the sound of the explosion, the last to be heard of Malaysia 9724, reached the cargo warehouse. Returning to the lobby of the cargo terminal, his umbrella tucked under his left arm, the man took out his Nokia. A smile of satisfaction crossed his lips as he began to recite his observations.

  It took an additional half second for the explosion to resonate in Tony’s ears as he stood facing the window wall of The Prop bar on the mezzanine of the airport. After the initial shock of the crash itself, the realization slammed into Tony’s brain: My God! It was me they were after. That plane went down because I was supposed to be on it!

  At a goat pasture in Afghanistan he had been shot at by the Taliban, and he had had a near-death experience at Il Kani Air Base, but this was of a totally different order. Who would want him dead so much that they were willing to slaughter several hundred innocents? Who had been denied their bloody objective by the most fortuitous combination of circumstances?

  As he took deep breaths to compose himself and slow his superaccelerated heart rate, Tony recollected what had brought him to this window in an airport bar halfway round the world from home.

  Feverishly, he punched numbers into his BlackBerry. He waited interminable seconds, only to reach a voice mail.

  “Carol. I’ve just—an airplane ... You’re in danger! Call Ambassador Talbott. Now!”

  SEPTEMBER 12

  Jeddah ☆ London

  Laura slept until 9:00 a.m., a rare indulgence. She checked her phone messages and was disappointed that there were no calls from Zaid or Tony. She couldn’t get the revelation about bin Laden out of her head. Could there possibly be anything to it? Was it her duty to immediately contact the American consulate in Jeddah? While applying her lipstick she decided she wouldn’t do anything until she could get through to Tony and tell him. He’d know what to do.

  She dressed in her travel casual and met the crew in the lobby. At noon she proceeded through the minimal airport security and bought an International Herald Tribune and the local Post. She folded them into her travel bag for airborne reading.

  Thirty minutes later, settled into her first-class seat, Laura opened the Post. Above the fold was a photograph of an airliner in flames, spiraling to the ground. The photographer in her instinctively marveled that someone could have captured the shot at that moment of highest drama. Then the human being caught up as she read the headline that screamed that 331 persons had perished. Below the fold, there was more tragedy: a three-column picture of a broken body on a dimly lit curbside. Even in the photo’s graininess, there was something about the body that ...

  Laura blanched as she read the opening paragraph: “Prince Zaid al Swainee, grandson of King Khalid Ibn Abdul Aziz, was found dead on the sidewalk in the rear of the Imperial Hotel last night. The police are investigating the cause of death. Preliminary indications are that Prince Zaid fell from an as-yet-undetermined site in the hotel. A damaged Leica camera was found near the body. Police speculate that the Prince was leaning out the window to take a photograph, lost his balance, and fell. A police spokesman said the camera’s memory card would be examined in an effort to confirm this theory.”

  Laura ordered a double Maker’s Mark and downed it in a single gulp. She was haunted by the newspaper photos, anguished at what they threatened for her. During the seven-hour flight to Heathrow she composed her plan.

  As the wheels touched the runway she called Roland Jeralewski.

  “I am highly incensed,” he snapped.

  “What possibly—possibly,” Laura stumbled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ms. Billington, we are paying you a hundred thousand dollars a month for information. It has been almost twenty-four hours since you came into possession of the most important information to Peninsular and the world. And you have not shared a word with us.”

  Aware of the man seated to her left, Laura moved the cell phone to her lips. “Mr. Jeralewski, I have been communicating at every opportunity when there is credible intelligence. You may know that my source, Zaid al Swainee, died last night under questionable circumstances. This has been my first secure chance to do so.”

  The phone was silent. And then, “An important reason for Peninsular’s success has been our reputation of being first to access worldchanging developments. Being twenty-four hours late is for losers. Of course we knew of al Swainee’s fall; we didn’t have to wait for the morning newspaper. Do you th
ink only the Saudi Ministry of Interior was monitoring your conversation? This was a test of your judgment and reliability. Ms. Billington, your results are woefully inadequate.”

