by Rick Mofina
“I’ll check with my editors.”
“While you’re at it, would Newslead allow our Computer Analysis and Response Team access to your system, if we need it?”
“I can’t answer that. They may prefer you seek a warrant. Agent Sanchez, what do you think? Is the email legitimate?”
“Impossible to say at this stage. We’ll have to assess it.”
“Assess it for...?”
“Credibility and believability. We’ll examine the identity given, this ‘Zarathustra, Lord of the Heavens.’ We don’t know if this is simply a disturbed individual, a false alarm, or someone with the skills and resources to carry out the threat, or someone affiliated with a terrorist network. We’ll assess it and run it through several databases to determine its validity. Those are the first steps.”
“Then what?”
“There’s a lot more after that. If we think it has substance, we’ll pull in every resource we have. We’ll alert the NTSB, work with them, call in other agencies if we have to. We’ll track down the sender and secure the safety of travelers and bring forth the appropriate charges. As you know, just making the threat is a criminal act.”
“Is the FBI aware of this person sending similar threats to other news organizations?”
“Not to our knowledge,” Sanchez said. “You’re the first to bring this to our attention at this office.”
“Would you assure Newslead that you will not make this public, or share it with other news agencies?”
“We’ll keep it confidential, unless circumstances change.”
“But you’ll keep us informed along the way?”
“We’re getting into hypothetical areas. If an investigation is warranted, we’d need to protect its integrity.”
“But would you respect the fact that it’s Newslead’s tip and we’d want to report on it exclusively if this goes anywhere?”
“You want an exclusivity deal.”
“That’s right.”
“We’ll leave that for the people here at a higher pay grade to sort out,” Bartell said.
“What we’ll do,” Sanchez said, “is advise our supervisors that you came to us and you’re cooperating. At this stage we’d ask that you not report on any aspect of this note.”
“Newslead can’t surrender editorial control to the FBI. But given that there’s a public safety issue here, Newslead wants to take the proper approach.”
“All right, then. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” Sanchez stood to leave.
“Wait, one last thing. What’re the chances that this note is real?”
“It’s anyone’s guess at this point,” Sanchez said. “The FBI receives upwards of a thousand tips a day. Everything from reports of a package left on the street, to an unstable person on a plane planning to do harm, to people overhearing someone plotting to assassinate the president. We review them all. This one will be no different. It could be someone trying to lay claim to the event. Or it could be an authentic communication from the person responsible for the problems with the flight, boasting that they have the means to carry out their threat. Until then, the truth about your sender remains a mystery.”
“With time ticking down on us,” Kate said.
* * *
Kate stepped off the elevator and was walking through the lobby when she heard someone say, “Kate? Kate Page?”
She turned to see FBI Special Agent Nick Varner pulling away from a group of people heading to the elevator doors.
“I’ll catch up with you guys,” Varner called to the group as he approached her. “It’s been a long time. You’re looking good. How’ve you been? Sorry, I’ve only got a moment, but what brings you here?”
Kate and Nick had worked together on a major kidnapping story nearly a year ago, and she trusted him completely. Varner looked good in his suit. He’d just hit forty and still had his Brad Pitt thing going strong, she thought. His eyes were sharp and he listened intensely as she related everything about the Zarathustra threat to him, telling him what she’d told the other agents.
“I know Ron Sanchez. I work with him.” Varner reached into his pocket for a card and pen, making notes before passing it to her. “I’m strictly task force now. Here’s my new number and private contact information. Keep me in the loop. Maybe I can help.”
Elevator doors chimed and he turned.
“Gotta go,” he said as he headed for the elevator. “Good seeing you. Keep in touch, Kate.”
Sixteen
Manhattan, New York
Logan Dunn studied the website for the Buffalo News on his phone while waiting at the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Midtown Manhattan.
He concentrated on a wire story the News had carried under the headline:
Pilot of Troubled EastCloud Buffalo-to-NYC Flight: Malfunction Puts Passengers at Risk.
He’d read it several times, coming back to the statements by Raymond Matson, the captain:
I don’t know what happened but I know something went wrong. This was a clear flight control computer malfunction.
Damn right something went wrong.
Logan reached up to relieve an itch on his temple, touching the bandages covering the cuts he’d received on the flight. Then he went to the video he’d recorded.
It started with Kayla at her window seat, anxious but winning over her fear of flying, when the jetliner suddenly rolled hard, the right wing tipping toward the ground, passengers screaming for their lives as bodies and items were tossed like they were in a blender. The horror was repeated as the plane suddenly lurched to the left, throwing people to the opposite side as the jet leveled, then took a sudden death dive before the crew regained control.
Somehow, throughout the chaos and panic, Logan had managed to hang on to his phone and keep recording.
