by J. K. Kelly
“Now, if we can just get this bird on the ground,” he whispered.
To Matt’s relief, and seemingly to everyone’s surprise, whatever was in the air that had spread through the central part of the main cabin subsided as quickly as it had emerged. The area around the food cart, three seats to the left and right of it and three rows in front and behind it, lay littered with 38 unconscious souls. The rows of people past those who had been knocked out had at first attempted to escape the immediate area, and now reported feeling nauseous, having blurred vision, or were short of breath. Once the oxygen masks had dropped and people took in the safe air, many turned to attend to the others who were in dire need of help.
A flight attendant checked the photo ID of the three doctors who had raised their hands. They were each handed an oxygen tank and facemask and were asked to begin checking victims of the gas. Some were already beginning to regain consciousness, a few had thrown up, but one man, in particular, drew their immediate attention. An elderly man had suffered what appeared to be a heart attack and was immediately attended to.
Matt watched from the front of the plane while countless medical kits and equipment were pulled from compartments and carried to the sickest patients. IV bags were hung, and even a cardiac defibrillator was set out to use if needed. Matt hadn’t noticed any odd smells during the incident, but now he picked up the subtle scent of a solvent of some sort.
“The first wave seems to have cleared the area, but I’m concerned that the recirculating air has moved much of it through the rest of the plane,” the marshal offered.
“Yeah, but it might have been diluted by the amount of air we’ve got in this really big tin can,” Matt responded. Without a physical threat, a suicide bomber, crazed terrorist, or a drunken tourist to deal with, the two law enforcers continued to work the problem. While the marshal again called the TSA command center in the United States to bring them up to speed, Matt asked the lead flight attendant if he could speak with the captain.
“We’re not opening that door for anyone or anything,” she responded in no uncertain terms. Ever since the attacks of 9/11, all cockpit doors were to remain closed, no matter what was happening on the passenger side of it.
“Agreed,” Matt replied. “I meant by phone.” As he waited for the attendant to speak with the captain further before handing the device over to him, Matt noticed a woman sitting in the first row, just a few feet from him. She appeared elderly and gray-haired, perhaps in her late 70s, and she was tightly gripping a Christian cross she had taken from her handbag. Their eyes met. Matt took a very deep breath, removed his mask, walked towards her, and knelt down in the aisle beside her.
“We’re going to be okay,” he assured her. “This happens all the time,” he told her with a smile. She looked at him as if he was crazy. No mask and nothing to worry about? Matt could read her expression very easily.
“Some dummy back in Zurich probably left a jug of cleaning solvent open inside the food cart, and it fell over while they were serving the chicken or pasta back there.”
“That doesn’t sound quite right, young man, FBI or not,” she told him in a stern voice, the fear replaced by a touch of resentment. “I may be old, but I’m not stupid!”
“No, seriously. It happened just last year on a flight to the U.S. that had taken off from Heathrow.” He smiled and placed his hand over hers. “You just hang in there. We’ll have this bird down safely on the ground before you know it.” The tone of his voice, the look on his face, and the words he used must have sunk in. Her lips cracked a smile, ever so slightly.
“You’ll have to have a whiskey with me when we do.”
Matt squeezed her hands slightly. “Deal.” He stood up and began to walk back to the galley and his conversation with the pilot. But he turned toward the woman again, leaving the mask off his face as he turned the screw to shut off the oxygen.
“Keep an eye on those headphones for me, please. I’ll need them for the rest of the ride.” The slight smile broadened, and Matt watched as some of the other passengers in the front cabin began to check the air.
The attendant handed Matt the phone, and he introduced himself to the pilot, giving his FBI ID number and suggesting the co-pilot check him out as the incident and the contingency plans were being laid out.
“We’re going to run back up to 25,000 feet and make a hard turn to the right. We can pick up the jet stream in a few minutes and ride it to Reykjavik and land there in another 30 minutes or so,” he told Matt, his French accent briefly reminding Matt of his new Canadian friends.
“Works for me. Just wish it wasn’t summer so I could finally get to see the aurora.”
The captain laughed. “I’m glad you’re taking this lightly.”
“I’m not, skipper,” Matt assured him. “This was either a stupid mistake, or someone was testing a new nerve agent, watching how the crews react to an emergency, or maybe there’s a disgruntled employee behind this. Either way, once you get this bird on the ground, we can get some fresh air in here and let these people off.”
“You don’t sound like you’re wearing your mask,” the captain questioned, speaking through his.
“No, sir, I shut it off just in case we couldn’t land and I needed the oxygen later in the flight. I’m going to walk the cabin to see if anything or anyone sticks out. See you on the ground.”
Matt returned the phone to its mount and slung the facemask over his shoulder. He walked past the older woman, smiled at her, and started down the center aisle. He listened as the pilot informed the passengers of the emergency landing scheduled for Iceland and suggested that, while he preferred they keep their oxygen masks on, they might notice that some members of the flight crew had determined the air quality seemed clean enough to breathe without them for now.
