Skyhook (45 page)

problems, or”—he had an index finger in the air—“or send them to another practitioner better suited to that kind of matter.

It’s your choice, Gracie. We’d like to keep you, but there will be no more concessions. And, I might add, be very careful how you conduct yourself in this mission through the federal courts. Do not make yourself a liability

to us through a tarnished reputation, or there will be no option to return.”

footing her car to Seatac airport to meet April was accomplished by rote. As Gracie parked, she realized she had no conscious memory of the trip, or of much of anything since Janssen waved goodbye and closed his door physically and metaphorically. The concept of a professional purgatory filled her head, defining itself by the way she felt, which was somewhere between devastated and encouraged. She had been saved and damned in the same moment, her reputation with the managing partner a melange of disappointment and respect, all of it leading to her professional demise if she mishandled the next three weeks.

For a while she thought seriously of quitting. It would be a simple matter to draft a brief, eloquent letter resigning from the firm and delivering it or sending it by FedEx. It would mean selling her boat and probably her car. But she could retreat without ever having to face them again. The concept, though, of what life might be like beyond Janssen and Pruzan was worse than fuzzy and indistinct. It loomed as dark and purposeless as Joseph Conrad’s vision of a sailor’s wrecked future in Lord Jim, a book that had always haunted her. She felt like Jim, the failed deck officer who had run from a sinking ship full of people at the moment his courage was tested.

Running, however, was not an option for her. That was cowardice and a void. Arlie Rosen, after all, was depending on her now more than ever, and she owed him and Rachel so very much.

Gracie stopped at the Alaska Airlines ticket counter and begged a gate pass from a sympathe ic agent. She moved in a fog through the screening lines and out to the gate, sitting in a corner of the boarding lounge to wait for the inbound flight and watching passively as the multidimensional cross section of humanity ebbed and flowed past her. The torrent of people carried the usual stream of human

emotions: the smiles at happy reunions, the tears at parting, the stoic, the dramatic, and the occasional passive face, all fascinating to her on any typical day.

But today the cavalcade failed to penetrate the black hole of doubt and apprehension that had become a vortex in her soul, a void threatening to swallow not only her sense of humor, but her sense of self.

When April emerged from the jetway, Gracie met her with a forced smile and what she thought was her usual energy. April filled her in on the meeting with Ben Cole, and Gracie reciprocated with a tale of the trip to the judge’s house and the advice he’d given her.

“Washington, D.C.?” April asked in true surprise, as they reached Grade’s Corvette in the parking structure.

“Yes. Both of us need to be there, and we should leave in the morning. I’ve already booked a flight. We want to be in position at first light Monday.”

“So, how does my presence help?”

Gracie felt the answer stop in her throat, and April noticed. She reached out and touched Gracie’s shoulder as she closed the Corvette’s tiny trunk.

“Gracie?”

“Yes?” Gracie responded, accelerating the intensity of her smile.

“You’re not fooling me, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Something else has happened that’s really affecting you, and you’re not telling me. Is it Dad’s resistance?”

“Maybe. In part,” Gracie said.

“What else?”

“Let’s… get back to my floating palace and we’ll talk. I figured you could stay the night in my guest cabin.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, but I want answers.”

Gracie took a deep breath, her eyes shifting to the concrete floor of the garage, the dam of emotion threatening to break. But once more she pulled back and smiled at April.

“Not now, okay?”

April nodded slowly as she watched Grade’s eyes. “Okay.”

The short trip to Ballard and Shilshole Marina was interrupted by a brief grocery stop, but within an hour the two women had settled into the main parlor of the O’Brien yacht. Armed with fresh coffee and renewed control, Gracie related the previous hours of setbacks, trying to keep it matter of fact and professional and positive, chuckling in all the right places and making light of her own concerns. Ar lie’s worried daughter, Gracie figured, needed more reassurance than she did. But to her surprise, April stood without warning and pointed up the narrow stairway to Grade’s bridge.

“Come up here a minute with me, okay?”

“Sorry?”

“To the wheelhouse.”

