Flashback

Chapter Six

Munich: the day of the crash

Cory, known to some as the Ghost, arrived at Munich Airport on the S-Bahn. The carriage was crowded. Cory stood at the rear and listened to the passengers. They discussed nothing but the cause of the turning tower of smoke to the south-west. It was curious, he thought, how stranger now spoke to stranger, as though the crash was a connecting event. He sighed and leaned on his cane. At this, a young woman stood and offered him her seat. Her expression of concern reinforced a truth that Cory tried to avoid these days. He was old. Absurdly old by the standards of these people.

Cory smiled and shook his head.

Soon the doors slid wide and he followed the slow spill of passengers and gave himself up to the coloured routes, the cattle-run simplification of the walkways, slopes, and escalators. Dumb posters rolled in their illuminated frames. He kept to the wall. He was happy to stay in the slow lane.

The Munich Airport Centre was enclosed by a transparent roof. Heavy clouds could be seen beyond. Snow clouds, he guessed. Cory stopped by a tree and considered the windows of a meeting room on the first floor. Through them, he saw a group of men who looked ready to be called to attention. No doubt this was the press conference he wished to attend.

He recalled the southern gentleman he had once been. Then, keeping his youth in focus, he crossed the atrium.

The carpet of the press room was hard and its chairs were modernist twists of plastic. There could be neither echo nor fuss. As the air conditioning whispered around them, fifty journalists took their seats. Conversation ebbed. Phones were muted and stowed. A suited man shared a last murmur with his secretary and assumed the lectern.

It seemed to Cory, the Ghost, that nobody had noticed his arrival. He remained at the rear: standing, easy on his cane, quiet behind the cub reporters and the veterans. His frostbitten thumb and forefinger drummed the knuckles of his opposite hand. It was a habit that he could trace back years. It did not matter that Cory was sorry. It did not matter at all.

‘I am Manfred Straus,’ said the man at the lectern. He spoke in German touched by a Swabian accent, ‘It is with deepest regret Free Flight must confirm the loss of DFU323. The aircraft was travelling on a regularly-scheduled route between Berlin and Munich. All 132 passengers and crew are missing, presumed dead.’

The metal tip of the Ghost’s cane put zeros in the carpet as he began to pace. His arthritic wrist ached and the frostbite stung. This news confirmed the obvious cause of the turning tower of smoke. Yet he felt no horror. Even now, the Ghost could see patterns in the victims’ statistics: coincidental shoe sizes, birthdays, those strangers who lived only streets apart in a life they would never regain.

‘Ground staff lost contact with the aircraft at 8:47 a.m. and communications were never re-established. The local authorities in Regensburg received word of an explosion at 9:21 a.m. Though emergency services arrived at the crash site within minutes, no passengers or crew could be saved.’ He paused. ‘On behalf of the airline, I extend my deepest sympathies and condolences to the families of those touched by this tragedy. Our thoughts and prayers are with you. The Bureau of Aircraft Accidents has dispatched a team to the site. It is headed by Dr Hrafn Óskarson, who has more than twenty years of experience in accident investigation. He will be assisted by representatives of the American National Transportation Safety Board and Boeing.’

‘Can you give us some details on the aircraft?’ asked a British man. ‘Make, and so on?’

‘It was a Boeing 737-300,’ said the press officer. His extemporised English was slower than his German, but perfect. ‘The 737-300 uses two wing-mounted turbofan engines produced by CFM International, which is jointly owned by the American company General Electric and SNECMA of France. This type of aircraft has a span of twenty-seven metres, a length of thirty-three metres, and weighs 124,500 tonnes. It can carry 140 passengers. The lost aircraft had eleven years’ active service. It was certified airworthy as little as three months ago.’ He stopped, uncertain of his next words. ‘It was carrying 132 souls.’

Souls.

The Ghost let the word find a way through him. Abruptly, he felt those deaths. Perhaps his humanity was not as buried as he had feared—or hoped.

‘What about the pilots?’

