Sky Foil

1.

DOWN TO EARTH

The body just fell out of the sky and landed on the roof of Joel Haire’s Porsche Targa, which, only days before, had been spruced-up and detailed. Joel heard the heavy thud from the front bedroom of his semi-detached unit in Chiswick, where he was having it off with Barbie, the recently appointed procurement officer at Rowland and Rushbrooke Realty, where he worked. They both hurried to the window, with Barbie verbalising the anguish that must have been foremost in his mind.

“Oh my God! You only had the car detailed a few days ago.”

Fate can really deal you a bum hand. The lady’s clapped-out Fiat was parked directly behind the classic car, and if the body had landed there, it could only have improved the vehicle. With a crowd gathering, Joel had his pants on in record time, leaving his paramour to reflect on a moment that would be lost forever.

It didn’t take the onlookers long to speculate as to what might have happened. Suicide seemed out of the question, as there were no high-rise buildings in the vicinity. Being under the flightpath from Heathrow Airport, one could easily surmise that one of the carriers might now be a passenger short.

Geoffrey Godkin, an eighty year-old pensioner from across the road, had recently survived a prostate scraping at Ealing General Hospital, but otherwise appeared alert and inquisitive. So much so that his chain of thought would relate to a trip to Benidorm, some years earlier; a heavily discounted holiday, memorable for all the wrong reasons.

“The toilets on some cheap-flight planes are not identified well. The poor bugger probably opened the wrong door.”

He looked earnestly at his neighbour, Fanny Abromwich, from No.96, seeking confirmation that she was thinking the same way.

“Perhaps, Geoffrey, he just wanted a breath of fresh air?”

A new-age person would not have jumped to the conclusion that the victim was male, just because the body was wearing trousers. In point of fact, the clothes kept all the broken bones together. In the long run, recognition protocols would be fast-tracked due to the fact that the bundle of bones boasted a beard. When the medical examiner arrived, she provided her opinion, which even surprised the scene-of-crime officer.

“It’s a he alright, who probably fell from the 7.15 flight from Heathrow to Mumbai.”

“Get out of here,” exclaimed Sergeant Plod. “How did you know that?”

“Well,” said Sonja Kosky. “People in our profession only have two choices when sexual identification is required and a little dicky bird told me that this poor dude is male. Also, that bundle of cloth on the ground is a turban.”

“You mean he was a Sikh.”

“Assuredly,” replied the ME, “and when we retrieve the contents of his stomach, I am sure we will find his last meal to be curry.”

“You might find he comes from Slough, not Mumbai.”

This comment came from Geoffrey Godkin, whose state-of-the-art hearing aid picked-up most audible asides inside twenty paces. The medical examiner may also have wondered about the size of his proboscis. Such a nosy neighbour!

Sonja was prepared to give the old codger his due, as large Sikh communities did live in Slough, Hounslow, and other areas close to the airport. With no identification on the body, the corpse would go to the morgue with the moniker “Punjab Pete.” The victim could have been Indian or Pakistani. The Americans preferred the terminology “John Doe,” but they don’t have any imagination, do they?

“You may be right, sir,” said the woman in the white boiler suit. “Do you have any other opinions that might help the investigators? Or are you just a tourist?”

There was no need to be acerbic but Sonja didn’t like having her views trashed, especially by a pensioner. Not that she would admit to being so prissy. Fortunately, he watered-down the exchange with some humour.

“No, I live opposite. I just need to know whether I should move my car, in case there are other bodies that might drop from the sky.”

“That’s a good idea,” suggested Joel, who had just arrived on the scene with his clothes still in some disarray. Barbie soon joined him and consoled the Porsche driver, while furtively checking to see whether her vehicle had been damaged.

What a shame no-one had any words of compassion for the drop-in. Had he tried to get into the gates of heaven and been rejected?

Fay Abromwich, a sensitive soul at the best of times, could see no point in directing her sympathies towards a dead man, so she chose to commiserate with the car owner.

“Do you know if your insurance will cover this?”

“Well,” said Joel, “the premiums are certainly sky high but I’m not sure whether I’m covered. Perhaps with the roof gone, I can use it as a convertible.”

