How would you feel?" He didn't allow her to answer. He swiftly sat next to her and gripped one of her hands. "Now, I'm really sorry your husband is dead, and under any other circumstances his getting on a plane wouldn't be any of my business. But when everybody starts lying to me at the same time my company's future is blowing in the wind, then it very much becomes my business."
He let her hand drop.
Tears pulled at the corners of Sidney's eyes as she jumped up and grabbed her coat. "Right now I don't give a damn about your company or you, but I can tell you that neither my husband nor I have done anything wrong. You got that?" Her eyes blazed at him, her chest heaving. "And now I want to leave."
Nathan Gamble studied her for a long moment, then went over to a table in the far corner of the room and picked up the phone. She couldn't hear what he said. In a moment the door opened and Lucas appeared.
"This way, Ms. Archer."
Walking out, she looked back at Nathan Gamble. He lifted his wineglass in a salutary manner. "Let's keep in touch," he said quietly.
The delivery of those four simple words sent a shiver through her entire body.
The limousine reversed its trek and less than forty-five minutes later Sidney was deposited in front of her Ford Explorer. She quickly got in and drove off. She punched a speed dial on her portable phone. A sleepy voice answered.
"Henry, it's Sidney. Sorry if I woke you."
"Sid, what time... Where are you?"
"I wanted you to know that I just met with Nathan Gamble."
Henry Wharton was fully awake now. "How did that come about?"
"Let's just say it was at Nathan's suggestion."
"I've been trying to cover for you."
"I know, Henry. ! appreciate it."
"So how did it go?"
"Well, probably as well as it could have, under the circumstances.
In fact, he was pretty civil."
"Well, that's good."
"It might not last, though, but I wanted you to know. I just left him."
"Maybe this whole thing will just blow over." He added hurriedly, "Of course, I don't mean about Jason's death. I don't mean in any way to minimize that horrible tragedy--"
Sidney quickly cut him off. "I know, I know, Henry. No offense taken."
"So how did you leave it with Nathan?"
She took a deep breath. "We agreed to keep in touch."
The Hay-Adams Hotel was only a few blocks from Tyler, Stone's offices. Sidney awoke early. The clock showed it to be barely five in the morning. She quietly reassessed the progress of the night before.
The visit to her husband's office had yielded nothing useful and the meeting with Nathan Gamble had badly scared her. She hoped she had appeased Henry Wharton. For now. After grabbing a quick shower, she called room service and ordered a pot of coffee. She had to be on the road by seven to pick up Amy. She would discuss the memorial service with her parents then.
By the time she was dressed and packed, it was six-thirty. Her parents were habitual early risers and Amy did not ordinarily sleep past six. Sidney's father answered the phone.
"How is she?"
"Your mother's got her. She just finished getting a bath. Just came marching in our bedroom this morning pretty as you please like she owned the place." Sidney could hear the deep pride in her father's voice. "How you holding up, sweetie? You sound a little better."
"I'm holding, Dad. I'm holding. Finally got some sleep, I'm not sure how."
"Well, your mother and I are coming back up with you and we're not taking no for an answer. We can take care of stuff around the house, field calls, run errands, help with Amy."
"Thanks, Dad. I'll be at your place in a couple of hours."
"Here comes Amy looking like a baby chick caught in the rain.
I'll put her on."
Sidney could hear the receiver being coddled by the small hands.
A few chortles drifted over the line.
"Amy, sweetie, it's Mommy." In the background, Sidney could hear gentle coaxing coming from her mother and father.
"Hi. Mommy?"
"That's right, sweetie, it's Ma-ma."
"You talking to me?" Then the little girl laughed uncontrollably for a moment. This was a favorite phrase right now. Amy always hopped off the ground when she said it. Her daughter proceeded to cradle the phone and rattle off her own version of life, in a language most of which Sidney could easily decipher. This morning it was pancakes and bacon and a bird that she had seen go after a cat outside.
Sidney smiled. Her smile abruptly vanished with Amy's next words.
"Daddy. I want my daddy."
Sidney closed her eyes. One of her hands moved across her forehead, brushing some hair back. She felt a painful mound of air muscling its way to her throat. She held her hand over the phone so the sound would not carry.
Recovered, she again spoke into the phone. "I love you, Amy.
Mommy loves you more than anything. I'll see you in a little while, okay?"
"Love chu. My daddy? Come over, come over now!"
Sidney heard her father tell Amy to say bye-bye.
"Bye-bye, baby. I'll be there soon." The tears fell freely now, their salty taste very familiar to her.
"Honey?"
"Hello, Mom." Sidney rubbed her sleeve across her face. The wetness sprung back immediately, like a stubborn layer of old paint seeping through the fresh coat.
"I'm sorry, honey. I guess she can't talk to you without thinking about Jason."
"I know."
"She's been sleeping all right, at least."
"I'll see you soon, Mom." Sidney hung up the phone and sat with her head in her hands for a few minutes. Then she drifted over to the window, where she pulled open the curtains a notch and peered out.
