The front of the airplane had been twisted off, again at about where the forward galley was. Flynn peered into the charred tunnel. Men with lights on extension cords were working on the instrument panel.

  A row of double seats, which Baumberg said were from the first-class, port-side section, were intact, the upholstery saltwater-soaked. Each seat belt had been cut. The bodies had been removed.

  Apparently the people in these seats, attached to their seats, attached to each other, had ridden down the sky together to the sea.

  Sections of both wings had been found; only three of the four engines; other large and small pieces of the airplane lay about, not yet in any order.

  “For anyone who doesn’t know already,” Baumberg was trying to be heard in the hangar, “we are now reasonably certain this aircraft was blown up by a bomb in a suitcase situated in the rear starboard luggage hold.”

  “What do you mean, ‘reasonably certain’?” said Hess.

  “Well,” said Baumberg, “we still haven’t found the other starboard engine. Nothing definite should be said until we do. Especially as that engine was on the side the explosion took place.”

  “You mean,” began young Ransay, slowly, “that it is possible that one of the starboard engines could have caused the explosion?”

  “Not really,” said Baumberg.

  Ransay said, “How? You mean, some element in the engine could have blown up, fallen back into the cargo hold, and blown up again?”

  “No.” Baumberg’s eyes were so tired they were devoid of expression. “I don’t know what I’m saying. We have evidence, as you’ve seen, that an explosion happened from within the rear starboard luggage hold. The metal around that cargo hold received the major, outward-blowing impact of the explosion. All the other evidence indicates the blow originated from that place and only that place, both by direction and quality of impact.”

  “Then why are you talking about the engine?” asked Ransay.

  “Because we haven’t found it yet,” answered Baumberg. “I guess I’m being academic.”

  “You’re being stupid,” said Hess.

  Baumberg’s face turned slowly, tiredly, to anger.

  “Mister Baumberg,” said Flynn. “Do we know yet what the rest of the cargo was?”

  “We know, Flynn!” shouted Hess. “The rest of us know. The rest of us who have been working on this case!”

  “Would anybody be good enough to share such knowledge with me?” Flynn patiently asked the hangar at large.

  “Mail, Flynn! Mail!” screamed Hess.

  “I see,” said Flynn. “Anything else?”

  Baumberg tried to smile. “There was also a shipment of experimental condoms. On their way to India.”

  “Condoms?” asked Flynn.

  “Prophylactics.”

  “My, my,” said Flynn. “If only the Human Surplus League had known. In what way were they experimental?”

  Tired, not realizing fully what he was saying, Baumberg said, “I can assure you there was nothing explosive in them.”

  Everyone had a great laugh.

  Baumberg, when he realized what he had said, went into an uncontrollable giggling fit. The man was very near the edge of nervous exhaustion, clearly.

  “Mister Baumberg,” Flynn said, finally. “Is there any way anyone not traveling aboard that airplane could have gotten a piece of luggage, containing the bomb, into that luggage hold?”

  “Of course,” said Ransay. “He could have given it— he could have put it into the suitcase of someone who was traveling.”

  “Or,” said Flynn, “it could have been put aboard by one of the luggage handlers.”

  Baumberg said, quickly, “That’s possible.”

  “Or,” said Flynn, “someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the airlines, the airport, or the airplane, could have ambled out to the field anytime between midnight and two o’clock, two-thirty, and stuffed that bomb aboard the airplane? You said that cargo hold had been left opened?”

  “No,” said Baumberg. “It wasn’t left wide open. Of course not.”

  “Anyone,” continued Flynn, “could conceivably have access to it?”

  “Well, I suppose so. But airport security—”

  “Is airport security really that tight?” asked Flynn.

  “No. I suppose not.”

  “Another thing,” said Flynn. “You were going to check to see if any of that luggage raised suspicion?”

