When Civil Servants Fail

by John Schou

you please comment yourself.”

  “You may look for yourself, if you find any sign of a Boeing here,” I started. “Even if you consider the possibility that the plane had entered the building and closed the door afterwards, there is no signs of any wings – by the way, a problem with all models, except a virtual slim missile – and then there is the problem of the lamp poles, indicating a plane with 100 feet wing broadness, to be compared with 125 feet wingspan of the Boeing. But the clearest indication, that this is a hoax, is given by the criminal energy, exerted by the FBI. The crash was filmed from the adjacent gasoline station and the Sheraton hotel but the footage was confiscated within minutes after the crash. Then the security camera from Pentagon’s own heliport filmed the crash, from which the following five pictures were released. Four of them only show an increasing fireball and only the first show a slim, white object approaching. It is impossible to see what it exactly is, therefore, I guess, the picture was released.

  Is it possible, at all, to use a commercial airliner as a weapon towards a 5-stock high building? According to FBI’s phantasy declaration, the pilot should be Hani Hanjour, who could hardly fly a Cessna. Add to that the difficulty produced by a fall of 7,500 feet in 2½ minutes and a sharp turn over Arlington. There are many more inconsistencies supporting the conclusion that it was no Boeing that hit Pentagon. And now we come to the third scene of the crime, the one where your son’s plane has allegedly crashed.”

  Mr. Wilson had initially made a face, indicating that he was the only sane human in this circle of lunatics, but he had soon forgotten that attitude and now and then asked for the repetition of one picture.

  “In a rural area of Pennsylvania, near the small village of Shanksville, the fourth plane, UA 93, should have crashed. Here is the scene of the crash, at best described as a hole in the ground. There were only small metal parts identified and no bodies recognized. For comparison, you see some pictures of airplane crashes in the free World, if you pardon the expression as citizens of the USA.”

  “Slowly, I understand what you means, but it will probably take some weeks before I grasp it fully, if your interpretation is valid,” Mr. Wilson said. Our client nodded.

  “There was indeed luggage spread over 8 miles, giving rise to the theory that the plane had exploded in the air. However, while the suitcases remained over the ground, there were no bodies or larger metal parts – nothing larger than a plate for eating, as the mayor of Shanksville said – to be found on the ground. Then there were the stories that the passengers should have called from the plane with their mobile phones, but I shall comment on it in the detailed report.”

  “Can I have a file with these pictures and videos?” Mr. Wilson asked.

  “You are not our client,” Mr. Smith bluntly stated.

  “However, if your wife asks for it, I shall gladly prepare it,” I said.

  “Yes, please, but give it to me. I can then decide at home, whether he deserves it or not,” our client said. Everybody, even Mr. Wilson, smiled.

  Now Mr. Smith had recovered to give a conclusion, so that our guests could soon leave: “Mr. Gusto has been at great pain to find all these details from the Internet. He might have saved much of the work: if you consider, how much was done from official side to destroy evidence and prevent truth from coming out, it is evident that there is something mysteriously going on. Nevertheless, I am looking forward to read your complete report, Eric. To come back to Jack, if his plane did not crash at Shanksville, it has probably landed somewhere, probably together with the other planes, so in the plot, we are looking for a fourth scene of the crime, and we find it in Cleveland, where the FBI had planned a bomb alarm while planes landed, throwing out the flight controllers but not completely closing down the airport. Cleveland is more or less on all the planes way westwards from the East Coast and has the peculiarity that the NASA Research Center lies besides, connected by taxiing routes – yes, show it Eric.”

  I had found a plan of Cleveland’s Hopkins Airport and the adjacent NASA airport, showing the connecting roads, probably used to transfer the ‘hijacked’ planes, which were still not aware of their proclaimed fate, away from the airport. Then Mr. Smith continued.

  “It is most probable that the passengers and crews were killed, but there are no definite recognitions how. It is noteworthy that the official story makes a parallel consideration: whoever is behind these catastrophic attacks does not care about the remaining people; here they only tried to keep the planes empty in order to diminish the number of victims – not for humanist reason but in order to reduce the workload of killing them all. This also opens up the opportunity that one escaped the massacre. What, then, could he do? Report to the authorities? They would be very grateful; after all, we now know that they were behind the atrocities of 9/11 – not to mention later calamities. If Jack managed to escape, he would surely want to get away and start a new life under a new identity. But maybe we shall soon have the opportunity to ask him. A person named Jack Stewart is currently sitting in a plane from Sidney to Singapore, where he shall board another plane to Copenhagen. I shall try to arrange for a meeting here tomorrow at 3 p.m., if I can count on your cooperation, Mrs. Wilson?”

  She looked at her husband. “Bill?”

  He shook his head: “I’m sorry, I have an important meeting then.”

  “What can be more important?”

  “You are right, I shall be there.”

  “If you will please follow Mr. Gusto, he shall prepare the file you asked for. I wish you a good day.”

  Mr. Wilson came to the table and stretched out the hand and Mr. Smith was so surprised of this unexpected attack that he gave his sweating hand in return, something he usually refused.

