“I know.”
“Do you think he’s involved?”
“Phil Carrara thought it was possible.”
An odd expression crossed her face. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“The brakes are fried,” the Delta Airlines chief mechanic on duty at Dulles International Airport said.
“We really had to lean on them to slow down,” senior pilot Robert Rodwell replied. They were hunched over the main landing truck on the port side. A lot of black debris and metal shavings had collected from the brake rotors.
“Same on the other side, Captain. This bird’ll have to go into the shop tonight.”
“She’s not scheduled to fly until morning. Can you get it done by then?”
“We’re down to a weekend crew. Company won’t budge on that with the overtime pay and all.” The mechanic, Ted Neidlinger, shined his flashlight on the huge brake rotors. “Could be these are already turned to tolerance, which means we’ll have to bring spares up from Atlanta. Something I know we don’t have in shop.” He shrugged. “Your call, Captain.”
“Without calling in an extra crew, what are we looking at for time?”
“Twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours.”
“They’re not going to like it,” Rodwell said. He’d have to have Operations bring another aircraft up from Atlanta to make the morning La Guardia round-trip. It would probably be one of the older birds, like an L1011 or DC-10, and not the more modern and more comfortable Guerin 522. There’d be a lot of bitching.
“I don’t break ‘em, Captain. I just fix ’em.”
It was a shitty remark, but it was late, and besides, he was right. “Are we going to have it for Sunday morning’s La Guardia?”
“No. But I’m pretty sure we can have it for the seven-five-six.”
“That’s when I fly next,” Rodwell said. “Fix it good.”
“I hear you.”
The pilot took the stairs up to the jetway and went back into the airplane to get his brain bag. His co-pilot was already gone, but Mary White the chief stew was still aboard, finishing her flight log.
“How’s it look?” she asked.
“This bird is down until Sunday. You flying tomorrow?”
She nodded tiredly. “Not until three. What’ll they send up for us?”
“Nothing good. How about Sunday?”
“Yup, then too.”
“Busy weekend.”
“Not so bad,” she said. “I have a four-day layover in L.A., and I’ve got a ton of things to do in my apartment. How about you?”
“Not until Sunday. I’ve got seven-five-six, O’Hare direct, then L.A.” He glanced at the panel clock. It was a few minutes after midnight. “Still time to grab a couple of drinks and a bite to eat.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Drake.”
“They put us across town at the Tudor. It’d be too late by the time I got back. I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“My room has a king-size bed.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“Ah, shit, sorry,” Rodwell apologized. “I didn’t mean anything. It’s late and I’m tired …”
She smiled. “You don’t snore, do you, Captain?”
Project supervisor Scott Hale came up to America’s cockpit where Socrates and Kilbourne were watching the last of the diagnostic tests on the flight management system computers.
“We’re ready to re-cowl the engines,” he told them. “Do you want to sign off?”
Socrates took the clipboard Hale brought up and ran through the checklist. “Do the thermocouple interfaces again,” he said tiredly. It was well after midnight. His throat hurt, and his eyes burned.
“That’ll take at least three hours on each engine,” the engineer replied. He was frustrated. They all were because of the long hours.
“I know. And before we move over to Portland Sunday morning we’ll do them again from the forward electronic bay.”
“Well, you’re going to have to settle the argument between Rolls and InterTech, Mr. Socrates. They’re at it again.”
“What’s their beef this time?” Kilbourne growled.
“They’re still showing a phase delay on one of the sensor ready pulses. Sudursky came up from San Francisco yesterday to look it over. He says it’s well within tolerances, but Danson can’t find it on the schematics.”
“Have we seen anything like that from this end?” Socrates asked the technician.
“Are they talking about GO-One?”
“I think so.”
“We’ve seen it. The problem is with the schematics, not the subassembly. It was a minor redesign that hasn’t shown up in the manuals.”
Something about that didn’t quite set right with Socrates, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Let’s test from here.”
“The phase delay involves the thermocouple circuitry. Do you still want the main tests run?”
“Yes,” Socrates replied tiredly. “As soon as this question is settled. Then you can re-cowl.”
There was no security at Dulles other than a night watchman at the Airport Commission building. Mueller stood in the darkness of a basement corridor for several seconds, waiting for the uniformed but unarmed man to finish his rounds and return to his office upstairs.
In Europe after any crash, whether caused by accident or terrorist attack, airports were closed up as tight as prisons. In addition to the usual security people, the military or in some cases anti-terrorist police, heavily armed with automatic weapons, swarmed over every square meter. From food service to baggage handling, and from ticketing to passport control, electronic sensing equipment and police sniffer dogs were on duty twenty-four hours per day.
A couple of weeks ago an airplane had crashed here, but the only security Mueller had encountered was one old man unarmed except for a walkie-talkie and a set of keys.
Incredible.
He went upstairs, hesitated at the end of the corridor to make sure the guard was gone, then walked across to the exit and let himself out. Keeping close to the building, out of camera range, he removed the Walkman and disappeared into the night.