“I know it is easier said than done,” he continued. “But try to remain calm, and we’ll be safely on the ground shortly.” He then repeated the entire message in French.
Less than an hour later, the very last passenger deplaned and climbed aboard one of the many airport buses that had been dispatched to the spot where the plane was led by airport police. Matt and the marshal shook hands and formally introduced themselves. The lead flight attendant and the captain joined the two men at the foot of the passenger stairway and thanked them for their help.
Dozens of EMTs continued to evaluate the passengers and crew who had lost consciousness and checked the vitals on everyone who walked or was carried off the plane. Matt called Dale in Washington to confirm that she had been made aware of the situation in the air. An FBI team had already been dispatched by government jet to Reykjavik and would be on the ground within four hours.
“You okay?” she asked. Matt heard the concern in her voice.
“Just another day at the office, little lady,” he responded. “I’ll get back whichever way is quicker, your jet or this one, but I’ll be ready to go the minute my boots hit the ground.” After the call ended, Matt jumped into one of the local police’s squad cars and was driven to the arrival terminal to collect his belongings and wait to hear what the airline might have in store for him and the rest of the detoured passengers.
“Want to buy a girl a drink?” a familiar voice called out as someone tugged on Matt’s shirtsleeve.
He looked down to find a smiling little woman, his new friend from the front row, staring up at him. He laughed and extended his arm for her to latch onto, and then he led her away from the crowd and to the first bar they could find.
It took only one hour of investigation to determine that Matt’s guess about a spilled cleaning solvent in the food cart had indeed been the cause of the disturbance.
“So you’ll no doubt have the authorities pick up everyone that was involved with catering and cleaning this plane back in Zurich?” Matt asked, looking to the pilot, co-pilot, and the local official who claimed to be in charge on the ground. There was no response, and that frustrated him, almost as much as the delayed action of the sky marsha
l toward a man reaching for a bag in the overhead. He turned and walked away from the group, calling Dale to suggest that she push a few buttons with the agency’s contacts in Zurich and with the airline to ratchet up the enthusiasm for finding out who did this. “It’s been a long time since 9/11,” he reminded her, “and the bad guys are watching as people lower their guard year after year.” She agreed and went about making the calls. As he headed for the transport to the terminal, he said aloud, “Private jets, I love private jets.”
After spending a night in the airport hotel room provided by the airline, Matt climbed back aboard the jet and retook his seat. He had opted to forgo a more expensive luxury hotel so he could stay close to the older woman, who clearly appreciated his concern and attention. Hours later, they landed safely in Washington, and a short taxi ride later, he was back in his condo, sound asleep. A text from Dale had let him know what was next. He’d be hunting again, this time in Venezuela, but when his phone startled him awake at four in the morning, his world changed forever.
“Have you seen the news?” Dale asked.
“No, why? What’s going on?” he said, rubbing his face and walking to the window to look down on the Potomac.
Dale wiped the tears from her left cheek and uttered the words she knew would break Matt’s heart. “Helene’s dead!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Matt was stunned. With the exception of his time at Zermatt, this last week had already been an emotional roller coast. And now, instead of setting out to terminate a troublesome bad guy in another hemisphere, he needed to board yet another flight and fly west to bury one of the last remaining members of his family.
Helene Coleman, holder of one of the most powerful offices in the nation and the woman who helped raise him after his mother died when he was in elementary school, was gone. He checked flights to Jackson Hole and decided to bypass the faster private jet charter and go for a First Class ticket on a commercial airline instead. Now he just needed to get dressed and to the airport in record time. His slick Mercedes and the early hour provided an unimpeded race to Dulles. Had this been a stroke or heart attack, he would have already been on the private jet, but Matt knew there was nothing he could do to comfort her now. The most he could do at this point was go there, find out what happened, see to her disposition, and say good-bye.
By ten-thirty local time, he drove his rental car onto the Coleman Estate, 100 acres set on the outskirts of Jackson Hole in western Wyoming. His aunt had always loved the spectacular view from her front porch of the Grand Teton Mountains. It was there that Matt had spent many summers while his father remained in State College, in the center of the state, writing history books and teaching summer classes at Penn State. Matt had enjoyed the look and feel of the Nittany Mountains, but compared to the Tetons, they didn’t even rate.
At his request, the local coroner had left her body in the upstairs master bedroom. Her assistant had found her unconscious and unresponsive on the floor near the bathroom, just past midnight. Due to her status within the United States’ intelligence community, wherever she went, she was always accompanied by bodyguards, chauffeured around in an armored SUV, and followed by a staff of anywhere from three to five admins and techs.
According to the EMTs who first responded to the 911 call, and then the sheriff and the coroner who attended to her, it appeared that she had suffered a stroke and fallen to the floor where she had been found. There were no signs or suspicions of foul play at the scene when Matt arrived.
After receiving condolences from the sheriff, the head of Coleman’s security team, the coroner, and her chief of staff, Matt asked for privacy as he went upstairs to see his aunt one last time. Her wishes had been made clear to him. She was to be cremated without visitation or a ceremony of any kind and had instructed him that he was to hike up into the Tetons and spread her ashes as soon as possible. They often joked that she had better pass on in the summertime, as she had, because if she died during the winter, he’d probably keep her boxed up in his closet until the spring thaw.
