Fly by Wire: A Novel (23 page)

^{Whittemore couldn't hear a word -- didn't need to. Her chopping hand motions made it clear she was upset. That's how Italians talked. An expressive people. The guy gave back as good as he got, and soon they disappeared around a corner, a whirlwind of flailing hands and Armani and gnashing white teeth. Whittemore figured that inside thirty minutes their designer clothes would be scattered on the floor of some nice hotel room, and they'd be having frantic sex. A passionate people, the Italians.}

^{The show over, he turned back to the arrivals gate and thought,
One lover's spat. The highlight of my day
The boat from Genoa was the third he had monitored. Each group of passengers took roughly thirty minutes to debark, get filtered by immigration, and connect with luggage and relatives and taxis. The whole thing was damned tedious. If there was anything more boring than having to stand in line, it was watching other people stand in line.}

^{Whittemore was fed up, ready to move on. He had his sights set on a posting to an embassy staff. Still "in the field," but civilized. Mingle at cocktail parties, maybe rub ankles with a baroness under the table at a State Department dinner. Martinis and proper clothes. Not cold lattes in filthy ferry terminals.}

^{He'd been with the CIA for ten years. They had nabbed him in his sixth year at Dartmouth, graduation unavoidably imminent. He hadn't really needed the job to begin with --he had his trust fund. But with his family already frowning on his extended bachelor's degree, Whittemore decided he had to do something to make himself appear useful.}

^{The visiting CIA recruiter had told him he was just what they were looking for -- Ivy League with two years of Arabic language under his belt. Grades didn't matter, thank God. Whittemore had enjoyed college and his transcript proved it. The recruiter had been slick. He'd made it sound exciting -- not by telling vivid stories, but just the opposite. What will I be doing?
I really can't say.
Where might I get posted?
Could be anywhere.
Career path?
You fill in the blanks.
Mystery and intrigue. Now there was a sales pitch. Whittemore had taken the bait and run.}

^{He swirled the end of his latte again, the settled remnants thick, cold, and chocolate brown. He tilted his head back to drain the cup, and as soon as it came back down he spotted her. Whittemore didn't need a double take -- he had seen three pictures. Side face, frontal face, and full body. There was no mistaking Fatima Adara.}

^{She had just cleared the immigration desk. In front of her, an old guy in a knit fisherman's cap was walking away. Behind, still at the podium and waiting his turn, was a teenager with an iPod. Fatima just stood there with a nylon bag in one hand, frozen while the clerk gave her a hard time about -- something. It didn't look like he was detaining her. The guy was actually pointing off in the distance, a disgusted look creased onto his swarthy face. It was as if he was trying to get rid of her but she wasn't moving fast enough.
What the heck?
Whittemore wondered.}

^{The standoff ended when Fatima bundled off in the direction of his gesture. It was then that Whittemore realized his problem -- from his present vantage point, he was going to lose sight of Fatima as she moved toward the exit. But then he relaxed, and his confidence returned. There was only one way out of the terminal, a single passage to the streets of Marseille. If Whittemore took up a nice position, he couldn't possibly miss her there.}

^{He pulled out his phone, flipped it open. But then he hesitated.}

^{Fatima Adara was public enemy number two. He began to scan the terminal frantically. Could Caliph be in the crowd as well? That face was also one he'd memorized. The guy in the fisherman's hat was far too old. The kid behind Fatima too young. Nobody that had come off the boat looked remotely like the terrorist.}

^{Whittemore considered his options. Considered his career.}

^{In ten years, he'd never had a score like this -- Langley was frantic to find Caliph, and Fatima was the next best thing. If Whittemore called it in now, there would be six more agents circling within the hour. Twenty by midnight. They'd let Fatima run, see where she led. Somebody senior would take charge of the operation, and a month from now Whittemore would get a pat on the back. Maybe even a plaque of commendation for meritorious service -- some six-by-ten-inch, imitation mahogany, brass-engraved attaboy.}

^{But if he
didn't
make the call just yet, Fatima might lead him straight to her boss. And if Whittemore called in with a spot on Caliph, he could write his ticket. He flipped his phone shut.}

^{It was time for a little tradecraft.}

^{Chapter
TWENTY-ONE}

^{Jammer Davis was nursing a tall beer at a tall table and staring at a soccer jersey.}

^{The bar at L'Hotel Continental Lyon was the usual sports theme, pictures of famous athletes and lightly used equipment tacked all around. Of course, everything had a decidedly European twist. Baseball and American football were nowhere to be seen. Soccer and rugby dominated the photos. There were cricket bats and oars, tennis and squash rackets -- all just the right size and flavor for nailing to a wall. The uniform Davis was looking at had been pinned up in a glass case along with a plaque explaining the significance of the game in which it was worn. He saw a distinct grass stain on the tail, implying it hadn't been washed after the match. Good thing it's in a glass case, Davis thought.}

^{He checked his phone. There were no new messages from Jen. He had left her up in the air about the dance. His finger went to the green button and paused idly on top. He still wasn't sure what he was going to say.
No, you can't go this time. You can never go. You can go with me when I get back.
None seemed completely right.}

^{Davis needed something more uplifting. He had a fleeting thought about calling Hurricane Sparky. She must have seen the news clip by now, his brief engagement with the French camera crew. Rita McCracken wasn't his boss any more, but it might be fun to call, just to yank her chain.
I've alienated the entire board, Sparky, and they want a replacement. I gave them your name. Don't worry, it shouldn't take more than a year. I'll look after your plants.}