  Laura was enraged. Even more, she suddenly felt threatened. Ignoring the man rising from his seat to accept his blue blazer from the flight attendant, she said in a stern, steady voice, “Mr. Jeralewski, I resign my position with Peninsular, effective immediately.”

  “Ms. Billington, I do not believe you understand your position. After reaching our agreement on August 2, Peninsular has purchased your promissory note for the sum of fifteen million dollars. The terms are callable on thirty days’ notice. Are you prepared in that time frame to discharge your obligation?”

  As the first-class passengers began to file out, Laura muttered, “I’ll call you later.”

  Inside Terminal 4, Laura’s second call was to Tony. She got his voice mail.

  “Tony, it’s Friday afternoon at three o’clock Greenwich. I’m at Heathrow. I think I may be in major trouble. I’ll be on the next plane to Dulles. For God’s sake, be there!”

  SEPTEMBER 12

  George Town

  Since his wife had died of cancer four years earlier, Hector Nuñez lived alone. Through the rewards of diligence, positions of increasing responsibility, and a mortgage loan from Anglo-Cayman, he had been able to purchase a modest one-story house in a subdivision south of the airport. The traditional Caribbean clapboard cottage was elevated two feet above grade to protect it from the periodic tidal surges.

  On this second day of Nuñez’s failure to report for duty, Mr. Rawls dispatched a bank security officer to check on his whereabouts. Rounding the corner of Nuñez’s street, Officer Granville Meldrum noticed nothing out of the ordinary. The white Sonata was parked in its accustomed place under the roof of a detached open garage. Other than two days of uncollected newspapers, the lawn was as impeccably clean as Nuñez was known to keep it.

  A neighbor noticed Meldrum parked in the driveway and walked from his home directly across the street to the driver’s side.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t know,” Meldrum said. “For the last two days Mr. Nuñez has not reported for work, which is very unusual for him. Have you seen him in the neighborhood?”

  “The last time was Wednesday night when he came home at almost midnight. I know that because I was watching The Jay Leno Show. I think he’s the funniest man on TV.”

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual?” Meldrum probed.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “We’re worried about him.” Handing the neighbor his business card, Meldrum concluded, “If you learn anything, I would appreciate a call.”

  “Sure.”

  Meldrum climbed up the four front steps and knocked on the white wooden-frame screen door. No response. He was surprised the door was unlocked and swung open with a slight push. He walked across the living room, trailed by the reverberating sound of his hard-soled shoes on the bare pine floor, and through each of the other four rooms. Nothing appeared to be out of order.

  Meldrum stepped through the unsecured rear door. His first hint that something was amiss was the pungent odor of a decaying carcass. He scanned the rear yard. There was nothing there but a couple of pairs of pajamas, underwear, and undershirts flapping in the sea breeze on the clothesline.

  As Meldrum circled the cottage the odor grew more intense. Stooping to look in the crawl space under the floorboards, he saw a rug rolled up like a bale of hay. Stretching out, he was able to grab a corner and pull the rug toward the lawn. The weight was obviously more than that of a floor covering. The smell became noxious.

  The neighbor from across the street reappeared.

  “Can I help?”

  “You surely can. Kneel down and pull the other side of this rug. Be careful; it’s damn heavy and stinks.”

  Together Meldrum and the Good Samaritan neighbor were able to pull the full rug from under the house. They unrolled the bloodstained aqua carpet, exposing first an arm and then the full body of Hector Nuñez.

  The right side of his head, neck, and shoulder was covered with coagulated blood. Meldrum diverted his eyes; he felt his breakfast was on the verge of ejection.

  Gathering himself, he called the island emergency service. After a terse explanation of the circumstances he was assured assistance was being dispatched.

  In ten minutes a red-and-white E-One EMS vehicle was in the Nuñez driveway.

  While the paramedics moved the corpse to the van, the accompanying police officer began gathering information for his report. After debriefing the neighbor, he turned to Meldrum. When the full set of questions relating to the crime scene had been asked, he began a more general inquiry.

  “Mr. Meldrum, you are also an employee at Anglo-Cayman Bank?”

  “Yes, for twenty-three years.”

  “And you had known Mr. Nuñez as a fellow employee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any knowledge as to his whereabouts in the last thirty-six hours?”

