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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