EXCERPT
SILENT SKIES II
Signatures of Silence – SAM THORNE
One signature, two cases, one pattern
PART I – THE CALL FOR HELP
CHAPTER 1: THE MESSAGE IN THE SHADOW OF THE DRAGON
7 JUNE 2016, 09:50 (CEST) — 07:50 (UTC) Saint-Prex, Villa Falcon
Sophie slipped on a pair of soft jogging pants and a black vest. Till chose an old grey T-shirt and his black jogging bottoms. Together they walked down the corridor into the kitchen, which was still bathed in the half-light of early morning. Sophie’s free hand – she was carrying the laptop under her arm – brushed briefly against Till’s as they descended the stairs: an unconscious reflex, more an act of tenderness than a necessity.
In the kitchen, she switched on the espresso machine. The soft hiss, the first dark drops in the silver spout – familiar sounds that set the day off on the right foot. She took out two frozen croissants and placed them in the small oven.
Then she flicked the switch for the steel blinds. Suddenly, the morning sun streamed through the glass front onto the stone worktop and floor tiles.
She opened her laptop and positioned it so that they both appeared clearly in the camera frame.
The scent of coffee and warm butter slowly filled the air. Till appeared at the kitchen counter shortly afterwards. His hair was tousled, his T-shirt was askew, and yet he radiated a calm that soothed any sense of unease Sophie might have felt.
She smiled, without thinking. He stepped towards her, took the cup of double espresso and, as he passed, briefly brushed against her hip.
Then they sat down side by side, each with their own cup. For a moment, the world outside the villa seemed far away. There were no data fragments, no attempts to contact them, no hearings. No sooner had they taken their first sip than Sophie’s laptop vibrated. It was a high-pitched tone announcing an incoming video call. They looked at each other. Then Sophie tapped the screen, and the kitchen of Villa Falcon became a hub connecting Tourrettes-sur-Loup, north-west of Nice, and Saint-Prex on Lake Geneva.
Even before Jean’s face appeared, a curious black dog’s nose pushed its way into the frame.
Sophie laughed softly.
“Bonaparte!” they heard Jean’s voice in the background. “Can you please stop stealing the show on every video call?”
Bonaparte pulled his head back slightly, then Jean Marijanovitz appeared, slightly off-centre, with the warm southern French light behind him. His dachshund was half-lying on his lap and seemed pleased with his appearance.
“Sophie, Till, bonjour, mes amis1. You both look surprisingly well-rested. I’d expected worse.”
Till grinned. Sophie raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve got some interesting news,” Jean explained as he adjusted the camera. Behind him lay piles of paper, marked in different colours, looking as though they’d been the subject of intense work. “Through my contacts at Le Monde, I’ve managed to get in touch with a colleague you absolutely must meet: Florentine de Passy.”
Sophie sat up straight. “You mean that Florentine de Passy? The French correspondent in Hong Kong?”
“Exactly,” confirmed Jean. “In her mid-fifties, analytical with the dispassion of a forensic pathologist, and unbearably awkward for anyone who tries to avoid her. For the past two years, she’s been practically a walking database on MH370. She knows every contradictory statement from the Malaysian authorities, every discrepancy in the timeline, every satellite ping. And she’s well-connected — very well-connected: relatives, retired officers, serving officials, aviation analysts, and yes, even a few men who will officially never have spoken to her. She’s never lost a source. Not through carelessness. Not through pressure.”
Sophie thought for a moment. A freelance correspondent, with Le Monde2 as her base editorial office. That meant: the independence of a freelancer and the institutional backing of one of Europe’s most influential newspapers. Both at the same time — and with it, the freedom to investigate even in places where permanent staff wouldn’t be allowed.
Till raised his head slightly. “And what’s she interested in?”
Jean pushed a folder into view. “She’s more than just interested: she’s furious. And she’s spotted a pattern. One that should sound familiar to you. Shall I bring her in?”
Till and Sophie exchanged a brief glance. “Yes, please,” replied Till, finishing his espresso.
Jean dialled another number.
After three rings, a second image appeared. The screen split.
“Bonsoir, Florentine, may I introduce you to our colleagues and my good friends Sophie Thalberg and Till Gorny? — Till, Sophie: my highly esteemed colleague Florentine de Passy in Hong Kong.”
Florentine’s photo was slightly out of focus. The kind of blurriness you’d expect from someone who has no time for aesthetics. Her eyes were warm yet sharp, almost amber in colour, and looked straight into the camera. Behind her were stacks of folders – labelled, colour-coded – timelines with neatly drawn markings, flight paths and satellite charts. No chaos — more like a meticulous line of reasoning.
“Good morning and thank you very much, Jean. I’ve put something together for you,” she said, pushing several folders towards the camera.
“The authorities’ contradictions. Witness statements that were never quoted. Timings that simply cannot add up. And a trail that nobody wanted to see: the one that leads away from the official narrative surrounding the disappearance of MH370. What we’ve been sold is not an investigation. It’s damage control. I consider a black-ops background3 more likely than any officially published version.”
Her voice was clear, with a tone that could reel off facts, even when they were painful. Then it faltered for a moment. At the point where memories were evidently too heavy to bear.
“Florentine, I don’t think we’d be doing anything wrong if we agreed to use the informal ‘you’ with one another,” Sophie interjected. “Who do you think is steering this narrative?”
Florentine replied without pausing for breath: “Thank you, Sophie — I believe it’s a silent consortium, but led above all by the Malaysian government. They weren’t looking for a plane; they were looking for a story. I’ve spoken to people who’ve told me something different in private. People who don’t lie because they know I’d never betray them. From the very beginning, it was about controlling the narrative. Not about controlling a search area.” Sophie exhaled shallowly.
Florentine continued: “From everything I know about Germanair 8414 — and what Jean has told me about it in our conversations: there are parallels. There, they smothered the truth with different versions. Several variations, but only one interpretation. And none of it matched the technical anomalies. I recognise these patterns.”
Then Florentine held a document closer to the camera. A signature in the bottom right-hand corner caught the eye. Small, precise.
Sophie froze. She recognised that signature. From another case.
1 ‘Bonjour, mes amis’ (French): ‘Good morning / Good afternoon, my friends’
2 ‘Le Monde’, Paris: founded in 1944, regarded as France’s most important national newspaper with an international reach. A permanent position at Le Monde provides institutional cover; the status of freelance correspondent with Le Monde as the home editorial office means independence in research, but backing when it comes to publication and, where necessary, legal protection.
3 ‘Black Ops’ (Black Operations): covert intelligence operations that do not officially exist or are not officially recognised.
Two journalists, two continents, one name connects both cases — and neither of them saw it coming.
SILENT SKIES II: Signatures of Silence – by Sam Thorne
English edition: July 2026 · ISBN 978-3-695-63228-2
© 2026 Sam Thorne & tvbmedia productions – Berlin