Final Approach (49 page)

Joe thanked his FBI friend profusely, hanging up then as he thought about Gardner. Farris would have to be involved. Since the FAA and the FBI were involved, Joe would have to take it to Farris. Goddamn Gardner! He lied to me. Joe tossed a pencil across the room at the bookcase, knowing Gardner would be finished when this hit the fan. It was no innocent act or white lie, that was certain. Joe knew Nick's background with air traffic control, and he also knew how he'd always had the tendency to want to skewer the FAA for what he felt they had done to him. The other problem was personal. Joe had been in command and had lost control of Nick too. Another debacle that would be credited against Joe's ledger with Farris. The thought canceled what had been the returning hint of an appetite.

Joe was ready to storm from his office in search of Gardner when Mark Weiss appeared in the doorway, explaining there was something very important he needed to discuss, and then shutting Joe's office door behind him as he handed over a sealed mailing envelope.

“What's this, Mark?”

The psychologist studied the edge of Joe's desk for a moment, working on phraseology. Joe noticed he wasn't even removing his topcoat, and the office was warm. Mark looked up at last. “Remember I told you I felt Captain Timson was hiding something?”

“Yes.”

Mark raised his hand to forestall protest. “I know you didn't—
couldn't
—officially believe me without proof. I was hoping the hearing would unravel the mystery—”

“Weren't we all.”

“Yes, but I mean as to whether Timson made some terrible pilot error and was trying to rewrite reality. Okay. I still don't know what he could have done, but he says he made no error and the airplane is at fault.”

Joe held his palm up. “Mark, I'm afraid, despite all the revelations at the hearing, I'm privately convinced the Air Force is lying. All my instincts point to electronic interference and an attempted cover-up, though I'll deny it if you say anything outside this room.”

“Maybe, Joe, but I've got proof that Timson has materially misled you on at least one occasion, and I think—”

“What proof? This envelope?”

“Yes. Let me finish. I think I can prove to you that Timson has not regained his memory and is making up what he says happened, or, he knows what happened and is trying to change it.”

Joe was intrigued. Proof he could deal with—
relate
to, as they'd say in California. But what sort of proof could Weiss have that would do all that?

Mark explained his frustration after his first visit to Joe's office, omitting the burning temptation he'd had to steal the CVR tape. He told of setting up his recorder in the hotel room, how he had appropriated the name of one of the NTSB lab technicians, and how he knew from Joe's own statements that Andy Wallace would be interviewing the captain within a few hours after his call.

“I knew, Joe, that if the man was making up reality or trying to change it, he would grasp at the phrase I gave him, and it would show up in Andy Wallace's interview.” Mark placed a page from the transcript of the interview on the desk, a heavy black circle around a particular Timson answer—one containing the phrase: “My stick's not responding, take it Don, take it!”

Mark opened the envelope then and retrieved the tape. He placed it in the small cassette recorder he had brought and punched the play button.

The sounds of Mark asking the hotel operator for date and time came first, then the sounds of a new number being punched into the phone were followed by a deep, subdued male voice answering on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Is this Captain Timson?” Mark had asked. There was a worrisome hesitation, then a slow response. Not suspicious, just hazy. The man had probably been under pain medication at the time.

“Yes … yes it is … um … who's calling?”

“Captain, this is difficult. I'm Phil Baker from the NTSB laboratory in Washington.”

Joe shot Mark a disapproving glance, receiving a determined shrug in response.

“Yes?”

“Well, Andy Wallace is on his way out there to see you, isn't he?”

“Mr. Wallace … yes, he's supposed to call when he gets to the airport. Why?”

“Well, it's kind of embarrassing, sir. See, we're the people who transcribe the cockpit voice tapes, and I've been working over the last two days to do just that. I'm under a deadline to have that by this evening, but I'm stuck on one thing, one area where I can't quite make out the words. Now, normally we'd just take more time, but I've already said I could do it by tonight, so I'd like to ask your assistance.”