In the aftermath, when paramedics had taken him, Kayla and the other passengers to the hospital for observation, he’d alerted Kayla’s parents, and his, that they’d been shaken but not seriously hurt.
Like the other passengers, Logan and Kayla had cooperated with the NTSB and EastCloud Airlines, providing statements. The NTSB and EastCloud wanted him to share his video and not make it public, stating that it would help with the investigation.
But Logan had refused to share it.
He wanted to help but he was hesitant. Word had circulated among the passengers that while many had still pictures and video taken after the incident, Logan was the only person whose footage had captured the entire event as it had happened. He’d called one of his law professors and told him about the flight with Kayla, his video and the circumstances.
The video is essentially your property, the professor had said. I understand you’d want to help investigators because of the safety issues, but you might want to consider making your recording public first before sharing it with the NTSB and the airline. It would strengthen a civil case should you proceed with an action, and I would think you and Kayla have a very strong case.
But that was the problem.
Kayla didn’t want Logan to release the video.
Her reasoning ranged from It’s too frightening, to My screaming is embarrassing, to It could have an impact on my hope of ever getting a job with Maly Kriz-Janda. Her opposition was irrational, but Logan understood. She’d been traumatized by the incident.
He looked down at Kayla now, her head resting on his chest as they waited at the bus terminal. Her chin was bandaged. Bruises dotted her neck and arm. He thought of how much the job at the fashion designer had meant to her, how hard she’d worked in school to pursue her dream. He thought of all she’d done to alleviate her fear of flying—the books, the recordings—and his heart ached for her.
While in the hospital, she’d called Maly Kriz-Janda, told them about the flight and canceled her interview.<
br />
I’m okay with it. Really, she’d told him.
But she wasn’t okay. She’d cried in the aftermath. Then the designer called her back and very kindly offered to interview Kayla over the phone, if she was willing.
Kayla had gone ahead with a short, shaky interview in which she’d made it clear that she’d never again get on a plane. The designer had been upbeat, thanked her, called her brave and said they’d get back to her. But Kayla had given up on the job and wanted to get home to Buffalo.
And now here they were, awaiting a nine-hour bus trip across the state.
Logan’s back and shoulders were sore from the items that had crashed into him, and he had to reposition himself on the bench, disturbing Kayla.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” she said. “I saw you looking at the video again.”
“I know this is hard, and you’ve been through a lot, but we should release it. We can’t be selfish about this, Kay. People have to know what happened on that plane.”
“I know,” she said.
“You know?”
She nodded.
“So you’re okay to make it public?”
Tears came to her eyes as she nodded.
“I wouldn’t want anyone else to go through this, and I know we’re so lucky to be alive.”
Tenderly, he pressed her head to his face and kissed her.
“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
They sat there for a moment. Then Logan scrolled through the newswire story. It was written by Kate Page. He searched for her email on the bottom then sent her a message.
After checking the time, he looked up Newslead’s telephone number and called it.
Seventeen
Manhattan, New York
By the time Kate had returned to the newsroom most of the day side staff had left, except Reeka, who approached her before she’d made it back to her desk.
“You’re not on the schedule. What’re you filing for us today?”
“Nothing.”
“We need a follow.”
“You know that I was with the FBI—” Kate glanced around to ensure nobody overheard “—discussing their response to the Zarathustra email. It’s in the note I sent to Lincoln, you, Chuck and the other editors.”
“Then give us a story saying the FBI is now investigating the flight.”
“But they’re not ‘investigating.’ Not yet.”
“Your note said they’ve accepted our information, so write an exclusive saying Newslead has learned the FBI is investigating a claim that someone interfered with the near-fatal flight.”
“What? No. That’s disingenuous and runs counter to what Lincoln directed us to do at the meeting. You were there. Besides, the FBI hasn’t even assessed the claim yet. Did you read my note?”
Kate searched the newsroom in vain for Chuck when Tyler Sharpe, a news assistant, trotted to them.
“Excuse me, Kate, but I’ve got a call for you that sounds important.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Got a guy on hold. Says he’s got information on your story about the EastCloud flight.”
“Put him through to me,” Kate said, turning to Reeka. “I’ll take this.”
Striding to her desk Kate struggled to shake off the exchange. That Reeka was still working here was a constant source of trepidation, compounded by the fact Sloane remained an employee. Kate scanned the newsroom for him, happy she didn’t see him.
Where’s Chuck when I need him?
Kate seized her phone.
“Kate Page, Newslead.”
“You’re the reporter who wrote the story on the EastCloud flight?”
“That’s me. How can I help you?”
“My girlfriend and I were passengers and I have some footage I took on my phone when it happened that no one has seen.”
“Really? How can I be sure?”
“I’ll send you a few seconds and our boarding passes, to show that this is the real deal.”
“Okay, use this email.”