‘The commander, Kurt Weber, had more than three thousand hours’ flight experience with this model of aircraft. He was certified as an instructor. His co-pilot, Rudi Stammler, was his former pupil and had more than five hundred hours’ flight experience. Both men were physically fit and considered exemplary aviators.’

‘Was there a distress call?’ asked a red-haired woman.

The press officer adjusted his notes. The Ghost knew he was playing for time. There was no official line on the transmission. Despite himself, the Ghost felt his interest focus on this disciplined spokesman. How would the distress call be handled?

‘I see that none was received by ground staff.’

‘Are you certain? Amateur radio enthusiasts reported–’

The press officer smiled briefly at the woman. In German, he said, ‘We cannot comment on what radio enthusiasts might, or might not, have received.’

‘They heard a male voice that they described as ‘agitated’,’ she persisted.

The press officer laced his fingers. ‘At this stage, nobody can–’

‘He spoke a single word. ‘STENDEC’.’

Heads turned towards her.

‘Spelled?’ asked a man.

‘We have no comment,’ the press officer said, leaning close to his microphone. ‘However, I would ask that you make your information, and your source, available to Dr Óskarson of the BFU. Next?’

‘Please,’ she continued, ‘can you comment on the fact that the last transmission of the pilot corresponds to that of the British South American Airways airliner Star Dust?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘You refuse to comment?’

The press officer removed his glasses. ‘Frau…?’

‘Frau Doktor Birgit Weishaupt, Jump Seat.’

‘Frau Doktor, many of us with aviation experience will know the story of the Avro Lancastrian.’ He dropped into English as though it were a lower gear. ‘Now let me be brief. There can be no connection between this morning’s crash and that of an aircraft whose trace left radar screens fifty-five years ago. As a mark of respect for those who died today, I will not discuss such, shall we say, fantastic irrelevancies.’ He stared at the journalist for a moment longer, then replaced his glasses. ‘We have time for one or two further questions.’

The Ghost felt the attention of the journalists loosen. If DFU323 were still in flight and set to crash, that would be news. But it had crashed already. The story was over, and they would see no fresh angles from this modernist room and its water-tight press officer, who again noticed Dr Weishaupt’s hand, and nodded reluctantly.

‘If the flight originated in Berlin and was going to land in Milan, what was it doing over the Bavarian national forest so far to the east?’

‘At this stage, we can only speculate. A navigation problem, for example, would be consistent with radio communications failure.’

‘Not hijacking?’

The Ghost looked at his knuckles once more. He was surprised to find himself embarrassed. He could answer every question they had about DFU323, and more, but he was outside this discussion. He was hardly here.

‘We do not rule out anything at this stage. That is all.’ He nodded once, and, with that, the conference was complete. The journalists understood and immediately began to talk, to smooth the edges of the story between them. The Ghost lost no time in approaching the spokesman. The man was winding up the power cable for his laptop and had an impatient expression.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m sorry. My name is Hermann Glöder. My grandson was on the flight.’

The press officer glanced at Cory’s lapel. Seeing no press badge, he frowned.

‘Mr Glöder, you should not be here. I am, of course, terribly sorry.’

‘I need to know what happened to the boy. I-’

Cory seemed to choke. As the press officer clapped his shoulder and passed him a handkerchief, Cory leaned on the lectern. There was a white oblong in his hand no larger than a cigarette. It interfaced with a USB socket on the man’s computer.

‘I would be happy,’ the press officer continued, ‘to have you taken to the hotel where the relatives are staying. There you will be…’

Cory pressed the handkerchief against his forehead. He saw computer files flashing by as though they were faces in a passing train.

‘… and Dr Óskarson will keep you fully informed of…’

PassagierlisteDFU323.pdf

‘… there are practicalities involved, as I’m sure you understand. Mr Glöder? They have commandeered a local school for the… the remains. I could arrange a chaperone. Here, let me help you stand.’

Cory interrogated the document for a name. He found it on the third page.

Passenger 25F: Frau Doktor Saskia Dorfer.

An address in Wedding, Berlin.

‘No, thank you. I will find him.’

Cory, the Ghost, moved away. There was a quietness in his walk, and even the older journalists stopped talking as he passed through them.