A three-quarters moon together with the multiple streetlights illuminated the area exceedingly well. Even with that, Sidney didn't see the man standing in an alleyway across the street, a small pair of binoculars held in his hands and pointed in her direction. He was dressed in the same coat and hat he had been wearing in Charlottesville.
He dutifully watched as Sidney absently scanned the streets below. From years of pulling this kind of duty, his eyes took in every detail. Her face, her eyes in particular, was weary. Her neck was long and graceful, like a model's, but her neck and shoulders were arched back, obviously filled with tension. When she turned away from the window, he lowered his binoculars. A very troubled woman, he concluded. After having observed the suspicious actions of Jason Archer at the airport the morning of the plane crash, the man felt Sidney Archer had every reason to be worried, nervous, perhaps even fearful. He leaned up against the brick wall and continued his sentinel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lee Sawyer was staring out the window of his small apartment in southeast D.C. In the daylight he would be able to see the dome of Union Station from his bedroom window. But daylight was still at least thirty minutes away. Sawyer had not arrived home from investigating the plane ruelet's death until almost four-thirty in the morning. He had allowed himself ten minutes under a hot shower to work out the kinks and grogginess. Then he had quickly dressed, put on a pot of coffee, cooked up a couple of eggs and a slice of ham that he probably should have tossed a week ago and toasted some bread. He ate the simple meal on a TV tray in his living room, a small table lamp the only light. The soothing darkness allowed him to sit quietly and think. With the wind rattling against the windows, Sawyer turned his head to study the simple configurations of his home. He grimaced. Home? This was not really his home, although he had been here over a year. Home was in the tree-lined Virginia suburbs: a split-level with vinyl siding, a two-car garage and a brick barbecue in the backyard. This small apartment was where he ate and occasionally slept, mainly because, after the divorce, it was really the only thing he could afford. But it was not and never would be his home, despite the few personal effects he had brought with him, chief of which were the photographs of his four ch
ildren that peeked out at him from everywhere. He picked up one of the photos. Looking back at him was his youngest. Meg--Meg-gie, she was called by nearly everyone. Blond and good-looking, she had inherited her father's height, slender nose and full lips. His career as an FBI agent had taken off during her formative years and he had been on the road for much of her adolescence. Paybacks were hell, though. They were not speaking now. At least she wasn't. And he, big as he was, and despite what he did for a living, was too terrified to try anymore. Besides, how many different ways could you say you were sorry?
He rinsed off the dishes, wiped the sink clean and threw some dirty laundry in a mesh bag for deposit at the cleaners. He looked around for anything else that needed to be done. Really there was nothing. He cracked a weary smile. Just killing time. He checked his watch. Almost seven. He would leave for the office shortly. Although he had regular duty shifts, he was typically there at all hours.
Not too difficult to understand, since being an FBI agent was really the only thing he had left. There would always be another case. Isn't that what his wife had said that night? The night their marriage had disintegrated. She had been right, though, there would always be another case. In the end, what more could he really ask for or expect?
Tired of waiting, he put on his hat, holstered his gun and walked down the stairs to his car.
Barely a five-minute ride from Sawyer's apartment sat the FBI headquarters building on Pennsylvania Avenue between Ninth and Tenth Streets, northwest. It was home to approximately seventy-five hundred employees of the FBI's total work force of twenty-four thousand.
Of the seventy-five hundred, only about one thousand were special agents; the rest were support and technical personnel. In the headquarters building one prominent special agent was sitting at a large conference room table. Other FBI personnel were scattered around the table dutifully going over stacks of files or screens on their laptops. Sawyer took a moment to look around the room and stretch his limbs. They were in the Strategic Information Operations Center, or SIOC. A restricted access area composed of a block of rooms separated by glass walls and shielded from all known types of electronic surveillance, the SIOC was used as the command post for major FBI operations. On one wall was a line of clocks delineating different time zones. A cluster of large-screen TVs lined another wall. The SIOC had secure communications to the White House Situation Room, the CIA and a myriad of federal law enforcement agencies. With no external windows, and thick carpeting, it was a very quiet place used to organize mammoth investigations. A small galley kept the personnel here functioning through exhaustive work hours. Presently, fresh coffee was brewing. Caffeine and brainstorming seemed to go hand in hand.
Sawyer looked across the table to where David Long, a longtime member of the FBI's Bomb Squad, sat staring at a file. To the left of Long was Herb Barracks, an agent from the Charlottesville resident agency, the closest FBI office to the crash site. Next to Barracks was an agent from the Richmond office, the FBI field office in nearest proximity to the disaster. Across from them were two agents from the Washington metropolitan field office at Buzzard Point, which, until the late eighties, had been simply the Washington field office until the Alexandria, Virginia, field office had been collapsed into it.
The director of the FBI, Lawrence Malone, had left an hour earlier after being briefed on the murder of one Robert Sinclair, most recently employed as an aircraft fueler at Vector Fueling Systems and now an occupant of a Virginia morgue. Sawyer felt sure that a fingerprint run through the FBI's Automated Fingerprint Identification System, or AFIS, would give the late Mr. Sinclair another name. Conspirators in a scheme as large as Sawyer figured this one was rarely used their real names in securing employment positions they would later use to down an airliner.