More silence as Timson thought through the words. “What do you need?”

“Captain, the very last of the tape—and I know this is painful for you—but in the last fifteen seconds or so, I think I'm hearing you say, and I quote, ‘My stick's not responding, take it Don, take it.' That's the best I can make out. Does that mesh with your memory? Is that what you recall saying?”

Timson was slow responding, but when he did there was more energy behind his voice. “Give … give me that again, please.”

“Okay. It was, ‘My stick's not responding, take it Don, take it.' At least, sir, that's what it sounds like. You'll save me half a day's work if you can confirm that.”

“Well … I think that's right. I know I must have … ah, I know I remember saying that because my controls, you know, weren't doing what they should have … should have been doing. Yes … I'm sure I remember saying that.”

“Excellent. Now I have one more favor to ask.”

“Yes?”

“I'd very much appreciate it if you would
not
mention this call to Andy, or Joe, or anyone else. I won't tell you I'd lose my job, because that's not true, but it would be embarrassing.”

He heard Timson clear his throat with some effort. “Don't worry. I won't mention it. That's no problem.”

“Thank you, Captain. And I hope you're out of there soon and feeling better.”

“Thanks.” There was the sound of plastic against plastic, the hollow sound a telephone makes when the receiver is being banged against the cradle as someone struggles to put it back on the hook.

Mark snapped off the tape recorder and leaned back. “I figured at that point, Joe, now we'll see what he does. It was the perfect time to plant the seed. I made up the words, of course, using a phrase that would seem to get the captain off the hook—the words of a pilot doing everything he could to save his malfunctioning airplane. They were supposed to sound to Timson like the sort of thing he should have said. Yet a pressured individual like Timson would not realize how unlikely it would be to have such a phrase of helplessness and surrender—a cry for help—emerge from his mouth. Totally uncharacteristic for someone in Timson's position. I figured that if my analysis was correct, that exact phrase would show up word-for-word on the transcript of Andy Wallace's impending interview, and it would prove that Timson was playing games with the truth, grasping at straws, claiming to recall something he couldn't really recall. And you heard how fast he latched on to it.”

Joe nodded, still in deep thought as Mark paused, then continued.

“I sealed the tape in a mailing envelope, which you just saw me open, and here's the hotel receipt with the call on it, and the Kansas City phone number, and you saw me take that out at the same time. Plus, remember you heard me get the date and time from the hotel operator before I dialed the call.”

The sound of breath being sharply exhaled filled the room.

“Son of a bitch, Mark, you got him all right. I can't endorse your methods … that may even be illegal, fraudulently representing—”

“I'll take my chances, Joe. If you want to prosecute, I'll go willingly. But think about what this proves.”

Joe nodded and sat back in his chair. “It proves, as you said, that the man is trying to rewrite the record. His reaction, Mark, when he finally did hear the CVR tape, tells it all.”

Mark had not heard of Timson's protests to the NTSB that he had been supplied with a faulty transcript of the CVR tape, or his openly voiced suspicion that someone at the NTSB had monkeyed with it to “get” him. “Andy ended up taking the actual tape to Timson's house to play it for him before the captain would believe the transcript was legitimate. “We need to talk to Andy about this, but he told me that Timson said he could've sworn he said more at the end. Then he and his airline start acting as if the copilot seized control without authority.”

“What are you going to do about it, Joe?”

Another sigh as Joe diverted his gaze to the bookcase, seeing only Timson's face. “I don't know. I don't know if we can crack him … crack his story. But Mark, if the man's lying, that means he is, as you say, covering up something. Let's think this through a second. Either he's covering up the fact that his memory has not returned—which simply means that he
cannot
guarantee us that he maintained nose-up pressure on the control stick while the airplane was pitching nose down—
or
, he
knows
that for some reason he commanded nose down and the airplane's control system is blameless, which would confirm the Air Force's story.”

“You think North America knows about this?”

