And then there was the promising news from the one place in Europe that had been rapidly going from bad to worse these past years, where the political divide between Eastern and Western Europe had once been. Two small countries that could have been a symbol of unity, cultural safe havens that would have set an example for so many, had instead been entangled in an endless feud that some years earlier had finally spiraled out of control, sending the two neighbors into a destructive war and sparking mutual atrocities that had not been seen in that part of the world for more than half a century. No one had been able to make the two nations talk, try to stop what was happening. No one until the Internationals’ own Ambassador George Sendor had stepped in and, refusing to give up, had stuck with them through flare after flare of renewed distrust and violence, until he managed to get them to listen to him and had helped them see another future for themselves and for their children. And now, after all the time and effort, the High Council could finally welcome news of an imminent peace treaty.
Ambassador Sendor was on his way to the High Council’s meeting now, and would be joining it sometime during its second half. The Council was hoping he would accept their offer to remain in the region and watch over the implementation of the new treaty as the ambassador to both countries. The remarkable man was worthy of their trust, their respect, their support.
Council Head Ines Stevenssen was about to proceed with the next item on the agenda when the conference room door burst open and a pale aide rushed in, followed by the deputy head of security of this branch of IDSD, Julian Bern.
“Ma’am.” The aide deferred to the council head.
Stevenssen motioned him and Bern in. Through the open door behind them, she saw people gathering, their agitation evident.
Bern approached the conference table. “I’ve just received a call from Brussels Air Control Center,” he said. “They’ve lost contact with Ambassador Sendor’s jet. The last they have is a distress call from the pilot on the emergency frequency, which was cut off almost immediately but was without doubt relayed while the plane was still in the air. They’ve informed IDSD Global Flights Monitoring Station, which has initiated a search protocol.” He paused. “So far, they’ve had no success making contact with the jet. It has vanished.”
The trailer was silent.
From the outside it and the tractor unit it was connected to could be mistaken for an old semitrailer not worth the trouble of a second look, parked carelessly off the road, its driver probably having sought a quiet place to catch some rest. And there was in fact someone in the driver’s seat, a man who was seemingly asleep, a black cap down over his eyes. Even with the windows up and the heater running, he had a short coat on, and his hands were crossed on his chest. To hide the gun.
The other guards—and there were quite a few of them—were deployed at varying distances around the trailer, all hidden from sight. Not that they had to be hidden, or would even be needed at all. There was no one for miles around, and no one knew anyone was there. And even if someone happened to stray into the area, perhaps stumble upon any of the hidden men, no one had even a remote chance of guessing what their mission was, what they were protecting.
Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious, considering the stakes involved.
Inside, the trailer was far from simple, nothing innocent about it. It had been converted to house, power and protect a system unlike any other in the world. Few knew this system existed, and fewer yet knew it was already operational. In fact, it was fully active now, working to the limit of its capacity in this, its maiden task.
The two men overseeing the system’s activity were silent. They worked with precise efficiency, noting every single datum on the screens before them, knowing they must miss nothing. There was no time for words.
They were too busy controlling the jet flying high above them.
The initial shock had worn off, and the mood in the upper-floor conference room of IDSD’s headquarters was somber. Council Head Stevenssen had adjourned the meeting for an extended break immediately after hearing the news, to give everyone time to settle, to adjust to what was thought to be a tragedy that had befallen one of IDSD’s most revered diplomats, a friend to many of them. The break was also intended to give Bern a chance to collect more information and, perhaps most important at that point, to give Stevenssen herself the time she needed to make sure the news would not get out. Until more was known about what had happened, she had to do her best to ensure that the two nations whose future was on the line would not find out prematurely that their best, perhaps only, chance for a lasting peace was gone. If they would blame each other—and they would, their history had shown—there would be no stopping the tragic consequences, ever again.
Having reconvened the meeting, and with a pang of regret as she realized Sendor would by now have been here with them, Stevenssen took a long look at her peers sitting around the table, their eyes expectant on her.
“I have been given additional information,” she said, coming straight to the point. “However, I suggest Julian impart it himself, since he has been in direct contact with IDSD Global Flights Monitoring Station.”
Bern stepped forward. “They don’t think the jet crashed.”
He had everyone’s attention.
“Signals from all systems on board designed to communicate the jet’s location disappeared more or less simultaneously. So together with the pilot’s emergency call the first thought was catastrophic failure. However, the emergency locator transmitters on board whose activation would have been triggered by a crash were not activated. Also, the jet was over land when it disappeared and our satellites would have found a crash site by now around its last recorded position, or we would have had reports from witnesses. There’s nothing.
“The monitoring station has attempted to access the flight data recorder remotely—I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but this capability was developed to avoid the delay, proven critical too often, in having to search for the recorder in the event of an air accident or an attack, and the risk of being unable to find it if the search takes too long and the recorder ceases to communicate its location because its batteries run out.” He paused. “However, the recorder cannot be accessed. We are being actively locked out.”