“America is still at Gales Creek,” Kennedy said from his secure line in Portland.
“When are you moving it to Portland?” McGarvey asked.
“Not until Sunday morning, a few hours before the Honolulu flight. How is everything there in Washington? Are you with Dominique?”
“Yes. But listen to me, David. I don’t know how much good I’m doing here. Have you found anything?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll be aboard that flight.”
“You’ll never get through security.”
“Yes, I will,” McGarvey promised. “Have you heard from your wife?”
“No,” Kennedy said, his voice choked.
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes. But until I get a call or a note or something, there’s nothing they can do. She doesn’t have anything to do with this, Mac. What the hell do they want?”
“I don’t know, David, but Yamagata is in the middle of it,” McGarvey answered. “I’ll be there tonight. Hang on.”
Roland Murphy came to the White House first thing in the morning. President Lindsay and his NSA Harold Secor were waiting for him in the Oval Office. Except for last-minute details, this would be the President’s final regular intelligence briefing before he took off for Tokyo tomorrow.
“I’ve spoken with President Yeltsin and Prime Minister Enchi, who assure me that their military movements are nothing more than exercises,” the President said. “Does this square with your shop?”
“If you want my gut reaction, Mr. President, I’d say both of them were lying through their teeth.”
President Lindsay grinned. “Put a military man in charge of an agency, and you’ll get straight answers. Not always the ones you want to hear, but straightforward. What do you have for us this morning, General?”
Mu
rphy handed the President the leather-bound folder that contained the in-depth national intelligence estimates that ran to more than twenty thousand words this morning, twice as long as normal.
“Three main points, sir. The first involves the military standoff in the region. As of last night, every Japanese Self Defense Force base, installation, and ship was on alert. All leaves are canceled.”
“Prime Minister Enchi called it a ‘national exercise,’ to test the entire system. He says their weapons are unarmed.”
“Yes, sir, under federal command. Their system is similar to our nuclear weapons release codes plan. But only in theory.”
President Lindsay was troubled. “You’re saying that their local commanders have launch autonomy?”
“More than we’ve been led to believe, Mr. President.”
The President exchanged glances with his National Security Adviser. “I see. Go on, General.”
“Russian naval and air force bases all along their far eastern zones of defense—which extend for three hundred miles inland from the Seas of Okhotsk and Japan—have gone to a similar state of readiness. Some specialist troops have also been moved out from Moscow. We’re not quite sure of the numbers, or all the units involved, but they seem to be commandoes and first-strike troops.”
“What is your confidence in these reports?” Secor asked.
“Very high, Harold. Except for the incident in the Tatar Strait, no shots have been fired. But both sides are ready.”
“And apparently lying about it,” the President said. “What else?”
“The submarine Samisho, which caused the trouble in the first place, has disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of our destroyers was tailing the sub south in the general direction of Okinawa, when it went to a silent-running mode and dove very deep—apparently well beyond the range of our sonar equipment. Seventh Fleet sent out two frigates to help in the search, and they’re being continuously overflown by surveillance aircraft as well as all-weather fighter/interceptors.”
“What the hell is going on?” the President demanded.
“Routine exercises, Mr. President. Except in the case of the Samisho, which Escort Fleet Command at Yokosuka claims it is trying to contact for recall.”
“Are we sending more assets into the region?” the President asked.
“It’s not recommended at this time, sir.”
“What are we waiting for?” Secor asked.
“For someone to start shooting. Nothing else we can do,” Murphy replied. “Which brings me to the third point—the civil situation in Tokyo and Yokosuka. The riots are continuing to grow, Mr. President.”
“Who’s behind it?”
“An organization calling itself Rising Sun,” Murphy said. “There is an addendum report on the group in your briefing folder. It appears to be an offshoot of the old Red Army faction. I think it would be a good idea to discuss it with Prime Minister Enchi tomorrow.”
“I’m turning it over to the Vice President.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve decided to send Larry tomorrow. I’ll go over Wednesday as previously scheduled.”
“Is there anything I should know about, Mr. President?” Murphy asked.
“No. But keep your eyes open, General. I want briefings from you personally every day until then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to go over this material with Larry. Can you do that this morning?”
“Will do, Mr. President.”
On schedule, Mueller called Reid, who was waiting at a public telephone in the Grand Hyatt at Washington Center. He phoned from Lafayette Square across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. “Everything is ready.”
“You’ve disposed of the big trouble?” Reid asked.
“Yes, and the three small packages. It happens tomorrow at three. In the meantime I am still waiting for the second deposit to my account.”
“It’s on its way. Don’t be impatient.”
“Very well.”
“If we push the button now I won’t have to invent any excuse for tomorrow …” Reid said.
Mueller hung up without responding.