Kate dictated the address and stayed on the line with the caller. A moment later the email came in. She caught her breath as she viewed the frightening images.
“Can you send me the whole thing?”
“Not until we meet face-to-face. That’s how I want to do it.”
“Have you called other newsrooms?”
“No, just you. Your story was the best.”
He just echoed Zarathustra. Kate tightened her hold on her phone. “Excuse me?”
“Your story had the most information, the interview with the captain. That’s why I called.”
“Are you seeking money? Because all we pay for images is spot news and freelance rates—a few hundred dollars—and that’s it.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“Okay, can you come to our newsroom today? We’ll make an appointment.”
“No, we have to do this in one hour.”
“Why?”
“That’s when our bus leaves. We’re at the Port Authority Bus Terminal.”
Kate did a quick calculation of the distance and time, then traded descriptions with her caller before hanging up and collecting her bag.
“Tell Reeka I’m going to check out this caller,” she told Tyler, before hurrying to the elevator.
* * *
The Port Authority Bus Terminal was in Times Square, an eight-or ten-block walk, depending on which direction Kate went. She headed north on Eighth Avenue, estimating that she could cover the distance within fifteen minutes.
Her breathing quickened at the prospect of securing unseen footage. She was glad that she’d told no one details about the call, sticking fast to her rule on tips: never tell an editor what you’ve got until you’ve nailed it. It was a rule that had kept her sane with every editor she’d ever dealt with, especially with Reeka, who overreacted to everything. Kate neared the terminal and the air grew heavy with the smell of diesel and the rush of air brakes.
She whispered a prayer for the caller to be there.
The Port Authority Bus Terminal was one of the busiest in the world. In keeping with her caller’s directions, Kate went to the information booth and searched the nearest benches for a white man and woman in their twenties. They had two suitcases: a small red canvas one, and a large fluorescent green one. The man had short dark hair, and the woman’s blond hair touched her shoulders. When Kate spotted a couple matching the description, she went to them.
“Logan?” she asked.
“Yes,” the man answered, “and this is Kayla.”
“Kate Page with Newslead.” She held up her Newslead ID.
Their bandages reinforced the gravity of the matter. Logan pulled out his phone and pressed Play on the video. As Kate watched the events unfold, her hand flew to her mouth, for it was far more chilling than she could’ve imagined. Kate sat with the couple and interviewed them; they agreed to be photographed and identified for the story.
“We’re thankful to be alive,” Kayla said.
“We don’t want anyone to ever have to go through what we went through on that flight,” Logan said.
After they’d boarded their bus to Buffalo, Kate alerted Chuck, Reeka and the night desk to what she had and sent the video to Newslead’s web team so they could post it on Newslead’s website.
Adrenaline pumping, she sat down on a bench, blocked out the terminal’s hubbub and focused her full concentration into crafting a story about Logan and Kayla’s terrifying video.
Good work, Kate, Chuck wrote back after reading her story and viewing the footage.
Once the story went live, Kate sent individual messages about it to the NTSB, EastCloud, the FBI, Captain Matson and her friend with the pilots
’ union. For dinner, she bought an egg-salad sandwich, then headed to the nearest subway station for an uptown train to take her home. The day’s events replayed in her mind as the train sped north.
Who is Zarathustra and how significant was the threat to disrupt another plane? Those images of what happened on 4990 were shocking. What are we really dealing with here?
Kate racked her brains for possible answers, but it was futile—she was exhausted. The train rumbled from station to station, calming her, and she almost drifted off before it reached her stop.
It was dark when she surfaced on 125th Street.
She lived a few blocks away in Morningside Heights, in a Victorian-era building where she’d sublet an affordable apartment from a Columbia University professor who was on an extended sabbatical in Europe.
With the exception of distant sirens, it was unusually quiet. Her neighborhood was a mix of small businesses—a deli, a check-cashing store, a florist, an electronics store, a hair salon—and small apartment buildings. Tonight, the streets were almost deserted, and she felt a sudden and inexplicable pang of unease. She stopped and looked behind her.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
I could’ve sworn someone was following along behind me.
Kate continued to her building.
She fished out her keys, let herself in through the secure lobby and summoned the elevator. The car was empty. She stepped in and it rose toward her floor. Then, without warning, it groaned to a halt.
“Great.”
Kate pushed buttons, but to no avail. She rang the alarm button but nothing happened. This is strange. We never have problems with the elevator here. In the silence, she heard the echoing thud of someone rushing up a stairwell and called to them.
“Hello! Help! I’m stuck in the elevator! Can you push a button?”
Several moments passed without a response.
Kate then reached for the small door to the emergency phone when suddenly the elevator shuddered, resumed rising and stopped at her floor.
The doors opened and she stepped out.
That was weird.
She turned for her apartment then froze.