“I call it a bridge.”

“Whatever.” April was already up the steps and sitting on the side couch that enabled guests to sit and watch the “captain”

steer the yacht when under way.

“Sit,” April commanded when Gracie had joined her, standing uncomfortably by the command chair.

“Here?” Gracie asked, pointing to the command position.

“Yes, Captain Kirk. Sit, please.”

“All right. I’m sitting. Now what?”

“Look out there, toward the bow. Tell me what you see.”

“What?”

“Out there, Gracie. What crosses your mind.”

Gracie studied the horizon, testing the various descriptive phrases she might use, none of them triggering an appropriate response.

“April, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Okay, /’// tell you what you see. You see the impossible incarnate, Gracie. There was no way a twenty-six-year-old newly minted female lawyer could possibly arrange financing for a yacht this big, let alone live on it, but you did. There was no way you could get that job with Janssen and Pruzan, but you did. There was no way you could get past the blows you’d had as a little girl from a disastrous

F^nrr thr€€

Harlie sat in disgust for a few seconds before deciding to search under the hood of his car for the genesis of its refusal to start. He pulled the appropriate T-handle and got out, lifting the hood, eyes falling instantly on something sitting on one side of the engine that he’d never noticed before. It was a cylindrical metallic object roughly ten inches long, and apparently part of the engine assembly. But he couldn’t recall its function, or whether it could be blocking the car’s starter.

He reached for the object, his hand touching the metallic surface and triggering a hidden electrical circuit. The psychological impact of a small firecracker exploding from beneath the device caused him to jump back, adrenaline following the shock, a tiny burst of smoke wafting from the object and marking the reality that the harmless device had been wired to wait for his touch.

A small rod had been thrust out of the front carrying a cloth-like appendage with writing, and Arlie squinted to read the message: Bang, it said. You’ve been warned. Next time you’ll be dead.

Arlie yanked the device from the engine and threw it angrily as far into the adjacent field as he could, then slammed the hood closed

and walked quickly back to the house, shaking slightly with a confusing mix of anger and apprehension.

Rachel was standing at the center island of the kitchen when he threw open the door. She turned from the task of opening a small package and looked at him, startled at his wild-eyed appearance.

“Honey? Back so soon?” she asked, continuing to remove brown wrapping paper from what appeared to be a small cardboard box.

“What’s that?” Arlie asked, leveling a finger at the package, aware that his beautiful wife was inches away and pulling open the top.

“Don’t know,” Rachel replied. “Maybe a gift. It was on our doorstep.”

“NO!” he lunged at the box as a loud crack echoed through the house.

Rachel jumped back as Arlie grabbed the box seconds too late. A similar puff of burned gunpowder assaulted his nose as he recovered his balance and turned around, his eyes meeting Rachel’s, his memory recalling the horrid decapitation of one of the infamous Una bomber’s victims.

“What on earth?” she managed, pushing herself back along the counter.

Arlie looked down at the box, disgusted at the small flag that had emerged: It’s Monday morning. Know where your daughter is?

Rachel read the words as well.

“Is this some sort of stupid joke?” she asked. “If so, it isn’t funny.”

He was shaking his head in spite of himself. “No. No joke. It’s a threat.”

“From whom? About what?”

He laid the box on the counter and came to her, holding her tight, unable to stem the cascade of tears from his eyes.

“Arlie? What’s going on?” she asked, her voice small and strained.

“Baby, get dressed and pack a bag. We’ve got to leave right now.

I’ll explain after we’re on the road.”

She pulled back, looking at him. “Where are we going, and why?”

“Trust me. I’ll explain after we’re in the air.”

“In the air?”

“We’re taking the Cherokee. Pack light. Call no one.”

“Arlie—”

“Not now! Just…just trust me. Our lives are in danger.”

The sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheels of a car was growing from the vicinity of the front drive, and Arlie grabbed Rachel’s hand, leading her in a crouched position across the living room toward the bedroom, his mind fixating whether the .357 Magnum he kept under the bed was loaded.

FRH HEHDQURRTERS WRSHINGTOIM, D.C.