  “Yes,” said Baumberg. “None did. You must realize

  that most of the luggage had come from other parts of the country by plane. Presumably, people had already looked at it. For example, the luggage from the San Francisco plane was late. It was trucked straight across from one plane to another. It never entered the building. It was dark. It was two o’clock in the morning. Human psychology—”

  “And the luggage originating in Boston?” asked Flynn.

  “Nothing in it raised suspicion.”

  “Was it electronically scanned?” asked Flynn.

  Baumberg, now, was sweating in the freezing hangar.

  “Human psychology being as it is,” said Baumberg. “You see, the other luggage, particularly the stuff from San Francisco, well, that wasn’t scanned—”

  “So the luggage from Boston wasn’t either?”

  Baumberg swallowed. “No.”

  “So actually none of the luggage here in Boston went through any kind of security?”

  “Not here in Boston. It was looked at, of course, by the man who tickets the luggage. He’s trained to make a personal appraisal of the traveler, of the luggage. If the traveler seems nervous or odd in any way, unduly concerned about his luggage; if the luggage itself seems too light, or too heavy—”

  “—or if it’s ticking,” said a Cab.

  “—then the luggage man marks that piece of luggage for a special scan, and he sees that it gets it. I repeat that none of the luggage going aboard Flight 80 raised even the slightest suspicion. You see, the luggage was examined, in a way—”

  “But none of it was opened or electronically scanned,” said Jack Rondell.

  “Well, now, opening luggage,” said Baumberg. “Cus-

  tomers don’t like that too much. We’d need keys, per* mission.”

  “The luggage would have to be opened anyway in London,” said Hess. “Go through Customs.”

  “That’s another matter,” answered Baumberg. “Customs is a governmental authority. If they say, ‘Open your luggage,’ you open your luggage. We’re a private airline. We’re not dealing with citizens, or aliens. We’re dealing with customers. Human psychology—”

  “Professor Baumberg!” shouted Hess. “Would you believe we have no Goddamned interest in your version of human psychology?”

  Rondell looked mildly at Hess, and smiled.

  “I guess we can thank you now, Mister Baumberg,” said Rondell. “We now know fairly certainly the plane was blown up by something, most likely in a piece of luggage, put in the right, rear cargo hatch in Boston. Our own investigation indicates the bomb was most likely a lot of dynamite—what quantity, we don’t know —most likely, as the explosion took place so soon after takeoff, ignited by radio, either from the plane, or from the earth.”

  “Is that so?” said Flynn.

  “Yes, Inspector. It’s our best guess. Most likely a time bomb wouldn’t have gone off so soon. If you’re going to use a time bomb, obviously you wouldn’t take the chance of setting it for the minute after scheduled takeoff. How many planes actually take off on time? With the likelihood of a delayed departure, especially at this time of year, late winter, you might find yourself blowing up an empty airplane sitting on the runway.”

  “I see,” said Flynn.

  “Furthermore,” continued Rondell, “it’s a good guess the bomb was set off from the ground, rather than from inside the airplane. Supposing you’re sitting there in the airplane, a passenger, with a radio switch in your pocket which can blow up the plane, and yourself. Would you press that button immediately on takeoff?”

  Flynn said, “I think I might have a cup of tea, first.”

  “However, a person on the ground with a radio transmitter has got to press that switch before the plane gets out of range.”

  “What would be the range of such a toy as this?” asked Flynn.

  “‘Toy’!” said Hess.

  “Probably about seven miles.”

  Baumberg said, “I think we can be almost perfectly sure no one got aboard that airplane with a radio transmitter in his pocket. That would never have passed airport security.”

  “You can disguise a radio transmitter like this as anything. It could look like a hearing aid.”

  Baumberg said, “Oh.”

  Flynn said, “What you’re saying is, that most likely this airplane was blown up by someone here at Logan Airport, standing at a window, watching it take off?”

  “Speculation, Inspector,” said Rondell. “But that’s where our speculation has led us.”

  “Surely there aren’t all that many people around an airport at three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Not many,” said Ransay. “But some.”

