A Different War mg-4

by Craig Thomas

  "Yes," she murmured.

  The aunt had fostered Lloyd as a difficult teenager, abandoned by a philandering father and a mother comatosed by her husband's desertion.

  '… I never suspected, you see, Miss Pyott, that Michael was — that he took…" A gobbling, breathy silence. The intimacy of tragedy pressed against her, insinuating itself. It was as if the aunt were trying to catch her breath beneath a waterfall or facing a fierce, choking wind.

  "Never once in my life…" Marian felt vile, like an eavesdropper.

  An overdose of heroin at least, of heroin that had been badly cut, insufficiently diluted. She had guessed, at certain times, from the heightened, dizzy manner of some of his phone calls, that there was the likelihood that he indulged some occasional cocaine habit. But heroin?

  '… such a loving boy, when you loved him," Marian heard.

  "Yes, yes," she replied eagerly, desperate to offer the aunt some sense of a shared sorrow.

  "It was late last night a friend of Michael's called at his flat, but couldn't get an answer, you see, and looked through the letter box… saw Michael just lying on the floor, not moving."

  "Yes…"

  The what do they call it? The the people he worked with, anyway… they're making the arrangements. For the body to be returned. I thought here…?"

  "Yes." There was nowhere, no one else.

  "Yes, I think that would be right. I please let me know if there's anything I can do and of course, the funeral. The date—" There's some delay, because of the way you know, the way…"

  "Yes." She felt her temples pressed by a drying thong, the sense of her clothes wrapped tight as a straitjacket around her, the heat of her body. The unfolded sheet of paper, the letter beside it, the little tub of undeveloped film, all were bold accusations on her desk. She could not understand why… then, of course, she did, feeling nausea rise in her throat. She had obviously forged some causal link between what he had done those were the results lying there and what had happened to him. And at once felt icily cold, perspiration chilly on her forehead.

  "Yes…" she breathed.

  "I'm sorry to have brought you bad news, Miss Pyott. I thought you would wish to know." The aunt had moved on from sobs to the clarity of arrangements, of other calls, of the immediate future.

  "Yes, thank you. I'll will ring, perhaps tomorrow. Just in case there's anything you feel I can do. Thank you for letting me know…

  I'm so sorry—"

  "Yes. Goodbye, Miss Pyott."

  Marian put down the receiver with a clatter, then gripped the back of her chair, lowering herself into it with the awkwardness she sometimes saw in her father's movements. Her elbows hurt as they took the weight of her head. The desk's surface was very hard, resisting her, as accusing as the items that littered it. She rubbed a hand through her hair, pushing it back on her head. It flopped back at once, blinkering her view of the items on the desk. She did not brush it away from her face again.

  Eventually, she sniffed loudly and sat upright, shaking her head, shaking away the numb mood. Michael's letter offered itself at once to her new composure. It was a hasty note, no more, filled with anxiety and a heightened amusement, a sense of boyish adventure. He had been followed back to the Commission and they had practised a deception to discover who he was. I think I may have exaggerated everything… security people are notoriously paranoid, aren't they? Whistling in the dark? She could not now decide. Except that she did not believe in the heroin addiction, not even in a clumsy and tragic early attempt at the drug. Michael had bought a new car recently, and moved to a bigger, more expensive apartment. He had no money worries, no drain on his resources… guilt nudged, constantly returning her thoughts to her father's oldest friend, one of her oldest friends… Kenneth Aubrey. The undeveloped tub of film, the names on the page. There was no real surprise the Euro MP whose constituency at Strasbourg included her own, the two EU Commissioners, the two plane makers It was obviously Skyliner, and the urgency of the meeting and its secrecy had been demanded by the collapse of the Aero UK helicopter bid. There were no names attached to the people who had frightened Michael and followed him and who… She excised the thought. Sunlight streamed across her hands as they lay resting on the desk. Her diary was open; her notes for the Commons' afternoon business and the details faxed to her in preparation for her Saturday-morning surgery lay near it.

  She snatched up the telephone and dialled. Eventually, she heard Mrs.

  Grey's carefully modulated, slightly pretentious tones.

