B006U13W The Flight (Jenny Cooper 4) nodrm (38 page)

‘I would draw the same conclusion.’

‘And would you also conclude that Brogan must have been swimming against the tide
towards
Amy Patterson?’

‘I am certain that he was much closer to the blast than three hundred yards.’

They were rare moments in court proceedings when even the most determined and resilient advocates felt their cases explode and scatter in fragments around them. The looks of utter dismay that spread across the faces of Hartley, Bannerman and Crowthorne testified that this was just such an occasion.

‘One final question, Dr Achari,’ Jenny said. ‘In your opinion, was Mr Brogan’s lifejacket cut before or after the explosion?’

‘Afterwards. Definitely. The explosive residue was present on nearly the entire left face of the jacket. If punctured, a much greater portion would have been submerged.’

Jenny looked up at the sound of someone entering at the back of the hall. It was Moreton, and he was moving purposefully towards Hartley and his team. She knew full well what was coming next and that she had only a few seconds left in which to play her final card. Turning to Bannerman, though intending her remarks chiefly to be heard by the watching reporters, she said: ‘The evidence we have just heard is as relevant to Sir James Kendall’s inquiry into the deaths of the aircraft’s passengers as it is to mine, suggesting as it does that there was a chain of events leading to Mr Brogan’s death, one of which included an explosion on or near the downed aircraft. I am therefore making formal request that Dr Achari and his colleagues be allowed to test the aircraft for explosive residue. I expect access to be granted immediately.’

Hartley was already on his feet. ‘Ma’am, counsel cannot be expected to cross-examine on such –’ he groped for an appropriate word – ‘
incendiary
evidence without time properly to consult.’

Jenny aimed her answer at Moreton, who was now right in the middle of the crisis talks that were centred around Hartley’s back-up team.

‘Well, I have to say, Mr Hartley, I don’t intend to delay a verdict a moment more than I have to. If it’ll make it any easier, I have no objection to your clients having their own experts examine the aircraft alongside Dr Achari.’

‘Take it,’ she heard Moreton hiss.

Rachel Hemmings interjected: ‘My clients would also like a representative present.’

‘I see no problem. Mr Bannerman – does your client wish to do the same?’

‘I’m sure he does, ma’am.’

‘Mr Crowthorne?’

He nodded.

‘Then when can we inspect? I’m happy to wait for your solicitor to make the necessary phone calls.’

Moreton leaned over the shoulder of Bannerman’s instructing solicitor as he put a call through to Sir James Kendall in his office at the D-Mort. Jenny pretended to be absorbed in the copies of Achari’s lab photos which had been handed to her, but her mind was racing ahead to what might happen next. Journalists were already hurriedly leaving the room to file their copy. The rolling news would soon be filled with accounts of phantom helicopters and explosions. Events were running out of Moreton’s control. There was a chance, albeit vanishingly slender, that in spite of all their efforts, the truth might just force itself to the surface.

Bannerman finished consulting with those behind him and turned back to Jenny. ‘Sir James Kendall is happy for you to inspect the wreckage at your earliest convenience.’

Jenny could hardly believe her ears. ‘Thank you, Mr Bannerman,’ she said, failing to conceal her surprise. ‘Dr Achari and others will be there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’

It was the presence of so many reporters that must have tipped the balance, Jenny concluded, as she headed for the sanctuary of the office while the proceedings adjourned in a babble of excited chatter. Until only a few years before, the first instinct of an authority with something to hide was to keep it from ever reaching the light; now that strategy was more and more unlikely to work. The emphasis was on managing the story and pumping out information and misinformation until no one could untangle truth from fiction, safe in the knowledge that twenty-four-hour news programmes didn’t have the time or patience even to try.

Closing the door behind her, Jenny saw that her hands were shaking. She had spent the entire morning in a drug-induced calm that was fast disintegrating. She had made more progress than she had dreamed possible, but she was bjust one woman alone. It wouldn’t take much ingenuity on the part of the Ministry to put her out of action.

Stop it, stop it
, she told herself.
You’re letting yourself get paranoid again
.
Keep calm. Just do the right thing. It’ll be fine.
Soothing words were all very well but they were doing little to dampen her physical symptoms of anxiety. Breaking Dr Allen’s rules, she delved into her handbag and rooted around until she found the single pill that she kept for dire emergencies. Her relief as the temazepam worked its almost instant magic was like that of arriving safely on the ground after a turbulent flight. The adrenalin drained from her blood and after only a few short moments she was herself again.