*****

Ann Capon at Number 19 can take credit for alerting the media, although her house was a long way from the incident. The woman had a nose for a story, and had been accepted as a news source by one of the tabloids. The newspaper paid her peanuts, but she thought her on-the-spot alerts were a public service. An avalanche of journalists arrived, as did the OB vans, and it was all down to Ms Capon.

Why does the arrival of television reporters encourage authorities to respond with such diligence? The police presence amounted to overkill, and it was hard to understand why the dog squad needed to be involved. Or the RAC? Would they be responsible for prising the body off the roof of the car?

Many of the superstitious residents willingly provided their opinion for the TV cameras, and these opinions were as diverse as they were ludicrous. Some claimed the fall from above to be a defiant act of God, while others just blamed climate change and the Tory government. As you might expect, at least three people saw an unidentified flying object, but this turned out to be a real estate drone evaluating wanted properties in the area.

One of the onlookers proved to be quite circumspect. Having just finished his shift at Heathrow, the chap was walking to his house when the body fell from the sky. After seeing the turban fall from the man’s head, he looked up to see if there were any more bodies on the way down. Turbans in his workplace were commonplace, so he didn’t think it important enough to mention to the police, who would be charged with the job of identifying the poor bugger.

It must have been a slow day at the precinct because the boys in blue arrived from everywhere. Statements had to be provided, but one can over-investigate. Those with little to do started taking down the registration numbers of the cars parked along the strip. Quite frankly, no-one expected to find a Porsche in this street, and bingo—it was found to be stolen. Poor Joel! After the ignominy of the damage, they now marched him to the divvy van, hoping that he could help with enquiries, which is police speak for busted. How distressing for Barbie! The lass had been cavorting with a criminal.

What about criminality surrounding this skyfall? This burning question inflamed all conversation and the answer would determine which police division would investigate. Those at the scene would have first bite at the cherry, but the presence of the media often made the bigwigs nervous. Already, a report, short on detail, had found its way to Scotland Yard. Rehnu Ramadas, the go-to lady for all things turban, always wore a sari in order to appear more convincing. In this instance she had nothing.

“I have no idea why one of my people would jump from an aeroplane. If pushed, I would have less of an idea. We are so friendly and accommodating. Perhaps the meal choices were not to his liking. After all; airline food?”

All these considerations were discussed before the news came through that Flight 329 from Heathrow to Boston had come down in the Atlantic Ocean. Was there a link between the two incidents? At this stage, no-one knew, but the alarm bells were ringing, and it was time to afford both events the highest of priorities. Rehnu returned to her cubby hole and waited for the next ethnic episode to arise. Her superiors alerted their best men and women from various departments and charged them to investigate possibilities and probabilities. They all recognised the smell of terrorism in the air.

2.

HE PICKED UP THE BILL

Two days went by before the police could identify the baggage handler. As the body plummeted to earth, his loose-fitting Hi-Viz safety jacket was sucked into the heavenly abyss, and eventually floated down on top of drinkers in a beer garden in Southall. Before that, the ID card around his neck had departed for Richmond. A pedestrian, walking her dog, found the plastic tag and handed it in at the local nick. When Punjab Pete failed to materialize for his dinner, his beloved alerted the authorities, who discovered his phone, wallet and other personal items in his locker. They also found multiple pictures of cricket commentator Isa Guha pinned to the back of the door, but this information was kept from his wife.

The quick identification may have ticked off a box or two but it didn’t cast any light on the circumstances of the catastrophe. The Mumbai destination no longer became a priority, as many Sikh and Hindu employees contributed to the many services at Heathrow airport. The place is a city within itself, with over thirty miles of conveyers in operation, and security personnel screen around 200,000 bags every day.

Any crime or potential crime connected to the airline industry makes the police jumpy, so they passed the case on to MI5, who shared the load with MI6—a rare occurrence, but demarcation issues often arise between these two agencies. The body landed on British soil, indicating homeland jurisdiction. The stratosphere outside Britain provided a different boundary point, and nobody knew where or when the blighter had succumbed. How would they work it all out?