  "Mrs. Grey is Sir Kenneth free this morning? It's Marian Pyott here, I'd like his advice—"

  "I'm sure Sir Kenneth will be delighted to see you, Miss Pyott. He is lunching at his club with your father and Sir Clive but he will be here until twelve-thirty.

  What time shall I tell him you'd like to call?"

  She glanced at her watch. Twelve. I can make it by twelve."

  I'll tell him."

  Marian continued to study the receiver after she had replaced it.

  Somehow, having called Kenneth, invoking the spirit of his professional self, the names on Michael's sheet of paper seemed less innocent. Their contiguity troubled. Her own suspicions returned regarding the illegal diversion of EU funds for the development of the Skyliner project. The Transport Commissioner and the Urban Development chief… her attention underlined the title as Lloyd's pen had done.

  His was the wrong name, the broken bone sticking through the skin of innocence that clothed the meeting. There was no reason none whatsoever for his appearance at that hotel. He was British, there were other Brits there, including David and Coulthard… but he was not a Commissioner of influence, he was a broken-backed former Cabinet dogs body who was enjoying his ride on the gravy train and his frequent appearances on TV. He enjoyed doling out largesse and that was about the sum of it. And he never joined causes, especially lost ones… He wouldn't, of his own volition, offer to mop up the blood after Aero UK committed hara-kiri, let alone lend himself to lobbying.

  Otherwise, all appeared quite normal, innocent. Would it to Kenneth?

  She must have the film developed-Michael. A friend's view of him, through the slit of a letter box, lying unmoving on the new carpet of the new apartment, dead of heroin poisoning. The Brussels Police Judiciare were confident that it was death by misadventure, nothing more.

  The needle and the damage done… but, unlike the ageing rock singer who had coined that song title, Michael hadn't survived. Had someone not wanted him to?

  They were definitely professional, his letter said. Not the sort of people the Commission employed and not just bodyguards, either… Then who were they? And would Kenneth have immediately asked that question or was she simply caricaturing the attitude of an intelligence officer?

  Had Michael just messed up the dose? Or had someone decided on his eternal silence?

  The sunlight ridiculed, but she could not entirely abandon the idea that Michael had set off an alarm somewhere and had, splashing carelessly and without heed in the shallows, summoned sharks.

  The Grand Canyon swung beneath the 494 like a gaping wound, and he wanted to be able to study it with the impartiality of a surgeon. The repetition of Hollis' flight, minute after slow minute, had begun to unnerve him. He could find no detachment; assurance had seeped away, and his dead friend's voice kept on returning, like a phone call. It demanded things of him — answers, the airplane's safety, his own survival but the increasing challenge of Hollis' recollected voice found him unprepared. He had no answers… He imagined he could see the mules taking tourists from the top to the bottom of the canyon, pick out trailers and campers, even rafts on the Colorado's silver dribble. The vivacity of his imagination, the way it made the canyon rush at him, grow too close to the 494, unsettled. Behind his seat, Vance remained at the flight engineer's panels, his own bafflement as pungent and tangible as the sour smell of defeat. There was nothing wrong — nothing had occurred.

  The short-duration flight that Holl
is had undertaken had been a rehearsal for the full press flight. Views of the Grand Canyon, a river of champagne, small hillocks of canapes… and press acclamation in the following day's newspapers and on that evening's TV network and local news.

  Hollis and his crew had fallen out of the sky less than another half-hour into the flight, making a final approach to Vance Aircraft they had had no warning and he would have just as little. There had been nothing wrong. Gant had listened to the cockpit voice recorder again and again, at least as much of it as had survived the crash, and he'd read the drafts and readouts taken from the flight recorders.

  And learned nothing new, found no clue. The small clock in the centre of the main panel in front of him ticked on… twenty-eight minutes to the point of impact, and the 494 continued innocently above the Canyon.

  Vance had arranged that each of the centres, Phoenix, LA, Peach Springs, Flagstaff, that Hollis had contacted during his flight would respond as they had previously done. Just as he would fly every mile of the flight, perform every action of the dead man'Vance

  494 LA Centre. After leaving Peach Springs we understand you wish to head for thirty-point-five North, one-one-three-point-two West for some sightseeing, then rejoin at the GCN for Flagstaff and Phoenix at flight level three-zero-zero."