A sharp knock at the door sent another unwelcome jolt through her fragile nerves. Alison entered without waiting to be asked. She had lost none of the attitude with which she had greeted her earlier that morning.

‘Mr Galbraith is insistent on having a meeting with you,’ she announced.

‘What about?’

‘Apparently he has something he would like you to see.’

‘He knows I shouldn’t be seeing one set of lawyers in the absence of the others.’

‘I’m sure he does, Mrs Cooper. I’m just telling you.’

Jenny glanced out of the window and saw the car Bannerman had arrived in pulling away. Hartley’s and Crowthorne’s had left even earlier. Only a handful of news crews remained loitering outside the hall.

‘He can have a couple of minutes – just him. And I’d like you to remain present.’

‘Perhaps you could make do with the tape recorder? I ought to get back to the office.’ She turned to the door. ‘I’ll fetch it for you.’

She returned a short while later with an excited-looking Nick Galbraith.

‘Thank you, Mrs Cooper – I really do appreciate this, and I think you will too.’ He opened the lid of a laptop and set it on the desk.

Alison placed the aged Dictaphone she used to record court proceeds next to the computer and switched it on. ‘I’ll see you back at the office, Mrs Cooper,’ she said tartly, and exited the room, leaving the two of them alone.

‘I won’t discuss the proceedings, Mr Galbraith—’

‘I’m not asking for that, Mrs Cooper. I merely wish to make you aware of some evidence that might be of use to you. It’s news footage that was aired on Taiwan Television during the last hour. A journalist we both know, Mr Wen Chen, emailed me the link just minutes ago. I’ve forwarded it to you.’

He tapped on a link in an email which brought up a video of a news segment. The newsreader was speaking in Taiwanese. The screen behind her contained three images: an A380 in flight; a good-looking Chinese man in a black polo-neck, and a woman Jenny recognized as the fashion model Lily Tate.

‘The man’s Jimmy Han,’ Galbraith said.

Unfairly handsome as well as rich, Jenny thought, but as dead as everyone else on board.

The image on screen changed to time-coded closed-circuit television footage of what appeared to be the lounge of an expensive modern hotel.

‘It’s the Ransome VIP lounge at Heathrow,’ Galbraith explained. ‘There’s Han.’ He pointed to a figure sitting on a leather sofa in the lower left portion of the screen. Lily Tate wandered into shot – Jenny heard the newsreader speak her name – then settled in a chair at a right angle to Han, who appeared to look up and engage her in conversation.

‘I think the story is about whether Han and Lily Tate had something going on,’ Galbraith said, ‘you know the sort of thing.’ The footage was now on a continual loop, replaying a moment during which Lily Tate appeared to reach out with her toe and touch Han’s leg. ‘But look up here—’ He pointed to the top right-hand corner of the screen, where two male figures could be seen entering through a door and making their way in Han’s direction. One was a middle-aged man, the other younger, around thirty, and they appeared to be deep in discussion. ‘The one on the left is Alan Towers, MD of Winchester Systems. I told you his business – high-tech weapons systems. The one on the right is young Dr Ian Duffy, a man at the cutting edge of light-based computing technology. Only Towers had been transferred onto this flight from Saturday’s, but don’t forget – they’re both travelling on to Washington.’

‘They certainly appear friendly.’

‘Now watch what happens—’

Galbraith moved the slider along the bottom of the screen a touch. Han and Lily Tate were still in conversation when Han looked round as if in response to someone speaking his name. He said something to the model, which Jenny inferred were probably words to the effect of ‘Be right back’, and got up from his seat. He crossed to his left and Alan Towers stepped into frame, hand outstretched. They shook hands warmly, then Towers turned to his right as if to introduce Duffy. The footage ended with an abrupt freeze-frame which then zoomed into a close-up of Lily Tate’s face: she was frowning at the two new arrivals, seemingly annoyed at their interruption.

