Chapter 1

        Algeria, 1943 — The reconnaissance plane flies low over the desert. Jorg rests his head against the cannon and watches the never-ending sea of dunes below; waves within waves, mingling their varying shades of reddish crystalline. Shadow play fascinates him. It’s only through shading that an artist can draw focus to his subject; it’s only through the dark hollows that he can carve character.

        He sees her in his mind’s eye again, that last time when the cord of love between them snapped. If he ever lets himself paint again, he would paint the Sahara as he would his own heart: barren as far as the eye can see with an oasis where you least expect it.

        He releases his grip on the gun controls. There is little ammunition anyway; he made sure of that before they left the ground. The intense vigilance serves no purpose anymore. The drone of the propeller is putting him into a hypnotic half-sleep. Jorg has not slept well since arriving in the desert. He finds it hard to get used to the scorching heat and the thick, dry air. It chafes at his undeserved need for atonement.

        In his half sleep he hears a man shouting. Is it real or is it a dream? He awakes with a jolt. It’s the pilot, Hans, shouting "Sandstorm!"

        Jorg looks up to see s towering wall of sand heading their way.

        The locals in Tunisia had warned them about it. But Hans, their madcap pilot, simply waved away their lecture on the ways of sand. "You don’t know German Engineering. Ach, sand, snow, we fly through anything!"

        At the time, Jorg looked from Hans to the turbaned old gentlemen. The locals had gathered to see their reconnaissance team off at the dusty outpost they called an airstrip. Jorg thought, at the time, that he saw genuine fear in those dark old eyes. Hans might know German engineering, but Jorg knew more about the wisdom of fear than anyone. He wished his best friend was right, but Jorg was no longer sure he trusted anything German.

        He shudders as these thoughts race through his overtaxed system. Sand splatters their windshield. The fury of the earth is reaching up and grabbing them out of the sky.

        Sand and grit fill the propellers. Hans struggles to keep control of the plane. He turns the nose upwards to see if he can get above the storm, but the plane can’t climb fast enough.

        They are trapped. The sandstorm swallows them whole. Sparks fly out of one propeller as it chokes with grit and the left propeller grinds to a horrifying halt. Hans is shouting something to Jorg but his words are lost in the din of the storm, but he can read his lips.

        "We have to crash land!"

        Jorg watches as the other propeller chokes. The plane has lost its forward momentum. Hans tries to take the plane down, but he no longer knows which way is down. The plane gives way to gravity and ten tons of metal drop toward the earth …

Chapter 2

        Canada, 2002 — It was February when Fran Freeman, accompanied by a small group of people, exited the baggage claim area at the Vancouver International Airport. A scattering of photographers and journalists rushed her.

         "Excuse me, Miss Freeman ..."

         "Welcome back to Canada."

         "What do you think about the latest news on the Wrightway collapse?" "What will be your defence on the stand in terms of Freeman & Wilson's involvement with the audits?"

         "No comment," Fran replied as she turned to answer her cell phone. She wore a shawl backwards and in her haste to get to the exit the double-tresses of the liquid fabric twirled behind her back. Flashes from the cameras caught her in mid stride, her exotic features not completely hidden beneath a head scarf and sunglasses. As the media followed, her entourage vanished into the back of a rented limo.

         Jean Pierre Gagnon, a Quebecois journalist had been standing back, surveying the scene from near the pay phones. He had been following the Freeman story for the past seven months and wanted to include this case study in an upcoming article on ethics and innovation in business. He jumped on his motorcycle and followed the limo as it drove toward downtown Vancouver.

         The limo arrived at the Fairmont Hotel about half an hour later. Jean Pierre couldn't believe his luck. He worked as a waiter at Griffin's, one of the hotel's restaurants.

         He sat in the lobby outside the restaurant, making notes in his notebook, waiting to see if they'd come down from their room for a meal. About an hour later his wish was granted. All five of them entered the restaurant and took a table at the back. As Fran stood up to survey the brunch buffet, Jean Pierre slid into line behind her.

         One of the chefs looked up from behind the counter and said, "Hey J.P., I didn't know you were on today."

         "Later. Just catching the last of the brunch. It looks great today."

         He flashed his perfect grin at the chef and at Fran as she turned to look at him. His tight jeans and worn out leather jacket encased his chiselled physique. "Hi, I'm Jean Pierre, but most people call me J.P.," he said extending his hand.

         "Hi, I'm Fran."

         "Yes. I know. Listen, I'm a journalist from the Global Reader. I'm doing an article on innovation and ethics in business. You know since this Enron and Arthur Andersen scandal, this business with Wrightway and Freeman & Wilson is very topical. I assure you, I know you are innocent and I believe you have such a powerful perspective to share. I'd love to interview you..."

         "I don't think so. Not right before the trial," Fran answered, looking away.

         J.P. handed her a pre-heated plate for the buffet.

         "That's okay. I wouldn't print anything about the trial. I'm interested in your father, what kind of man he was, where he came from, why there is no past on him. He just seemed to emerge from out of nowhere. I'm curious to know whether or not you found out anything while you were away. I promise I won't publish anything until after the trial is over, and you can pre-screen the whole article before it goes to print ..."

         "Really, I'm rather tired from the trip," Fran replied with a sigh.

         J.P. pressed on. "It may be a chance to clear your father's name. I think people would like to know the full story, not just the salacious misquotes you read in the papers. It could make a huge difference to your cause."

         Fran looked over at her travel companions. They were busy making plans to go shopping. She certainly didn't feel like shopping. She felt that the Global Reader was a thoughtful publication. Also, Marguerite had recommended she find a way to get control of the message about her father's life. She looked at J.P.'s face. His eyes shimmered with reassurance and Fran was getting used to going on instinct more and more.

         "Okay. Let's meet in the lounge here in an hour. I get to proof it before you go to print?"

         "Absolutely. You have my word," J.P. smiled appreciatively as he extended his Global Reader business card.

         An hour later they met as arranged. As they settled into the red leather sofa in the hotel lounge, J.P. pulled out his digital voice recorder.

         "Do you mind if I tape the conversation?"

         "No. That's okay."

         "Where would you like to begin?" J.P. asked as he placed the microphone near her chair.

         Fran hesitated. "There's so much to tell. I'll start near the end and work backwards. How's that?"

         "Whatever works for you."

         Fran shuddered as the memories of the last few months flooded into her mind.

         "Last July my whole life changed, and it's been a rollercoaster ever since."

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