  "Centre Vance 494," Gant replied, 'that is affirmative."

  '494 Centre. Do you want to maintain your present level?"

  "Centre 494…" His mouth was suddenly dry. Gant sucked his cheeks.

  "We would like to descend to level six or seven thousand and make two or three orbits before climbing to level three hundred for rejoin."

  Behind him, he sensed Vance listening as anxiously as a possessive, vain parent to a child's performance in a Nativity play.

  Brace, brace, brace-Hollis from the cockpit voice recorder. From the grave.

  '494 this is Centre. Your request approved. Don't descend below seven thousand feet on a QFE twenty-nine-ninety-three — we have local Canyon traffic below that altitude. We will advise local control of your intentions. QSY their frequency on one-eight-point-zero-five."

  Thank you, Centre. 494 leaving level three-two-zero this time on a heading of three-two zero until clear of the airway."

  Gant eased back the power levers, cancelled the autopilot and manually flew the slow, controlled descent. The airplane slid through the flight levels. Speed, two hundred and eighty knots. The Canyon was below the 494, at the centre of his orbit. He was aware of the silence of the aircraft's passenger cabin behind him. Only the crew had died.

  Vance's dream hadn't caused a massacre of press and TV people We gone from near stall to ouerspeed, godammitHollis' voice again as the airplane betrayed him. What in hell did it mean? The 494 had fought him and won, caught him off-guard and killed him in minutes.

  How?

  Gant eased back the power and dropped thirty degrees of flap. Watched the airspeed slow towards a hundred and ninety knots.

  "Prescott Centre 494 is with you at seven thousand feet. Starting our left-hand orbits."

  "Roger, 494," he heard in his headphones.

  "No known conflicting traffic. Be advised there is some local helicopter traffic in the Canyon. Quark seven-seven-four-six and keep me informed of your intentions."

  The Canyon rotated like a map being turned on a desk as he rolled the aircraft gently into its orbit. The shadows of the coaming and roof eased across the instrument panel in unison. Gant selected autopilot to maintain the turn at his present altitude, imitating the pattern designed to most appeal to the press and the cameras that would have been in the passenger cabin. The slow orbit was so gentle no champagne would have been spilt, no canapes would have fallen on the thick carpet along the aisle.

  He glanced behind him at Vance. The man's expression was unsettled. It was as if he had come across its desperate fervency in a gloomy church, stumbling across someone in a kind of despair who wanted to snatch a fragment of hope from the incensed air, from the altar, the candles.

  The expression evoked memories of his mother and he thrust them aside.

  Vance discovered his surveillance and shrugged angrily.

  "Nothing you want some coffee?" Gant nodded. I'll go get it…"

  Vance's voice seemed aware of time, as if each word he spoke marked off a second. They were maybe twenty-five minutes away fromVance opened the door of the flight deck, then his bulk hesitated. Gant smelt the sweetness of kerosene faintly on the air that flowed in from the empty passenger cabin.

  Brace, brace, brace-near stall to over speed… "You smell it, too?"

  Vance asked hoarsely.

  "Yes."

  "I–I'll take a look. Was there some mention…?" He closed the door behind him on the remainder of the question.

  "Prescott Centre 494. Now leaving seven thousand for Flagstaff.

  Request an altitude for rejoining the airway."

  '494 Prescott. Rejoin at flight level three-ten."

  Gant put the 494 into auto climb and checked the power management system as it adjusted automatically to optimal power settings. He heard the cabin door open and Vance slid into the co-pilot's seat, shaking his head.

  "It's gone now," he murmured. His relief was as evident as his puzzlement. There's something I ought to remember about the smell of kerosene in the passenger—"

  "Cockpit voice recorder. Check the transcript. Hollis referred to it somewhere—"

  "Where?"

  "Maybe around five pages in where they go into the hold just prior to… descent back to Vance Aircraft. He wasn't concerned about it," he added. It could have been something as simple as a faulty or badly cleaned filter in the cabin environment system.