Joe shook his head vigorously. “No way. Look at this.” He pushed the newspaper clipping about North America's suit against Airbus and their fleet groundings over the desk. “I can't believe they'd do this if they suspected. Timson's sold them a bill of goods too.”

Joe felt his thoughts racing up and down with different possibilities, knowing he'd have to reexamine every one before acting … provided there was anything he could do. I can't present Mark's tape as evidence, he thought, or can I? How can we use this? How can we let Timson know we've got him red-handed, at least as far as this interview goes?

“Joe?”

Mark had seen the investigator drifting, his eyes wide, his mind working and his fingers unconsciously beating a rapid, if syncopated beat on the arm of his chair.

“Mark …,” he said at last, “let me think this through. I don't know how we'll use it, but you're right. It shows Timson is misleading us or out-and-out lying to us. Hell, he
is
lying. In any event, it proves to me we can't indict the airplane, or the Air Force, just yet.”

When Mark had left, Joe grabbed his topcoat from the old wooden hat rack he kept in the corner—an antique also furnished by Brenda—and headed for the door, apprehension as well as habit driving him out of his office. Sometimes he could think best just walking.

The clouds overhead were racing to the east before a swift late-autumn breeze, the wind at ground level loud enough to beat the roar of city traffic. There was still a thick covering of snow on the ground, but the sun was out and the temperature had climbed to the upper thirties. It was, in Joe's estimation, cold and crisp but invigorating and enjoyable. So often D.C. was too hot, too cold, or too rainy for comfort—or for casual walks. He would miss days like today, though, even if they came only once a year. He would miss them if he were no longer at the Board.

He would have to go to Dean Farris about Nick Gardner, knowing Gardner was professionally doomed as a result, and that he, Joe, would be blamed by Farris for letting it happen. Gardner had gone renegade on Joe's watch. That was all Farris would grasp.

But what to do about Dean Farris himself? The man's stock dealings created a monstrous, scandalous conflict of interest. He couldn't survive the disclosure, either. Of course, Joe should wait for confirmation from Jeff Perkins before doing anything overt, just to be sure the stock really did belong to Farris, but its ownership would explain some of Farris's behavior.

Yet, how could Farris not see the conflict of interest? The man must be too naïve for words! And playing into Caldwell's slippery hands the way he had. Or was there something more?

Joe stopped in his tracks suddenly, causing a young couple who had been unconsciously keeping pace with him on the walkway to stumble trying to avoid a collision. The thought was too horrific and dark and dishonest, but nothing else ever seemed to really be what it appeared to be in high political office. There was always something different lurking behind the facade. Farris had acted to protect U.S. manufacturers ever since he took over as chairman. Was that tilt an honest one, or could Farris have other motivation? And what if Caldwell was involved?

Conspiracies began cropping up in his mind. Suppose John Phelps had stumbled onto a rat's nest of intergovernmental corruption? What could he do about it? Protect your backside, John had said. Joe was beginning to regard it as wise advice.

But I've done nothing wrong! He reminded himself of that aggressively, knowing full well that even an innocent can be professionally destroyed in the public riptide of indignation which always follows yet another revelation of corruption in high places.

And what of the North America investigation itself? There was a rising apprehension in his gut about that. Usually he proceeded like a detective against mechanical or operational culprits, chasing them resolutely through technological tunnels, through manuals and hearing testimony and reconstructed wreckage. This one, though, had been unique. He had felt sorry for Dick Timson, but Timson had broken the code and misled an investigation, and to Joe, that was a crime by itself.

The queasy feeling gnawing at him ever since Mark Weiss's visit was the simple frustration of an aeronautical sleuth confronting a cunning new foe. Whatever happened, he
had
to nail Timson. He had to, but could he? In other words, Joe thought in clear terms distilled from a kaleidoscope of thoughts and considerations, will he get away with it?

Joe realized he was pacing around on the grass to the north of the National Air and Space Museum, located just across Independence Avenue from the FAA building. He pushed through the main entry then, losing himself among the displays for a while, seeing nothing but the images of his own thoughts.