^{Davis snapped his phone shut and shoved it into his bomber jacket that was hanging on the back of the chair. He sipped his beer, wiped a trace of foam from his lips with the back of a wrist. The brew was something local that looked and moved in his glass like 40-weight motor oil. He scooped a handful of snack mix from a bowl on the table. It was nice and salty. This made him take another sip. He was enjoying the cycle.}

^{Davis thought hard about what he'd heard on the voice recorder tape. He had caught something in it, something that likely escaped the others in the room. It was there in Earl Moore's voice. Calmness, confidence -- even at the last moment. Davis recognized it for what it was.}

^{To the uninitiated, the concept of flight can seem intimidating. Those without training and experience often find pause at the risks involved. One-off mechanical disasters, the perils of turbulence or storms in an unpredictable sky. When such misfortunes actually rear up -- fire and meteorological brimstone -- those outside the fraternity might pray to God for deliverance, or even succumb to an aura of serendipity, resigned to let fortune settle things. No aviator worth his salt ever sees it that way. A technical malfunction is taken in stride, even seen as an opportunity to display one's firm hand and steel will. Bad weather need only be circumnavigated or endured, for in the true aviator's psyche there is that inescapable maxim -- the surety that one is better than God and his elements.}

^{It is, of course, all an illusion. That much is certain. Davis had seen the sky claim fine pilots, and more than a few fools. But equally certain rests the advantage of perceived invincibility in the face of crisis. Soldiers in combat often found it. Bulletproof status. To some degree, every sure-handed pilot Davis had ever met possessed it. And Earl Moore had it in spades. He'd heard it on the tape. The man was screaming toward the ground at nearly Mach 1, well in excess of the aircraft's placarded Vne --velocity, never exceed. But Moore was still aviating. Still thinking clearly.}

^{Davis tapped the side of his cold mug with a fingernail. Twice.
Click-click.}

^{Of all he had heard today, of all the drama on the voice tape, that was what stuck in his mind. Right before the voice recorder had gone briefly offline -- not one click, but two. Clear and close together, like a three-position switch being pushed fast through two detents.
Click-click.}

^{He remembered back to his first look at the radar data in Sparky s office. It had gone blank at roughly the same point in the descent as the voice recorder, maybe 10,000 feet. At the time, Davis had wondered if the airplane might have suffered a structural failure, broken up under the extreme speed. But now that he'd seen the crash site, he knew all the big pieces were accounted for. That theory didn't fit. And Davis was only happy when things fit.}

^{He was lost in thought, staring at the floor, when a stylish pair of shoes and an even more stylish pair of legs came into view. He looked up and saw Sorensen. She was wearing a dress, mid-length but with a slit up one side that showed some thigh. They had agreed to meet at six. She was two beers late.}

^{"Hi, Jammer. Sorry to keep you waiting."}

^{"No problem, Honeywell. Been busy?"}

^{"Not as busy as you -- I saw the news clip of you leaving that meeting. You really caused a ruckus."}

^{"Thanks. It's my signature move."}

^{"I especially liked the end, when you told the reporter to go to hell."}

^{"They played that part?" He feigned surprise. "Oh, well. It could have been worse. I was going to call Bastien a manipulative shitmouse --just couldn't think of the right French translation."}

^{Sorensen stared him down and was about to say something when a waitress scooted up and looked at her expectantly.}

^{Davis advised, "Go with the imported beer, Budweiser. It's only eight bucks a bottle."}

^{She ordered a martini, then reached for the snack mix and took a handful. "So is there really a new angle in the investigation?"}

^{"Maybe. We listened to the voice tapes. I heard some things I didn't like. I think we should be looking deep into the flight control software."}

^{"You think there's a glitch in it?"}

^{"It has happened before. The designers can't imagine every corner of the flight envelope. I've seen accidents where computers and pilots have gotten into a fight for control. It's not pretty. So I gave the board a recommendation."}

^{"What was that?"}

^{"I said we should ground all C-500s."}

^{"You can't be serious -- will they?"}

^{"No, not a chance. But it'll give them something to think about. Something besides Bastien s spectacular suicide theory."}

^{She said, "I understand that Bastien has called another press conference for tomorrow."}

^{"I heard. He asked me to come. Probably so we could hold hands and show unity."}

^"And?"

^{Davis popped a pretzel into his mouth. "I told him he didn't need another press conference. I told him he needed a piece of rebar shoved up his undulating spine."}

^{He saw Sorensen stifle a grin, but then her expression turned serious. "You're kidding, right?"}

^{Davis shrugged, left it open.}

^{"Jammer, do you think this is smart? Antagonizing him?"}

^{"I don't like how things are going, and I'm not one for half measures." He sipped his beer and reflected, "You know, it's probably just as well I didn't stay in the Air Force. Can you imagine me as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? I'd just advise the president to go nuclear for everything. And none of that gradual response crap. Massive retaliation, that'd be my style."}

^{Sorensen's martini arrived. It came in a curved-stem glass that looked very unstable. She took a long draw. "So why do you think Bastien wants to hang this whole thing on Earl Moore?"}

^{"Hard to say. Maybe because it's easy. Earl Moore isn't around to defend himself. Or maybe because it's more dramatic than a line of bad computer code or a faulty mix of composite resin."}