As he took the steps to the second floor, he looked down into the living room, admiring the massive fireplace that he had sat in front of so many times with his aunt as she told him stories. In recent years, they had reflected on life and history, and the excitement and intrigue of being involved in enforcing the law and protecting the country.
The setting was conducive to reflection and relaxation, but politics, wealth, and the resulting power were very much present in the area as well. A former vice president lived down the road from the Coleman ranch. Most of the 100-plus-acre properties there went for over $30 million. Elk, bear, and moose could be found at times wandering throughout the valley, but once the summer tourists who came to take in the Tetons and nearby Yellowstone went home after Labor Day, the focus turned to the draw of the ski areas and snowmobiling once the ground turned white. It was known to snow as early as September but today, despite the beautiful blue sky and peaceful puffy white clouds above, the atmosphere was mostly gray.
When Matt reached her bedroom door, the lone bodyguard who had been standing watch since Coleman had been discovered acknowledged Matt and went downstairs to leave him to the private moment.
Matt walked through the bedroom and instantly smelled the scent of lavender, his aunt’s favorite. He looked at the unmade bed, felt the warmth of the sun drenching the room through the glass slider that opened onto the deck. She had often done yoga, raced through a Gray Man novel, or dealt with the nation’s national security there, and then he saw her, lying in peace, covered by the familiar rustic patchwork blanket that had brought her comfort there for years. He knelt beside her, slowly pulled the light blanket down from her face, and smiled. Her expression, the one he would remember forever, was peaceful. She hadn’t been a very religious person but had seen to it that Matt was brought up in the Catholic faith when he visited. They had debated, many times in front of the blazing fireplace, about the presence of a God in such a world where both of them had seen such evil exist. But he had faith and said a prayer before covering her face for the last time. As he stood up and headed for the door, he stopped and remembered her ring.
She had never married but wore a simple turquoise ring that had been passed down from her mother and from generations before them, dating back to the days when the family set up stake in the region. It was the only jewelry she ever wore, and he wanted it to remember her by. She’d want him to have it; perhaps for Claire someday, she had often teased him.
Matt knelt back down and reached under the blanket for her right hand. He found it, cold and still, but there was no ring. He frowned. Something wasn’t right.
It was always there on that hand, on her third finger. Always. He turned toward the door to make sure they were still alone. He stood up and checked the top of her bureau. That was the only place it might have been if she took it off at night. It wasn’t there. He walked to the other side of her body and reached under the blanket to search for her left hand.
Found it, he thought to himself grimly. The peacefulness he’d felt in the room changed. Matt and his aunt had a secret signal. If she ever felt threatened or something was amiss, she told Matt she would switch the ring to her other hand.
Matt remained crouched there, gathering his thoughts and developing an action plan. If Coleman had felt in danger, she couldn’t just call him as any ordinary person might do. In the intelligence business, everything was monitored and recorded. There were no secrets anywhere, except ones that NSA or CIA never revealed. If his aunt feared for her life and knew it might be at someone’s hands, switching the ring would alert Matt if she had the time and the strength to do it. Calls for help might put her beloved nephew’s life at risk, and that was one thing she would never have allowed to happen.
If this was an inside job, that means there’s a killer downstairs, he thought. Maybe an accomplice. Matt shook his head. Could all of this be a mistake? he wondered. Could she have moved the ring for some other reason?
>
He continued to hold her hand and then slowly removed the ring from her finger, placing her hand back beneath the blanket.
He had just stood up when the sheriff knocked at the doorway. “Is there anything you want us to do, Matt?” he asked in a respectful, subdued tone.
Sam Horton had been a family friend as far back as Matt could remember. They were the same age, had spent summers together climbing the hills, spotting big game at dusk, chasing the two-legged locals into the night, and using the Tetons and nearby Yellowstone as theirs to conquer. Horton was a cowboy through and through, raised on a horse ranch just over the hills in Idaho. He loved to hunt, fly fish, hike, ride horses, and Helene Coleman. She, too, had provided the mothering figure both young men had been without growing up. Matt and Sam had been like brothers but their time apart had made them more like acquaintances as the years went by. Matt hadn’t turned to face Sam yet. He needed to formulate a plan and fast. He wasn’t sure he could trust him.
Matt turned. “Come on in, Sam,” he suggested, and the sheriff slowly walked toward them. They stood over her body, quiet in their thoughts, until Matt decided it was time to make the first move and roll the dice.
“Sam,” he asked, “can I trust you with something important?” Matt watched every inch of the man, looking for tells. Watching for anything and everything.
“Whatever you need, Matt, whatever you need.”
Matt’s instincts and his extensive training and experience were fully put to the test. Did Sam shift his weight, gesture with his arms, change his breathing? Did the focus of his eyes change in any way? Did he look away? What he saw and felt was nothing but affection for Coleman and a very sincere expression through an offer to help.