“Is Stephen Small your real name? It’s hardly likely to get you priority service for a Vodka Martini—shaken or stirred.”

MI5 people always like to take the mickey when indulging in banter with their counterparts from the external agency. In this instance, the two lead investigators were breaking bread, and they had never met before. Dave Mackrell presented as a 6ft. 4in. giant and he looked down on Mr. Small, a very optimistic 4 ft. 6 in. One almost expected the fellow to have an Irish accent, but he was not a leprechaun.

“Because of my lack of height, some misguided people under-estimate me. I have a black belt, as well as a blue and brown one.”

Surely a joke? Mr. Mackrell couldn’t tell, so he erred on the side of caution and proprietary.

“One can readily see that you are clothed by the tailors at Savile Row. How I wish I had your expense account,” said the envious operative, hoping like hell that Mr. Small would pick up the check.

In terms of seniority, they were supposedly equal, but the MI6 man had the best access to the bigwigs and the biggest budget. In this instance, the co-operation would be genuine as neither man had sullied his reputation by being overly ambitious. There were others who you wouldn’t want to have standing behind you.

With the small talk out of the way, the two professionals got down to business, both speculating on what might be going down. Neither could see this episode as being an unfortunate accident, and with aircraft implicated, terrorism and/or drugs loomed large as the crime most likely.

As a breeding ground for terrorism, Britain is right up there, and even a literary slur might see you with a Fatwah to your name. Allah just doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour. Both intelligence agencies have their work cut out but they keep good records and employ excellent staff. The biggest problem is usually the availability of money. Steve Small had come to the table prepared to be gracious and generous in his agency’s appropriations.

“The Foreign Secretary thinks it important that we merge our activities and has approved a task force, to operate out of one of our safe houses. Other operational expenses will be equally divided, unless one agency takes control of the investigation exclusively.”

“That will not happen, Stephen. We have a body on the ground, an airliner in the ocean, and confirmation that a flight to Boston went-off the radar, less than one hour out of Heathrow. The dead baggage handler loaded this particular plane before departure. How big should my squad be?”

“Three should do it. Let’s not overlap with our resources. My contribution will be a killer, a honeypot sparrow, and a Russian expert. Can you provide a couple of analysts and a Jihad specialist?

The exciting news for David Mackrell, known to his friends as Fish, was that MI6’s celebrated covert was the shameful seductress Floriana Keggler. Everybody in MI5 had heard about femme fatale Keggler, both beautiful and mysterious. She had purportedly seduced more men than Mata Hari. Fish Mackrell hoped the leggy lovely was equally disposed between friend and foe.

The Small man had quite an appetite for a man of his size, and his knowledge of wine varieties impressed his dining partner, who nearly gagged on his Filet Mignon, when he saw the cost of the vino on the menu. The chap didn’t look a bit like agent 007, but he seemed to possess all his characteristics.

“Are you enjoying the Chateau Margaux, David? One of their best vintages.”

“More than acceptable. It sure beats the Chateau Cardboard, which they flog at my off-licence.”

“Yes, an Australian product, I believe. Fancy keeping wine in a plastic pouch and serving it through a tap. The vino sells well in Kangaroo Valley, I’m told.”

David Mackrell actually lived in Earl’s Court, the home away from home for many Aussies, where local retailers enthusiastically yielded to demand. Beer and wine sales in this neighbourhood eclipsed the national average. The safe house would need to be stocked with certain beverages in order to keep both teams happy, and Fish hoped that his new friend would take on the responsibility for these orders. The team would end up with a better brew, to be sure.

After sipping on his favourite tipple, Steve Small thought it wise to recap on the state of affairs, so far. They didn’t have much, but it was early days. The best investigators try to anticipate what is to come.

“This jet that went down in the Atlantic. Tell me about it.”

“Well, as I said, it has been confirmed as Flight 329 to Boston, the aircraft on Punjab Pete’s roster. By the way, his name was Ravi Schooling and he had been on duty at Heathrow for nearly ten years. There is one employee on that shift who is unaccounted for. His credentials proved to be fraudulent, and he has disappeared. Have you heard that before?”