“Could a signal jammer have been used?” The man asking was Admiral Helios, head of IDSD in the United States. It was the recent Oracle incident involving his IDSD branch that had brought to their attention the existence, in the hands of the wrong people, of a sophisticated type of jammers one of the applications of which was to conceal the flight path of an aircraft.
“No, sir, we don’t believe so. We don’t know much yet about that jammer I’m assuming you’re referring to, how it works, but I believe a jammer would have caused a different type of interference, not what we’re seeing here.”
Helios nodded, although he clearly wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Couldn’t the emergency locator . . . what was it, transmitters? Couldn’t they have malfunctioned?” the High Council’s deputy head asked.
“There are two of them installed on the jet, sir, as a safety measure, given its designation, and it is unlikely both would have malfunctioned simultaneously,” Bern answered.
“Could something have happened on board, incapacitating everyone? In which case, wouldn’t the aircraft still have continued to fly on autopilot?” The speaker, Council Member Sloan, had been a military officer in her past, a combat fighter pilot. She would know her stuff, Bern knew.
“Theoretically, yes, ma’am, and the aircraft certainly had enough fuel. However, if that were the case, we would have been able to access the autopilot and take control of the aircraft. We can’t. We have ascertained that the autopilot has been turned off. And no, the one thing we already know is that the aircraft did not continue on its predesignated route. He cleared his throat. “Also, once the monitoring station realized it is unable to contact the jet, it calculated possible routes for it beginning with its last know
n position. So far, satellites have found nothing along any of these routes.” He hesitated. “I think at this point we can safely assume that the jet is no longer in the air.”
Silence fell as the implications sank in.
“Are you telling us that the plane was somehow taken?” the head of Australia IDSD asked.
“That seems to be the most likely possibility. The question is by whom and how. The aircraft went through the automated pre-flight scan. Other than the ambassador and his executive assistant only the regular crew and the protective detail were on board, and I can tell you we can vouch for every one of them.”
“So what the hell happened to it?” Council Member Richmond, an old friend of Ambassador Sendor, was understandably upset.
Before Bern could answer, his phone rang. He glanced at it, then excused himself and took the call. Everyone in the room remained silent, waiting expectantly.
Bern muted the call and looked at them. “The monitoring station has located the jet. It seems to have landed on the artificial extension of Cres, the Croatian island. From the air it looks intact. The alliance naval base at Split has dispatched helicopters to the area.”
The room was hushed as they waited. No one dared think of the possibilities. Everyone hoped.
Bern, too, waited, the phone at his ear. He was patched through, heard it all. After endless minutes, he finally lowered the phone, stared at it. “I’m sorry. The jet’s crew, the ambassador’s assistant, the protective detail, they’re dead. They’re all dead.”
He raised his eyes to the stricken leaders before him. “Ambassador Sendor is gone.”
Chapter Two
While Ambassador George Sendor was still sipping his orange-flavored Earl Grey tea forty-one thousand feet above Europe, contemplating the fate of nations and mercifully oblivious to his own, Lara Holsworth was just waking up in Washington, DC. She had left the blinds open so that the sun would shine into the bedroom in the morning, and it did, another clear autumn day. Winter would be here soon enough, but she was glad it hadn’t arrived just yet. She got out of bed and put a robe on, then went to the window and looked out at the house’s peaceful back yard. Delaying, she realized. It was simple, really. She was delaying starting the day.
Donovan wasn’t here.
This is crazy, she thought. How can I miss him? How can I miss him already? Shaking her head, surprised at herself but not entirely displeased with this new feeling, she descended the stairs to the quiet of the first floor, the late morning sun greeting her here, too, in a renewed attempt to distract her. The main security console was silently active, and for the first time in days she had no reason to give it even a cursory glance. The coffeemaker purred in the kitchen, and she contemplated it, then reconsidered and turned to go back upstairs to shower and dress when her phone chirped upstairs, then automatically sent the arriving message to the media screen closest to her. The text message made her smile.
“Have breakfast. The kind I would make you.”
So he wasn’t asleep. And he wasn’t at his place, otherwise he would already be here, with her. He had brought her back home that morning just as the sun peeked over the horizon, after first insisting on another detour to the IDSD medical center. The agents guarding her and her home were, to her relief, gone by then, all except the two who had stayed behind to formally pass the house security back to Donovan. After making sure she would go straight to bed, he had gone back to his own house next door, to get some sleep. Apparently that hadn’t worked so well. But then, being a United States Federal Investigative Division senior investigator was no less demanding than her own job.
The smile wouldn’t go away. “Where are you?” she dictated back.
“On a case,” was his answer. “I’ll come by as soon as I get back. How’re you doing?”
She sent him a smile.
This is crazy, she thought again as she made herself breakfast. But the smile was still on her face.
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Oracle's Hunt Page 30