Chapter Twelve – Rude Awakening
Maggie Whelan swung her feet over the edge of the bed and walked over to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. She walked up to the basin, leaned forward against it and stared into the mirror before her. She looked terrible, her complexion was gloomy and her eyes seemed dull. With a sigh she put on the tap and reached down to splash water on her face.
Lennie had insisted that she'd rest after they'd left the police office and since she was too tired and worn to argue she'd agreed. Now, she felt restless as her colleague had left the house and gone to visit Jeffrey at the hospital. The last attempt on her life had set her on edge and she needed something to occupy her mind with now that the documents were no longer in her possession.
She grinned wickedly as she walked over to the phone, a crazy idea forming in her head. Without really thinking it through she picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect the call to Harrison Industries.
She frowned as her call went unanswered for a long time and was about to hang up when a female voice came over the line. A voice that Maggie recalled belonged to Kevin's personal secretary.
"Doctor Harrison's office," she said softly.
The remark that was meant for Kevin died on her lips and she hesitated for a moment.
"Hello?" the secretary said.
"Hello, my name is…Jeannie Jackson. I was hoping to speak to Doctor Harrison," she said.
"I regret to inform you Miss Jackson that Doctor Harrison is no longer among us," the woman answered.
Maggie's mouth suddenly felt very dry and a knot formed in her stomach at the words. "Pardon me?" she finally managed.
"Doctor Harrison died in a tragic accident a week ago," his secretary informed. "If you'd please tell me the reason for your call and I'll connect you to the officer you're to speak with."
"No, no that's okay. It wasn't a business call. I'm an old time friend of Kevin and I was in the neighborhood," she lied.
"Then I regret that you found out about his demise this way, Miss Jackson," she said sympathetically.
"Thank you," Maggie whispered in shock. She slid down the wall, her hands still gripping the phone as the call terminated. "This can't be," she murmured and silently wondered what else had transpired that her colleague had left out.
OOOOOO
Tim Johnston rubbed his weary eyes in frustration. He'd gone over everything twice, he'd interviewed several of the mechanics working on the aircraft to see to the repairs. Every document had been carefully, minutely, filled in and signed. They'd even photo documented certain repairs, which was unique. He found himself marveling about how fast they were able to replace the damaged hydraulics and see to it that the aircraft was flight worthy. They'd flown the aircraft to the Charles de Gaulle airport just before sunrise. Nothing seemed to be amiss, it was a spotless record that lay before him. There was one thing that troubled him though and that was the testimony made by Froelich's assistant who'd claimed that he saw him check out a circuit card in the storage department. Froelich had then entered the cargo area of the aircraft to perform a sweep and take some readings as a last precaution.
Johnston sighed. Froelich had died running out on the strip, caught in the tailwinds of the Concorde. His actions before that didn't make sense. He'd booked a flight to Bahamas but he hadn't applied for time off, he hadn't handed in his resignation. As the man in charge of the overall maintenance it would have been Tim who'd received such a request from Manuel Froelich. There was also the fact that the engineer had been running from the airport security guards and had been found with his pockets full of money. Was it a coincidence that a man with money problems suddenly had turned rich?
The pilots on the ill-fated flight claimed the cargo door popped open mid-air. Surely the manufacturer of such a technical marvel as the Concorde was supposed to be would have made sure such things weren't possible?
What scared Tim was that Froelich was alone in the area where the circuitry for the cargo door was situated the night before take-off. He had plenty of opportunity to take a good look at it without anyone suspecting foul play. Tim also knew that Froelich was a gifted technician, otherwise he would never have been able to apply for the job. He didn't doubt that, if Froelich had wanted to, he could have manipulated the cargo door. The question was why he would do such a thing. Someone bought his services, someone with large pockets and a lot of money who didn't care about the lives of those onboard the aircraft. The real tragedy in that fact was that Froelich couldn't be brought to justice for his actions and no one would ever know what went through his mind when he accepted the job. Fate had dealt with him directly and this time it wasn't a good thing.
Johnston shuddered, thinking back at the somewhat shy man with a spotless service record. It was time to add this piece of information to the investigators.
OOOOOO
Amy Sande tensed, hesitating outside the aircraft at Domodedovo Airport in Moscow.
"Come on now Amy," Eli said softly as he gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Nothing's going to happen."
"I really don't like flying," she said, her voice quivering slightly.
"You'll get over it," he assured her as he steered her toward the cabin door. "I'll tell you what. It's the safest way to travel."
"Doesn't feel like it," Amy replied sourly.
"Do you know what the probability is of being involved in two flight accidents?" he asked.
"Most people probably die in the first one," Amy quipped.
"Don't be such a baby, honey. Get onboard the aircraft," he commanded, his patience running out.
She forced a polite smile on her lips as they passed the dark haired flight attendant, standing at the doorway, and handed her their tickets.