“And the black box?”

“Nothing yet but the wreckage is scattered over a wide area. The locator beacon will ping for thirty days, so they will find it, eventually.”

“OK” mused the main man, trying to make rhyme or reason out of the mystery. “We don’t know how the baggage handler came to be aboard when it departed. We don’t know how he fell from the plane, and we don’t know of any other targets. Was there anyone of note aboard?”

“Only a reality TV celebrity, equally obnoxious off-screen as on.”

“Well, that’s a thought,” replied a man who loathed such programs. “Better that than Jihad.”

The next thirty seconds saw Steve Small concentrate on swilling his claret around his mouth. Evidently, he could do that and think at the same time.

“If a terrorist organisation brought this plane down, I would think they would be screaming their success from every masthead. There’s been zilch; even from Al Jazeera.”

Waiting for that black box to be found would be difficult for an impatient man but, in the meantime, there were other considerations. The appearance of an imposter on the Heathrow tarmac indicated foul play, rather than an accident or pilot error. To the delight of his dining companion, Stephen Small paid the bill, and agreed to address the team in the Putney safe house, the following morning. For now, he had a job for his confrere.

“Do you know what I’m thinking, David? This could be just a dress rehearsal for something that is being planned. Can you get your people to investigate who might be travelling out of this city in the next two months—politicians; royalty; celebrities; even religious luminaries? This just doesn’t smell right. There’s bound to be a big cheese in the mix somewhere.”

*****

Steve Small was well up the chain of command at MI6, but he wasn’t “Big Cheese” status. M held that role, a position that usually sees you tapped on the shoulder by the monarch for your trouble. Stephen dreamed of a knighthood and all the kudos that came with it, but one had to be realistic. The service liked to keep the hands-on agents at it for as long as possible; especially the competent individuals, such as Steve Small. Already the fellow was responsible for many high-profile arrests, which provided him with the respect he deserved.

There are despicable people on this planet who harbour ambitions that don’t sit well with our elected representatives. Need one mention world domination, ethnic cleansing, religious intolerance, and the like. This is why they have soldiers in the Vatican. That is why the government employs people like Stephen Small.

Stephen had been to the Vatican. After hearing rumours of an assassination attempt on the pope, he went undercover as an altar boy, although he was twenty-seven years of age at the time. During his tenure in Rome, he picked-up a smattering of Lingo Italiano, giving him an added bonus on his resumé. There were no trips to the Caribbean, and he didn’t play Chemin de Fer at Monte Carlo. Nor could he claim to be a crack shot or an athletic dynamo, although he did keep himself in mint condition. As a case officer, you would find none better, and it was inevitable that he would end up in charge of the Russia Desk.

This is when Steve acquired his prize recruit, the émigré Yuri Berkoff, who had been patrolling the streets of Paris, causing a lot of pain for those at the soviet embassy. For others in the agency, the guy was a pain in the neck, but his mentor reckoned him to be worth a little friction and disharmony. One needed to know how Moscow operated and who pulled the strings.

This employee became less of an asset, as the cold war melted, but with the rise of Vladimir Putin, his star rose once again. Unfortunately, Stephen moved on to more general duties but he would always consider this agent should the opportunity arise. Could the Boston-bound aeroplane have been hammered by a sickle?

The other two members of the MI6 contingent, who would be drafted into the task force, were conventional killers with their own particular brand of expertise. Every intelligence agency employs a sex kitten or two but Floriana Keggler had real claws. Plucked from obscurity, she had been groomed at the MI6 training facility up country. Mr. Small had that knack of unearthing prodigious talent and this beauty ticked all the boxes in more ways than one.

Linus Devin had been an earlier discovery, his grooming also orchestrated by the Small man. Nobody could use a blade like the tailor from Savile Row, and he stitched Stephen up quite a few times. The relationship prospered and soon Linus was working for queen and country. Need it be said that they were the two best dressed agents in the Vauxhall Cross building.