More than two hundred and fifty agents had been assigned to the bombing of Flight 3223. They were following up leads, interviewing family members of the victims and undertaking an excruciatingly detailed investigation of all persons having the motive and opportunity to sabotage the Western Airlines jet. Sawyer figured Sinclair had done the actual dirty work, but he wasn't taking any chances on overlooking an accomplice at the airport. While rumors had been floating in the press for some time, the first major story actually declaring the downing of the Western flight as being caused by an explosive device would be in the next morning's edition of the Washington Post. The public would demand answers and they would want them soon. That was fine with Sawyer, only results weren't always obtained as fast as one would like--in fact, they almost never were.
The FBI had latched on to the Vector line soon after the NTSB team members had found that very special piece of evidence in the crater. After that it was a simple matter to confirm that Sinclair had been the fueler on Flight 3223. Now Sinclair was dead too. Someone had made sure he would never have an opportunity to tell them why he sabotaged the plane.
Long looked at Sawyer. "You were right, Lee. It was a heavily modified version of one of those new portable heating elements. The latest rage in cigarette lighters. No flame, just intense heat from a platinum coil, pretty much invisible."
"I knew I'd seen it before. Remember that arson case involving the IRS building last year?" Sawyer said.
"Right. Anyway, this thing is capable of sustaining about fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. And it wouldn't be affected by wind or cold, even if doused by the jet fuel, or anything like that. Five-hour supply of fuel, rigged so that if it went out for any reason it would automatically relight. One side was affixed with a magnetic pad. It's a simple but perfect way to do it. Jet fuel comes spewing out when the tank gets penetrated. Sooner or later, it's going to get within range of the flame, and then boom." He shook his head. "Pretty damn ingenious. Carry it in your pocket; even if it's detected, on the surface it's a damned cigarette lighter." Long sifted through some more pages as the other agents closely watched him. He ventured a further analysis. "And they didn't need a timer or altimeter device.
They could roughly gauge the timing by the acid's corrosiveness.
They knew it would be up in the air when it went. Five-hour flight, plenty of time."
Sawyer nodded. "Kaplan and his team found the black boxes. The casing on the flight data recorder was split open, but the tape was relatively intact. Preliminary conclusions indicate that the starboard engine, and the controls running through that section of the wing, were severed from the plane seconds after the CVR recorded a strange sound. They're doing spectrum sound analysis on it now.
The FDR showed no drastic change in cabin pressure, so there was definitely no explosion inside the fuselage, which makes sense, since we now know the sabotage occurred on the wing. Before that, everything was operating smoothly: no engine problems, level flight, ordinary control surface movements. But once things went bad, they never had a chance."
"The pilots' recording on the CVR give any clues?" Long asked.
Sawyer shook his head. "Usual expletives. The Mayday they radioed in. The FDR showed the plane was in a ninety-degree dive for almost thirty thousand feet with the left engine going at almost full power. Who knows if they could even have remained conscious under those conditions?" Sawyer paused. "Let's hope none of them were," he said solemnly.
Now that it was clear that sabotage had downed the plane, the FBI had officially taken over the investigation from the NTSB. Because of the complexities of the case and its massive organizational challenges, FBI headquarters would be the originating office and Sawyer, his first-rate work on the Lockerbie bombing still fresh in the minds of FBI leadership, would be the case agent, meaning he would run the investigation. But this bombing was a little different: It had occurred over American airspace, had left a crater on American soil. He would let others at the bureau handle the press inquiries and issue statements to the public. He much preferred doing his work in the background.
The FBI devoted large resources of personnel and money to infiltrate terrorist organizations operating in the United States, ferreting out
plans and grand schemes to wreak destruction in the name of some political or religious cause before they had a chance to come to fruition. The bombing of Flight 3223 had come right out of the blue. There had been no trickles of information from the FBI's vast network that anything of this magnitude was on the horizon. Having been unable to prevent the disaster, Sawyer would now devote every waking moment, and probably suffer through many a nightmare, in his quest to bring those responsible to justice.
"Well, we know what happened to that plane," Sawyer said.
"Now we just have to find out why and who else is involved. Let's start with motive. What else did you dig up on Arthur Lieberman, Ray?"
Raymond Jackson was Sawyer's young partner. He had played college football at Michigan before hanging up his cleats and eschewing an NFL career for one in law enforcement. A shade under six feet, the thick-shouldered black man possessed intelligent eyes and a soft-spoken manner. Jackson flipped open a three-ring notebook.
"A lot of info here. For starters, the guy was terminal. Pancreatic cancer. It was in an advanced stage. He had, maybe, six months.
Maybe. All treatment had been discontinued. Dude was on massive painkillers, though. Schlesinger's Solution, a combo of morphine and a mood elevator, probably cocaine, one of its few legit uses in this country. Lieberman was outfitted with one of those portable units that dispense drugs directly into the bloodstream."
Sawyer's face betrayed his astonishment. Walter Burns and his secrets.
"The Fed chairman has six months to live and nobody knows?
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