"Welcome onboard Mr. and Mrs. Sande. My colleague will take you to the first class compartment and see to it that you'll have everything you desire," she said kindly.
"I really wish our executive jet could have picked us up, it would have saved us some trouble," Eli mumbled in her ear as they headed up the staircase to the flight deck and their first class seats.
The statement elicited a wry smile from Amy but she remained quiet until the flight attendant had bid them goodbye after showing them how to call her and order anything they'd require on the flight.
"Don't you like to fly commercial, Eli," she teased softly.
He grunted. "Four hours on a Russian owned Boeing 747. I hope they follow maintenance procedures."
Amy couldn't help herself as she gently patted him on the shoulder. "Statistically, flying is the safest way to travel," she said in amusement.
He gave her a dubious look and cocked an eyebrow. "I'm afraid we'll have to stay a few nights in Paris to sort everything out before heading back to Washington," he said, ignoring her statement.
"You mean I'll finally have time to stroll around the fashionable streets of Paris?" she said, the tone of voice slightly sarcastic as if she doubted his words then she added jovially. "Take your time, Eli. I'm sure Paris and I'll get along just fine."
OOOOOO
Paul Metrand didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, on the floor, just inside the entrance door and frankly he didn't care. He'd come from an even longer run than the day before and had been caught up in a rainfall, the aftereffects of thunder and lightning. He summoned his last ounce of strength to get up, grimacing as his battered body protested the action. He felt horrible, shivering from the coldness of the damp clothes. Reaching the second floor he slowly undressed and got into the shower, letting the warm water gently run down his aching head and sore muscles. The tremendous forces of the crash had left vivid bruising over his collarbones and down the upper part of his chest and, although he'd never admit it, he felt a stiffness in his joints and ligaments that he'd never experienced before. The long jogging run had done nothing to soothe the aches of his body or worked out the kinks in his back, quite the opposite. Thirty minutes later he turned off the water and reached for a towel. Wearily he then wrapped the towel around his middle and walked over to the mirror. The man with an ashen face and dull eyes that stared back at him hollowly made him purse his lips into a thin line of displeasure. "I look ill," he mused, his voice no more than a whisper.
He was brought out of his self-loathing by the shrill of the phone further down the hallway. Gloomily he ran a hand through his wet hair, took one last look at himself in the mirror and sighed.
"Yes," he said into the mouthpiece, his voice stern.
"Captain Metrand?" a familiar voice boomed at the other end.
"Speaking," he said, his voice softening as he recognized the caller. "Hello, Mr. Sande."
There was a slight chuckle at the other end. "Listen, I don't know how to break this to you. My wife says I'm not the most diplomatic man in the world. Hell, I like to give orders, comes from the military. Anyway, son. I'm not sure I thanked you enough back in Switzerland. You did some amazing flying putting us down on the ground in one piece."
"Thanks, sir, but I have to admit it was pure self-preservation on my part," he said modestly yet cockily.
For a moment Eli Sande recognized himself in the younger man but he didn't comment on that, it was a mere reflection. "As you know I leased a Concorde from the factory in Toulouse and as part of the agreement I also got an experienced pilot in the deal," he began, weighing his words carefully. "As we both know, the supersonic airliner the FWA purchased is beyond salvation. The company has requested that the factory will shorten the delivery time set for the other Concorde that FWA leased but there has been no news at the moment. I could release you from the contract but frankly, Paul, I'm not willing to do that. I want you on the team, heck I want you to fly the new Concorde as soon as it arrives; that is, if you have time. You see, I've talked this through with the board and FWA want you as their Chief pilot and fleet captain," he finished.
Paul slowly sat down on the chair next to the phone with a frown, studying the plush rug under his still wet feet for a moment, unsure how to respond.
"Well, say something, son," Eli demanded brusquely.
Paul finally found his voice. "You don't know if I'll get through the medical tests or the simulator tests yet and be recertified," he reasoned cautiously.
Eli snorted. "In my mind there is no doubt about that," he replied confidently. "The job is yours if you want it, captain."
Between the doubts, the memories and his dark musings something sparked and the dullness in the blue eyes was replaced by a renewed flame. "Consider it taken then," he said.
"Thought you would say that. I would have been disappointed otherwise," Mr. Sande stated. "Welcome back, Paul. I'll be in France for a while and I can have the papers ready tomorrow. I expect to see you in the office at Charles de Gaulle after lunch."
"I'll see you then, Mr. Sande," Paul confirmed.
"One more thing. After everything we've been through I'd appreciate if you called me Eli, Paul."
"I think I can manage that, Eli," Paul assured him.
"Good, then I'll see you tomorrow," he said curtly and ended the call, leaving Paul to stare at the phone for a moment and wonder what just happened.
OOOOOO