  “Inspector, as you would know, if you had been more cooperative with us,” Rondell went on politely, “we are checking airport personnel who were on duty at that hour yesterday morning, to see if they saw or remember anyone acting strangely or suspiciously.”

  “So far nothing?”

  “So far nothing.”

  “Why are we telling him all this?” Hess asked Ron-

  dell. “All the son of a bitch does is take rides in the country and hit the taverns!”

  “Because.” Rondell smiled with closed teeth at Flynn. “Because the Inspector is going to be a great help to us, from now on. Aren’t you, Inspector?”

  “Ach,” said Flynn. ” ‘When there’s constabulary work to be done, The constable’s lot is a terrible one.’ Have I got the line exactly right? I doubt it. I’ll go look it up, I will.”

  Fourteen

  “I rather like that Nathan Baumberg,” Flynn said to the perfectly shaven, combed, polished, creased Paul Kirkman in the Passenger Services offices of Zephyr Airways. “But I’m not sure why he’s taking the matter so much to heart.”

  Kirkman shook his head. “Nate’s a great guy. Totally conscientious. Best in the business. Also a good friend. But you’re right. He’s taking this too personally. Too afraid the explosion might be proven his responsibility.”

  “Could it have been?”

  “No way. Maintenance has checked out perfectly. Some kook put a bomb aboard that airplane, Inspeo-tor.”

  “It seems so.”

  “For my own sake, I had to decide, ‘Okay, if I slipped up somewhere, let some mad bomber aboard that airplane, I get fired. My life isn’t over.’ The world is full of kooks. History has shown we can’t identify and control them all.”

  “Madmen can be the most normal-looking people,” said Flynn. “It’s a part of their madness.”

  “Of course, Nate’s got kids. I can pick up and move anywhere, anytime. Truth is, Inspector, we’ll probably both be fired once this thing calms down a little. Our names will be identified with this air explosion for the rest of our lives—at least in the industry. I can work anywhere, at anything. Nate’s whole training is in aircraft.”

  Flynn cradled the bowl of his unlit pipe in both hands.

  “Is there any way Baumberg could be responsible for the explosion?”

  Kirkman looked blankly at Flynn.

  “I mean, he would have had access to the plane. He’s an engineer. He would know how to make a bomb. No one would ever notice him walking around the building with a hand-held radio transmitter. You use walkie-talkies often at airports. He would be able to see the airplane taking off—”

  “I didn’t see him, Inspector. As far as I know, he was at home asleep.”

  “You wouldn’t have to see him. He must know this airport as well as he knows anything. He’s a bright man.”

  “Nate Baumberg is no madman, Inspector.”

  “Ach, well. I’m sure you’re right. And I’m sure his highly nervous reaction is entirely understandable, under the circumstances.”

  “Take it from me, Inspector. Nate Baumberg is simply a sincere, good man. I’m not saying he wouldn’t hurt a fly, exactly. At one time he talked a lot about the Jewish Defense League.”

  “Did he, indeed?”

  “Sort of surprised me at the time, but understandable when you think about it. His grandparents and the families of two uncles were wiped out by the Holocaust.”

  “Entirely understandable.”

  “He’s told me he’s contributed to the League. Now, understand, I’m not talking about his propensity to violence—which I believe is nearly nil. I believe he left the League when the stories about their nondefensive violence got around. I’m talking about his sincerity. Nate cares. As a person. He feels intensely.”

  “Did he ever actually tell you that he’s left the League?”

  “Inspector, whether or not Nate is a member of the Jewish Defense League is irrelevant. There was no high, Arabian muckety-muck aboard that airplane—no enemy to the State of Israel, or to the Jewish people. I merely stated his interest in the JDL as an example of how deeply Nate cares about things.”

  “But he’s never told you he’s no longer a member of the JDL?”

  Kirkman said, “He hasn’t mentioned it lately. I mean, in years.”