Chief Investigating Officer John Whitman had known that finding a man of McGarvey’s caliber and experience would be difficult. But apparently he’d been tipped off and had gone to ground. Despite their best efforts the man had not turned up. Guerin was no longer cooperating, although secretly Whitman couldn’t blame anyone. The Bureau had turned down its request for help. The police in Portland and in D.C. were coming up empty-handed, and the college where he’d taught until a few weeks ago hadn’t heard from him either. His apartment in Milford was staked out, although Whitman personally thought it was a waste of time and manpower. Even if McGarvey did return there he would almost certainly spot the surveillance team, and they’d have trouble on their hands. That was another problem. When they did finally find him, making an arrest would not be easy. If McGarvey chose not to cooperate or, as Carrara had warned, if he were taken by surprise, there would be casualties. Whitman had read parts of McGarvey’s amazing file, made all the more stunning by what had been left out. Every page had major deletions—For considerations of National Security. Yet what remained was nothing short of deadly. First they had to find him. Special Agents Joyce and McLaren were in Portland and would remain there for the time being. They were banking on the probability that McGarvey would eventually show up at Guerin. Whitman thought it would happen tomorrow. Despite the tight security around the VIP flight on the new airplane, McGarvey would make a try to get aboard. Overall, though, the case made less and less sense each day. They were missing something. But what?
Special Agent in Charge Charles Colberg called from San Francisco. “We might have something for you on the Guerin case. Apparently Bruno Mueller surfaced in Oakland ten days ago, and possibly Chicago just this last week. We’re still looking for connections, aren’t we, John?”
“At this point we’ll take everything. What’d he do?”
“Killed an air traffic control instructor. It’s got us running around in circles out here. Something’s going on that we can’t figure out. But since his name came up in connection with Guerin, who’s flying its new bird out to Honolulu tomorrow, we’re getting nervous. Anything on McGarvey yet?”
“Nothing, Chuck. But you’re not the only one puzzled and nervous.”
“We got a call from Ron Herring who runs the noise-abatement research program for the Oakland Airport Commission. A couple of weeks ago a guy who identified himself as Thomas Reston showed up at the airport and asked a bunch of questions. Took the grand tour of Herring’s project and the tower. Said he was a reporter for High Technology Business and Aviation Week & Space Technology magazines. Herring said the guy looked good and sounded good so nobody got suspicious until last week.”
“Does Herring check out?” Whitman asked.
“He’s clean. After Reston was finished at Herring’s project, he took a tour of the tower with Dick White, the chief ATC instructor. Last week White’s body was found outside his motel in Chicago. Whoever did him used a stiletto. Single thrust to the heart.”
“It was either a lucky hit, or the killer was an expert.”
“I checked with the French. The stiletto is one of Mueller’s weapons of choice.”
“How’d Herring get on to it?” Whitman asked. To his cop’s instincts, the connection had a ring of truth.
“He knew that Reston talked to Dick White in Oakland, and he wanted to make sure the guy knew what had happened. But nobody at either magazine had ever heard of him. So he called us. Soon as I saw the IdentaKit drawing, we showed Herring the Mueller photo and he made a positive ID, although he said Reston had different color eyes and hair. We dusted the business card that Reston gave to Herring. Except for Herring’s prints it was clean. The guy is a pro.”
“Did you talk to Paul Granger in Chicago?” Whitman asked. Granger was the S-A-C there.
“Yes. Reston rented a car at the airport the night of Dick White’s murder. Question is, why did he follow an air traffic control instructor out to Chicago and then kill him? John, if it’s Mueller—and I believe it is—what the hell am I missing?”
Whitman tried to work it out. “Is there any connection, no matter how remote, between Dick White and Guerin?”
“None that we can come up with. But Mueller took his time. Herring said he had the technical patter down pat. He knew the system, where it had been, and where it was going.”
“What was White doing in Chicago?”
“A union meeting. Could be that Mueller was there to interview somebody else, and White’s bumping into him was just a coincidence.”
“That, or for some reason he was stalking White,” Whitman said, then he stopped. “Anybody except for the car rental people in Chicago see Mueller? At the airport?”
“Paul didn’t say.”
“Where and when was the rental car returned?”
“Minneapolis the next morning.”
“All right, assuming there is a connection between Mueller and the Guerin case, what was he doing at those three airports? And which other airports has he visited in the past week or two?”
“Jesus,” Colberg said. “I’ll check Oakland and San Francisco International.”
“Right,” Whitman said. “I’ll send a bulletin to all our field offices. If you find anything, Chuck, anything at all no matter how seemingly insignificant or disconnected, call me.”
“Will do.”
“Larry, did Murphy get a chance to go over everything with you?” the President asked.
“I talked to him when he dropped off the briefing book.”
“Are you finished with it?”
“I will be by morning, and there’ll be plenty of time on the flight over for a second look.” Vice President Larry Cross was a ruggedly built Oklahoman who preferred cowboy boots and blue jeans to suits and ties. He was a fast but thoughtful study, and a competent VP.
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