*****

David Mackrell departed the Mayfair restaurant feeling warm and cosy. Chateau Margaux can do that to you. The merging of responsibilities between two agencies could be a tricky deal, but he liked Stephen Small, who seemed very relaxed and practical. Nevertheless, he would suspend his final opinion, until the other mob laid eyes on his team. The first shock would be Prue Pimento, who was really a bloke, but one of the finest analysts he had ever worked with. This androgynous individual should have been in jail, because of her hacking activities, but MI5 go for the best people, no matter their predilections or peccadilloes.

Then they would meet Olive Green, whose name used to be Brown. Olive was as big as a bus and, as with many people of size, possessed a gregarious personality. Yes, also an excellent analyst, but they should have let her out more. There would have been more biscuits for everyone.

Amir Mohammad, as you might expect, was the Jihad expert and the right person to have on board if aircraft started dropping out of the sky. His bearded brothers had made a name for themselves with this type of terrorist activity, and Amir had compiled a comprehensive list of the usual suspects, which included three rap artists, a well-known cricketer, and a celebrity chef.

The task force was lucky to have Dave Mackrell on this one. Some departmental heads would be jealous of the extra benefits that their sister agency enjoyed but not David, a level-headed quick thinker, who rarely made the wrong decision; a team player who was extremely proud of his unit. Would it be enough? The ramifications of this tragedy had some way to go and every player in this unbelievable saga would be taxed to their limit. This is why the MI5 people play the national anthem every morning at nine o’clock.

3.

A FEW DAYS EARLIER

Stacking your bags into the cargo area of a large passenger plane has come a long way in recent years. No longer do they squash your belongings into a limited space and hope for the best. Today, the baggage handlers pack your luggage into a ULD (Unit Loading Device), which travels along a conveyer into the hold, where a button pusher operates a console just inside the open door. By way of various mechanisms, the ULD’s can be positioned and secured, to avoid any movement during a turbulent flight. All this has been a boon for the airport employees, as medical records have indicated that baggage handlers have more back issues than anyone in the country.

Ravi Schooling was first into the forward cargo hold, as usual, and the conveyor had started to load luggage for BA Flight 239. In the cockpit, the co-pilot systematically ploughed through his last minute checks and the 7.05p.m. ETD looked manageable.

These cargo holds are not pressurised unless there are live animals to be transported. On this trip, the manifest indicated two such passengers: a moggie named Sandra and an Irish setter called Behan. The pets would not be stored with the other bags in a ULD but would be personally placed on board by one of the baggage handlers, who had already hopped onto the belt with his two cages. Ravi had never seen this man before.

“One cat, one dog! Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

Cheeky people come and go, but this wise-guy wasn’t to know that his supervisor didn’t have a sense of humour.

“I don’t know you,” said the cargo commandant, rather taken aback by the fact that the chap looked very much like his twin brother.

“Just down from Luton. Got a transfer to be closer to home.”

This explanation seemed to satisfy the Pakistani supervisor, who had also moved to Slough for convenience. He instructed the fellow to take the cages forward near the air-conditioning duct, so the animals would be more comfortable.

With his mind on his supervision duties, Ravi forgot all about the second person in the hold, as did the other workers. Just prior to the hatch being closed, he remembered his look-alike from Luton and wondered why the baggage handler had never returned. Going forward, the Sikh supervisor discovered more than he had anticipated.

“What are you doing? Why are you wearing a turban? You are not Punjabi.”

Asad Khan had been to Lahore, and knew how to tie a turban. This one proved to be the same colour as that worn by the cargo commander, and for good reason. He wanted people to think he was Ravi Schooling, who had just noticed the two canisters that he had extracted from hidden compartments under the animal cages.

“I ask you again. What are you doing? What are those containers you are opening? Why are you wearing a mask?”

“Quite simple, brother. I’m releasing some cyanide gas, so the folks above will sleep soundly, including the pilots.”

With that explanation out of the way, he produced a heavy duty spanner from his overalls and hit Ravi hard on the head. In harmony with this brutal act, the engines started to reverberate to an almost intolerable degree. Time to go.

Quickly, the intruder opened the valves on the canisters and dashed for the side entrance. After hitting the door close button, he mounted the retracting conveyor belt, which wheeled him away to safety. In a remarkable feat, not anticipated, the fully booked aeroplane departed on time.