  Flynn stirred the ashes in his bowl.

  “What I need from you, Mister Kirkman, is the assurance that everyone who was supposed to be aboard that airplane was aboard it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘supposed to be’?”

  “You’ve issued a list of names. One hundred and ten passengers: forty-eight in first class; sixty-two in coach; eight crew members. How do we know they were all aboard?”

  “That’s a strange question, Inspector.”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, the passenger list has been out for twenty-four hours. All the newspapers have published it. Don’t you think that if someone who was supposed to be aboard that airplane wasn’t, he would have stood up by now and said, ‘Hey, I’m alive’?”

  “Yes,” said Flynn. “I would.”

  “Then I don’t get the question.”

  “Conversely, supposing someone were aboard that airplane you didn’t expect to be aboard, and twenty-four hours later no one admits to the fact—wouldn’t you find that odd?”

  “You mean a stowaway? There were no stowaways on Flight 80 to London.”

  “Something other than that. Supposing at the last minute, say, a stewardess got attacked by a bad case of the flu, or love, or something, and got a friend to substitute for her. Would you know it?”

  “Of course. Those situations have to be reported. Absolutely.”

  “I’m afraid my example isn’t much good.”

  “Inspector, have you ever flown?”

  “A little.”

  “I mean, transatlantic. Have you been on a flight out of the country?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Then you should know the routine. Let me explain. If you’re flying from one city in this country to another, you can use any name you want, legally, as long as you pay cash. You can say your name is Abraham Lincoln and fly from here to Atlanta, Georgia, and no one has the right to say ‘Boo’ at you. Of course, if you say your name is Abraham Lincoln and try to write a check or a credit slip in the name of Jefferson Davis, that might raise suspicions.”

  “Only might,” said Flynn. “Only might, the American sense of credit being as slippery as it is.”

  “If you’re flying out of the country, okay, so listen to me. You come into the terminal. Our man takes your baggage. You present to him your passenger ticket. He weighs your baggage. From your ticket, he makes out a route ticket for the baggage. He writes on the ticket where it is going, and on what flight. You are required to have your own tags on your luggage, stating your own name and address. He is supposed to check that name against the name on your ticket, to make sure they match. If you have not provided tags for your bags, he will provide them for you, again checking what you say your name is against the name on the ticket.”

  “But the baggage doesn’t get opened, does it?”

  “No. If the man accepting the baggage thinks there’s anything suspicious about the bag, or the person traveling, then he calls me. No one called me for Flight 80. I dropped by the counter once or twice.”

  “Sometimes people check in baggage for each other,” said Flynn. “A father, or a mother, for a whole family, A travel escort—”

  “There was nothing suspicious about anyone on Flight 80. Okay, so then the passengers go down the corridor toward their gate. They and their carry-on luggage go through a complete electronic scan. If there is anything suspicious about them or their luggage, they are thoroughly searched at that point. We can examine the carry-on luggage at that point, because the State Police are standing right there. That’s why I’m sure this theory of the FBI is crazy. No one could have boarded Flight 80 with a radio transmitter without getting stopped.”

  “They suggest it wouldn’t have looked like a radio transmitter,” said Flynn. “It might have looked like a hearing aid.”

  Kirkman said, “Jesus.”

  “One can’t keep up with the criminal mind,” said Flynn. “Especially when it belongs to the FBI. 5 ‘

  “All right. Then the passengers come to a stand-up desk. There they present their tickets and their passports. Our representative is supposed to see that the pictures they see on the passports are the same faces they see standing in front of them, and that the name on the passport is the same as the name on the ticket. He tears a slip from the ticket, with the passenger’s name on it. He gives the passenger a boarding pass, assigning a seat to him. Now, Inspector, the slips from all the tickets for all the passengers were picked up at that desk for Flight 80 Tuesday morning. All of them.”

  “Righto. You can make a specific seat reservation before that, can’t you?”

 

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