Mac had never been in the office of the FAA administrator before, but somehow he’d envisioned a larger room than the one an aide was ushering him into. The FAA chief, the second woman to hold the position, got to her feet and came around the desk to shake his hand, motioning him to a large chair on the other side of the desk. Laura Busby sat in the companion chair across a small table.

“So, General MacAdams, what can I do for you? All I know so far is that you’re running a very important black project, have a serious problem to grapple with, and can’t tell anyone but me anything more.”

He smiled and opened a leather folder to fish out a two-page briefing sheet with the essential facts, and handed it to her.

“What I can tell you is this. Your enforcement folks are inadvertently creating a major security problem and you could make it go away very quickly. Since this is a serious matter of national security, that’s precisely what I need to ask you to do.”

Busby, a tall, elegant former congresswoman with a full mane of silver hair and a reputation for no-nonsense decisions, cocked her head and studied his eyes.

“Specifically?”

“I need you to sweep aside an emergency license revocation and reinstate the affected senior pilot before his daughter, lawyer, and friends kick open the wrong doors and expose our project prematurely, something that would cause irreparable harm.” Mac explained the basic facts and the newly obtained information on FAA Inspector Harrison’s background.

“Wait,” Laura Busby said, interrupting him. “You say all three charges we’ve raised are bogus? Support that.”

Mac sighed and launched into an explanation.

She was nodding slowly. “How do you know that propeller blade broke?”

“We … have hard evidence. We know precisely what the wreckage looks like, and the proof is undeniable.”

“I see. That’s one out of three, because you haven’t convinced me he wasn’t illegally continuing flight into instrument conditions without a clearance, or that he wasn’t drinking.”

“I need you to trust me on this, since we really don’t have time to go through the normal procedures.”

“I’m a stickler for normal procedures, General.”

“Yes, but this is an extraordinary situation. I seriously doubt you’ve had the Pentagon coordinator of a black project in here begging for an exception since you’ve been in this office.”

“You might be the first. Then again, you might not.”

“Well, considering the national defense harm this could do and the gross overreaction inherent in issuing an emergency license revocation within forty-eight hours of a crash based on almost nothing, coupled with the obvious personal bias of the inspector based on his own bad experience in the past, we’ve got all the ingredients here of a monumental injustice that needs immediate reversal, even if there wasn’t a national security aspect.”

Busby sighed and lowered the hand she’d been using to cup her chin.

“General, when I took over here, one of the things I pledged to my people was that the days of second-guessing and overruling field inspectors for insubstantial or political reasons were over. When I

was in the House and on the Aviation Subcommittee, I got sick to death of watching the FAA mollycoddle unsafe operations because they—now we—were afraid of political backlash.”

“I understand. But this involves—”

“National security. I know. I’m not unresponsive or unsympathe ic, but what I’m not going to do is just sweep this aside without delving into the details.”

“Time is of the essence here. The man’s family has been pulling out all the stops to disprove your allegations, and they’re getting uncomfortably close to us. If this thing blows into a courtroom, there is even more danger, because of possible media involvement and judicial orders we can’t easily evade. This is a bum charge, and it would be beneath the dignity of the FAA to pursue this, because I promise you, on the other end you’ll be mightily embarrassed. And, the damage to Captain Rosen would be immense. He’s a major airline 747 captain who will stay grounded and unemployed until the license is reinstated.”

She picked up the briefing papers and got to her feet, signaling the end of the discussion. “I’ll look into this as soon as possible, General.”

Mac stood, too, mildly alarmed at what was beginning to smell like a brushoff.

“May I check back with you this afternoon?”

She laughed and shook her head. “You are joking, right? It will take three or four days at best to get all the details assembled on this. I’ll call you when I’ve gathered enough information to make a decision.”

Mac stepped into the elevator, oblivious to the four other men and women already aboard. His focus was almost total. The danger was too real to make the foolish assumption that April Rosen wouldn’t find a way through the carefully woven veil of secrecy around Skyhook, exposing things that must never come to light.