When the cargo captain regained consciousness, the aircraft had already lifted off, and it took him a while to regain his senses. With the distinct smell of almond in the confined space, he remembered the canisters and their deadly contents. With the plane’s nose up, he had slipped down to the rear of the compartment; nevertheless, not far for the side door and its control panel.

Ravi regarded himself as a problem solver and he figured that if he opened the door, the air suction would drag all the poisonous cyanide out into the atmosphere. Unfortunately, when he opened said door, he was sucked out into the wide yonder, not the gas. In the cockpit, the co-pilot reacted to the flashing light on his dashboard.

“Those bloody Paki’s! The door to the forward cargo hold is not shut properly.”

These days, just about everything can be operated from the cockpit, and the door was immediately closed. That racial slur would be forever recorded for posterity by virtue of the jet’s black box, which is usually orange. The co-pilots last known comment would also be taped—a question directed at the captain, usually the font of all wisdom.

“Can you smell almond in the air? There’s nothing unusual showing on my screens.”

“I’ve heard the galley stewardess has gone anti-dairy. Almond milk is now a popular request from passengers.”

The stewardess in question, well and truly belted into her jump-seat, was taking a quick nip of gin, which was her want whenever “Wild Bill” Shannon controlled take-off. So far, he had accumulated two weather beacons and five TV aerials on his hit list. Up in first class, the screen star couldn’t have cared less, but she was drinking Champagne, wasn’t she? Her recently introduced companion in the window seat noticed an aroma of something in the air.

“How nice! What a delightful smell!”

“Thank you,” said the celebrity. “It’s my new deodorant, which I now get online from Crabtree & Evelyn. Can you believe it’s made from wild apples?”

“Really,” replied the lady called Rose, who had a most perceptive nose. “Smells like almonds to me.”

In truth, the smell was death, and her loving family and grand-children would be shattered when they heard the sad news. The loss of the TV star proved equally emotional and also significant. The reality show’s ratings would surge with the report of her demise.

The pilots were no longer operating the controls, but the automatic device kept the trajectory at an acceptable level; until the Boeing 787 hit a flock of birds, and the technology went haywire. The plane went down.

The people in the control tower at Heathrow didn’t panic easily. There had only been fifteen complaints from local residents regarding Bill’s departure procedure, and this was down on normal numbers; but they didn’t expect to see his blip disappear from their radar screens. The immediate reaction was muted, with no Mayday call or visual indication, which usually occurs on the back of a rocket launch or some such thing.

“Could he have hit a lighthouse?” suggested one of the controllers, familiar with the pilot’s reputation.

“Or the Eiffel Tower,” advocated another, who would not have been surprised to see Captain Shannon attempt to fly to Boston via Paris.”

The air traffic controllers at Logan International were the ones to first raise the alarm. There was no radar identification for the in-coming aircraft, nor any verbal communication. Visual contacts in Ireland had identified the plane as it passed overhead, and confirmed that all their lighthouses remained intact. The rescue vessels were called out to search the Atlantic Ocean for wreckage, and their grisly discovery would shock the world. There would be no survivors.

This would not be the first plane to disappear into these waters, west of Ireland. The weather was often unpredictable, with severe turbulence always a possibility. However, latter day technology gave the pilots every chance to avoid some of the problems of the past. Records will show that British Airways had never suffered a loss in this vicinity, and irate friends and relatives wanted answers, especially when someone leaked details of Wild Bill’s reputation.

Even before the black box could be recovered, pressure shifted to the manufacturer. Many people were aware of the television series “Air Crash Investigations,” an analytical look at historical misfortunes in the aviation industry. Most folks, after viewing this program, would choose to travel by train, and who would blame them?

Both Lockheed and Airbus had lost aircraft in the North Atlantic and now Boeing. They rushed investigators to the nearest practical landfall site, which was Shannon Airport in County Clare, Ireland. Any wreckage would be repatriated to a facility in England, where it would be thoroughly scrutinised in the hope of finding an answer (and, hopefully, exonerating the manufacturer).