  “Please consider me your client, too,” Mr. Wilson said.

  “It shall not cost you extra,” Mr. Smith dryly remarked. “I hope you shall see your son tomorrow but I cannot guarantee. To be prepared, please bring some cash money with you for him.”

  I could see that Mr. Smith was getting tired and called Mr. Wilson back. “If you will please follow me.” As we went out, Juanita rushed in. Mr. Smith had called her by his concealed button – he probably needed the toilet urgently.

  I brought the couple to my own office while I copied the pictures and videos on a CD-ROM. Then they left and I returned to Mr. Smith.

  “I want to give you full absolution,” I started.

  “Absolution for what?”

  “For mixing up in my case. It seems we are dealing with it the usual way.”

  He pondered a bit about his answer. “Eric, you made a brilliant job. So thorough that is has become obvious that it is a matter for the boss. Your next task will be to fetch Mr. Stewart from the airport tomorrow morning and bring him here.”

  “But you said he should come in the afternoon.”

  “Did I? I remember that I invited Mrs. and Mr. Wilson in the afternoon. Shortly before, I expect them to go to the airport to receive their son – in vain, of course, since Mr. Stewart will take another machine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You are not my only assistant. You were so occupied of your big search that I asked Fred to find out the booking relations on various planes, with special emphasis on a Mr. Jack Stewart. I was just hoping that he was travelling under that name – at least, somebody is. When you welcome him to Copenhagen, he may not be ready to follow you. After all, a general suspicion helped him to stay alive.”

  “Can I have the car, then?”

  “No, you take the Underground to the airport and a taxi back, if you come with Mr. Stewart. That way, you are more flexible, if there should be troubles.”

  “What kind of troubles?”

  “Probably none, unless they are still looking for Jack Wilson and he is their man. In that case, I thrust upon your improvisation talent.”

  3 – Welcome to Copenhagen

  The weather had changed. It was still dark as I left home, skipping my jogging session for the day, and took the
regional train to Nørreport station, where I changed for the underground to the airport. As I came out, the sun was rising over a clear sky, as if it would welcome a precious guest.

  We were not alone in preparing a welcome, the sun and I. Outside the custom exit for arriving passengers, there was, as always, a crowd, and in that crowd I recognized two so-called ‘intelligence service’ agents. The word ‘intelligence’ must be ironically conceived, both from their deeds and their appearance; I could always recognize these guys on a larger distance. I slowly approached them and realized that they were speaking English with an unmistaken American accent. Although they talked in a low voice and there was much noise around, I was able to grasp a bit of their conversation by standing close to them among families, eager to salute a member returning from abroad.

  “... Of course an old photo is worthless; he looks anything like it, with long hair, beard and sunglasses. They said in Singapore that he was wearing a red shirt, but down there, it is summer now, we may not be able to see it.”

  “What, then, shall we go for?”

  “Most peculiar did they mention the rubber shoes, which were violet, least peculiar some worn out jeans, a red cap, a Nikon camera kept in the hand luggage and then a single suitcase with his new name written on it.”

  “Too bad they did not fetch him in Australia.”

  “They had too little time. They only got the suspicion from listening to the international calls to his parents. Before they could react in Atlanta ...”

  I had heard enough. The plane had not landed, so I had some time, but how could I use it? The best would be to buy a couple of shoes, but I had no idea, what kind of shoe-size Jack Stewart had. Then I saw a well-known figure, a man of around fifty, who had stood behind in the row as our Lord distributed hair – he was completely bald and usually wearing a cap to hide it. He was also rather small of stature, today wearing a blue coat that I had not seen before.

  “Hi Fred, did Mr. Smith send you?”

  “He did not tell you about it?”

  “Never mind. Now you are here, there is a slight chance finally to be useful. You see the two smart guys over there?”

  “The CIA-agents, you mean? Yes, they have been waiting here for a while.” Obviously also Frank must have been here early.

  “They were kind enough to give a rather precise description of the guy for whom we should be the reception,” and then I told him what I had learned. “Can we enter the arrival area where he shall pick up his suitcase?”

  “That is no big art, if we only use the standard exit gate, past the customs officers.”

  “OK, let’s go – where?”

  “Directly into the lion’s cave.” With these words, we entered a door with a sign saying ‘Custom Staff only.’ Three officers were playing cards there. Two of them looked angrily up as we entered, but the third – fortunately the oldest – greeted with “Hi Fred, you come as sent by fate. We need a fourth man for the round.”

  “Sorry, not today, Georg. We need to welcome special guests. Except for that, we shall not disturb.”

  “OK, if you have another offer to make.”

  “How about tomorrow morning? I can be here at 11,” Fred suggested.

  The customers all laughed. “11 is not morning to us,” the chief answered. “But come as you please and bring sufficient cash with you, so that you can afford to play an hour with us.” They all laughed again.

  We did not want to disturb further and left the merry company. Now we saw that the plane had landed. We went away from the exit point so that we would not be seen. Fifteen minutes later, the passengers from Singapore arrived, first to the empty delivering device for their luggage. And then he came, a longhaired, bearded man with violet rubber shoes. I went directly to him