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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