  “Yes. I saw him on Wednesday evening in the area of the bank vaults. It was roughly ten to eleven at night.”

  “Was he alone?”

  The inquiry was interrupted by the return of the lead paramedic.

  “Inspector, while we were moving Mr. Nuñez from the gurney to the van, these fell out of the rug.” He opened his palm to disclose two .45 caliber bullet casings.

  The inspector placed them in a plastic evidence bag and marked the identification tag. “Good work. When we get back to the station I want to take a full statement on how you found these.”

  “It won’t be a very long full statement.”

  Again turning to Meldrum, the police inspector asked a second time, “Was he alone?”

  “No. He was with a younger woman—a very attractive young woman—who he introduced to me as a new auditor at the bank.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No, but she and Mr. Nuñez left together in his car,” pointing toward the Sonata.

  “Interesting,” the police inspector mumbled. “She may have been the last person to see Nuñez alive.”

  SEPTEMBER 12–14

  Airborne, Kuala Lumpur to Washington, D.C.

  The Kuala Lumpur International Airport had been closed for twelve hours since the crash. After he had gathered himself and found an airport Hyatt in which to rest in preparation for the grueling flights back to Washington, Tony called Carol.

  “I know you’re going to hate me for this, and please, please don’t think it means I’m ignoring you, but you’ve got to give me a one-day rain check on our date.”

  As soon as she heard his voice, she broke into a flood of hysterical sobbing.

  “Girls don’t usually get that upset when I have to postpone a date,” Tony said drily.

  “Tony, how can you joke? When I got your email about having to change your schedule, I was sure you were on that plane that exploded. And then you never answered your cell.” Her voice was still shaky.

  “I was going to send you another email when I got bumped from the flight, but I was so preoccupied with getting out of the country ...”

  “So—so that is the plane you were supposed to be on?”

  “Yeah—it is—was,” Tony said, finally allowing himself to confront the enormity of what had happened and the capriciousness of fate.

  “But you’re all right? Tell me you’re all right,” Carol insisted. “It’s been the lead story on CNN all morning.”

  “I’m OK, Carol. Really. Did you get my voice mail?”

  “There was something garbled but I couldn’t tell what it was. That must be the one you’re talking about. What did it say?”

  “I wanted you to call Ambassador Talbott right away.”

  “Why?”

  Tony suddenly had a change of heart. As shaken up as Carol was, he couldn’t upset her further by saying he thought she might be in danger, just as he was. He would take care of it himself
—contact Talbott directly and have him get her some protection.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Tony said. “It can wait.” He quickly changed the subject. “So, did you get in any beach time in the Caymans?”

  “I never even got close to the hotel pool. I was going to jog on the beach, but something happened that made me think that wasn’t a very good idea.”

  “What was that?”

  She was beginning to calm down now. “Let’s wait until we’re together. There is some good news; what I stumbled on in the bowels of the bank was unbelievable.”

  “I guess we’ll have a lot of tales to share. And I can’t wait to share your—tale, I mean ...”

  “You and your nasty mind. Why do I love you?”

  “We’ll rediscover that on Sunday. I love you.”

  Given his utter physical and mental exhaustion, Tony thought he’d be able to sleep on the plane, but he was so keyed up he couldn’t close his eyes, even with a succession of stiff drinks. During the four-hour layover at Hong Kong’s Chek Lap Kok Airport for Cathay Pacific 6120, Tony listened to his voice mails. He tried to return Laura’s messages, but her cell was off. She must already be on the flight to Dulles. He left her a message to stay at one of the Dulles airport hotels and he would call when he got to the States.

  Almost fifteen hours later, now in Los Angeles, he awoke her at the Dulles Marriott.

  “Laura, this is Tony. I’m in L.A.”

  “Tony, I read about the terrible accident in Kuala Lumpur and was horrified you might be on that flight. Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, but not because I didn’t bust my butt to be on it.”

  “God. Tony, take care of yourself.”

  “Laura, I’m doing the best I can. Could you meet my L.A. flight at Dulles? It’ll be early, around 6:50.”