  Vance flicked through the typewritten pages. The Canyon slipped like a brown and silver snake away from beneath the airplane's belly.

  "Is this what you want? Lowell had been in the passenger cabin and reported a smell of kerosene. Then it disappeared…" He flicked the pages dismissively.

  "Just like now. Here and gone. It can't mean anything can it?"

  "Maybe not… There's a lot of detail missing from the recording.

  Maybe it wasn't the first time?"

  "He doesn't say here that he smelt it earlier something like that smell's back again. Maybe it hadn't happened earlier in the flight—"

  Gant turned to Vance. There was a tension that enclosed them like an electric fence.

  "It was there while we were in the left-hand orbit, over the Canyon… then it disappeared. Let's try to get it back—" He keyed the microphone.

  "LA Centre 494.

  We would like to stop our climb at flight level one-six-zero and make two left hand orbits before resuming on track to Flagstaff at—" He glanced at the clock on the panel. It seemed to be the only clock now, on the flight deck. The only one that mattered.

  "At six minutes past the hour."

  "Roger, 494 you're cleared to do that. Contact AlbuK Centre at the boundary."

  As the 494 climbed, the landscape around the Canyon shrank like a memory.

  "We're coming up to one-six-zero. I'll put the ship into a left-hand orbit." Gant cancelled the climb mode. The aircraft swung lazily into its orbit, like a bird adapting to a changed thermal. The Canyon came into view.

  "Can you hold her in this orbit while I check?" Vance nodded.

  "OK take control. I won't be long—" Gant slipped out of the pilot's seat and opened the passenger door. The scent of kerosene was palpable, though faint. The empty passenger cabin seemed somehow ominously deserted. Sunlight filled it, the landscape beneath the aircraft was visible through the windows. Yet there was something cold, even oppressive about the cabin as he moved along the aisle. He glanced to either side at the wings and the bulk of the two huge engines jutting from beneath them. Sensed the normal tremors of an aircraft in flight. The plane continued to swing through its orbit.

  The passenger cabin tapered towards the aircraft's tail. The smell of kerosene remained constant, from the flight deck door to t
he door of the rear galley. He opened the door.

  Squeezed into the narrow space, he ducked his body in order to look through the tiny window, craning to stare behind the aircraft, then back along the fuselage towards the wing, off which the sunlight gleamed.

  Nothing… He turned his head. Nothing… something? In the turbulence of the engine exhaust, he thought, but clearer behind the aircraft. What looked like a narrow, brief vapour trail, grey-white, easy to ignore or miss… He looked back again towards the engine. It was invisible, that close to the engine, it was only behind the aircraft that it condensed in the airflow into an unnerving pretence of a vapour trail.

  Gant heard his breathing, louder than the engine note, louder than the tumult of the air passing over the fuselage. If Hollis or anyone else had even looked, they might never have noticed. It was fuel… being dumped from the starboard wing inner tank and condensing behind the plane. Fuel… He closed the galley door behind him and hurried along the passenger cabin. He could see nothing as he paused at the window that looked out over the wing. He entered the flight deck and at once began reading the flight engineer's instrument panels. Fuel content as expected, fuel pressure OK… dump valves closed, the transfer valves and pumps reassuringly normal. There was nothing wrong… there was.

  Gant slipped back into the pilot's seat and put on his headset.

  "Find anything?"

  "We're dumping fuel from the starboard wing tank I think…" He shook his head.

  "We're dumping fuel." He regained the controls and Vance, releasing his control column, squeezed out of his seat and settled himself in front of the flight engineer's panel.

  Twenty-one minutes to the crash point… There's nothing here!" Vance exploded.

  "Everything's reading normal what the hell is happening? Every gauge is telling me we're not dumping fuel are you sure, Mitchell?"

  Hollis had made left-hand turns in the holding pattern… they had made left-hand orbits over the Canyon and now again. Each time, there had been the smell of kerosene… He'd seen it, streaming from the wing tank. And the engineer's panel, the whole fuel management system, was lying to them… as it had lied to Hollis.