‘That’s all there is,’ Galbraith says, ‘but it couldn’t be any clearer. You’ve got a weapons manufacturer, a computer giant and a research scientist whose published aim was to design the hardware for the next big thing – computers incapable of being hacked.’ He flipped to a page on the internet: a precis of a scientific paper entitled
Light-Chip Technology and the Future of Quantum Computing
.

‘I’m sure it’s fascinating,’ Jenny said, though doubting it very much.

‘Computers that use lasers instead of electrical current run on a fraction of the power and with billions of times the capacity of conventional ones. If you want a satellite-controlled weapons system to keep an eye on the entire surface of the globe and one which is also incapable of being penetrated by the opposition, that’s the technology you’re going to need.’

‘Is there anything else that links them together?’

‘Not that I can find. Their PAs both claim not to have heard the other’s names being mentioned.’

‘Do you know where were they going in Washington?’ Jenny said.

‘Another blank,’ Galbraith replied. ‘“Business meetings” was all I could get out of them. Had even less luck with Han’s people. He’s often over there apparently, retains some lobbyists and waves the flag for Chinese democracy. The Communists loathe him.’

Jenny tried to incorporate this information into one of the several possible scenarios she had mapped out to explain the explosion on the water and failed. Only one thing had become clear: if these men had all been going to the same meeting in Washington, then Nuala had to have been going there too.

‘One last thing before I get out of your hair,’ Galbraith said. ‘It’s purely anecdotal—’ He stopped himself mid-sentence, then nodded towards the Dictaphone as if inviting Jenny to turn it off.

‘I think that’ll do for now,’ Jenny said. ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Galbraith.’ She waited for a moment, then reached down and pressed the red button, ending the recording.

‘It’s just this,’ Galbraith said hurriedly. ‘Mrs Patterson says she and her now estranged husband have been pretty good at the no-pillow-talk rule – it’s written into his contract of employment. But as far as she’s concerned, the rules of the game have changed since their daughter’s death. She managed to hack into his online email account and picked up the gist of some of the contracts his company, Cobalt, are working on. It used to make high-end software systems for companies requiring tight security – banks, drugs companies, that sort of thing. But it seems the gamekeeper’s turned poacher – it looks like they’ve moved on to providing the tools for clients to break into other people’s systems. Corporations, unelected governments – as long as they pay, they don’t seem to care. Anyway, as you might expect, she couldn’t wait to hit him with it. And she did, in a round-robin email to him and all his colleagues last Thursday afternoon.’

Thursday.
Greg Patterson had come to see her on Friday morning. No wonder he had been so distressed.

‘Not the wisest move, perhaps,’ Jenny said. ‘What happened?’

‘She got the inevitable lawyer’s letter, and Greg Patterson’s done a disappearing trick. He’s not at work, not at home, he’s not answering calls and as far as we know he’s not turned up at a hospital – alive or dead.’

Jenny remembered the overnight bag he had carried with him – he had clearly left London in a hurry, not stopping to pack more than he needed to disappear quickly.

Galbraith said, ‘Another thing she found out from his email – it was Cobalt’s CEO, Dale Cannon, who pulled him off the flight.’

‘For any particular reason?’

‘“Business in London”. But she doesn’t think Cannon knew that Amy was due to travel with her father. Apparently Cobalt executives never discuss family matters among themselves. It’s considered unprofessional.’

J
ENNY STAYED ON AFTER
G
ALBRAITH
had left and watched the video clip several times through on her own laptop. With each viewing, her sense that something connected the three men with Nuala Casey and with the fate of the aircraft they were about to board grew stronger. And in the light of what Galbraith had told her it didn’t seem absurd to question whether Greg Patterson and his company were somehow involved. But as powerful as the circumstantial evidence was becoming, she still struggled with the notion that so many innocent lives could have been sacrificed to effect a handful of assassinations; aside from the shocking brutality of such an act, who would go to so much effort in a cover-up?

Equally puzzling was the reaction of Moreton and his anonymous government colleagues to the morning’s evidence. The appearance of the mysterious helicopters so soon after the crash seemed to indicate an element of foreknowledge, but the official reaction wasn’t consistent with that. If the authorities had received a warning that a civilian airliner was being targeted, coroners wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near the incident for months. It would have been strictly a police and security services investigation conducted under a cloak of secrecy. It was as if she was uncovering information faster than them – whoever they were.