The Coincidence Engine

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‘They’ve found the pilot.’

Twelve hundred miles away in New York, Red Queen breathed out.

‘What do we know?’

‘More or less nothing. Hospital sweep sent up flags. Field agents in Atlanta called it in. He’s in Mobile. Name of Arno Fisk. I’m headed over there now to talk to him.’

‘Condition?’

‘Cuts and bruises. Some – well. They’re saying some cognitive issues.’

In the background, Red Queen could hear wind across the mouthpiece of the phone. Behind that, the sound of heavy traffic moving fast: trucks pounding south on the interstate.

‘It’s not clear. He was dressed as a pilot, but he’s not a pilot. There’s nothing on him in the FAA database. He was unconscious for some time. What I hear -’

The wind picked up and the next few words were inaudible.

‘- consciousness. I need to go.’

‘OK, go,’ said Red Queen.

The phone went down in its cradle.

Red Queen’s desk was broad and made of dark wood. The top was covered in red leather. It was out of place. It belonged among other antiques – not in this oblong box with its ozonic air conditioning and its twenty-four-hour fake sunlight. There were no books in the room. An uncomfortable two-seat sofa, against the wall, faced the desk. On the other wall there was a locked cabinet. There were no windows.

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