Hard Fall

by Ridley Pearson

  “Name one.”

  “Gas. I was thinking about gas.”

  “Zia?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  On August 17, 1988, the president of Pakistan, Muhammad Zia ul-Haq; his chief of staff; the army’s vice-chief of staff; the American ambassador, Arnold L. Raphel; and General Herbert M. Wassom, head of U.S. military aid to Pakistan; all died in the crash of Zia’s C-130 Hercules transport plane. It had been a nightmare for Daggett and the FBI’s foreign counterterrorism group, who, along with other criminal investigators and sabotage experts, had been excluded from the investigation. With such a prestigious passenger list, motive for murder abounded.

  Based on Islamic religious law requiring burial within twenty-four hours of death, the bodies of the flight crew were cremated only hours after the crash. This eliminated the chance to autopsy the flight crew. As a result, speculation remained as to the actual cause of the crash. Lacking any evidence from the autopsies of the flight crew, nothing could be proven. After eighteen months of inquiry, after much supporting evidence, the most likely explanation for the crash was that poison gas hidden somewhere on the flight deck, or introduced into its air supply, had killed the flight crew, and perhaps the passengers as well. With no flight crew in control, the plane had gone down. The fatal crash remained listed as “likely sabotage.”

  Daggett said, “Gas? We would have caught that in the autopsies.”

  “Would we have? That’s out of my expertise.”

  “We should have. I’ve seen the autopsy protocols—there’s no mention of toxic gases in the blood or lungs. Now you make me wonder how reliable that is. With the oil wells burning and all that jet fuel going up … well, there wasn’t much left of the two in the cockpit. I wonder how reliable those autopsies are?”

  “Way beyond my expertise,” Lynn said, blanching. “We’ll know a lot more once we’ve listened to the voice recorder.”

  “The voice recorder? It’s here?”

  “That’s what I’m doing here. That’s what I meant by me being a delivery boy. Our lab has it as we speak. We’ll listen to it either late tonight or tomorrow. Depends on everyone’s schedules.”

  “What about my schedule?”

  “You’re invited, of course. Have you ever been to one?”

  “No,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “It’s emotional. It’s hard.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “No, you can’t. Not really …” She said this softly, but he felt her pain as clearly as a strong gust of wind hitting his chest. He identified the emotion immediately: It was the same as when he told others about Duncan’s disability. “No, I can’t,” he acknowledged. Then he remembered he had to be by Mumford’s side this evening. “I have an obligation tonight. If it’s going to be tonight, I’ll need to be pulled away. Physically pulled away. My boss won’t have it any other way.”

  “The reception?” she asked. “I’m going too. I’ll be on a pager.”

  “If you hear anything—”

  “I’ll come rescue you,” she said.

  He nodded, still looking at her, believing she was right in more ways than she intended. She was capable of rescuing him. He wanted to tell her. But then he saw a change in her expression, and he realized perhaps he already had.

  She looked around nervously and fiddled with her purse. “Don’t get up,” she said, coming out of her chair. Daggett acted natural, but his eyes wandered the area. Had she seen someone? She was acting that way.

  She came across to him, bent to kiss him on the cheek, and forced what felt like a plastic container into his hand. A roll of film? He didn’t want to look. “Your boys will work faster than ours,” she said. “I need that back. See you tonight.” She left.

  Daggett opened his hand beneath the table. It was a clear plastic container labeled FAA EVIDENCE.

  Inside was a broken glass bulb.

  14

  * * *

  The reception, hosted by the air industry’s powerful lobby, began at seven-thirty.

  The “private home”—now a commercial building rented specifically for entertaining—had been built in the mid-nineteenth century by a wealthy widow from Missouri. Colonial, it imitated the great southern mansions, since, the story went, this woman had fancied herself a southern belle—not the daughter of a hog farmer as was actually the case.

  Carrie, having arrived precisely at eight, waited outside, expecting Cam any moment.

  A steady flow of the properly dressed climbed the front steps and passed through the towering front doors, engrossed in petty conversations, mostly concerning the intolerable heat.

  At ten past, with the heat and looks of pity getting to her, Carrie queued up with the others, fearing that without an invitation she might be rebuked. The reception line was a bipartisan Who’s Who of congressmen, a Democratic congress-woman, and senators.

  Carrie passed first through the metal detector, which had become so commonplace at these functions that it nearly went unnoticed, and then on through the reception line, all without incident.

  The party was on; it was hot outside, cool in here; time to drink.

  The grand ballroom boasted a twenty-five-foot arched ceiling of intricate plasterwork; the walls held large but unremarkable eighteenth-century oil landscapes darkened with age, caged ornately in bright gilded frames. A number of nine-foot-high doors led off to a garden patio on the left, and points unknown—presumably sitting rooms or a kitchen—on the right. She calculated the commission on a place like this before she reached the bar. A trio of electric piano, bass, and drums played a Ray Charles medley from the far end, between two fully staffed and stocked bars. The mood was festive. People were showing off their Nantucket tans. Carrie wished she had one. Hearing snatches of many stories, many laughs, she felt increasingly alone.

  Where was Cam?

  The drinks went a long way toward making her feel comfortable. An attractive single woman in a lovely dress became the object of much male attention. Gentlemen began to buzz around her, bees to her honey, engaging her in small talk, prying into her marital status, and delivering more drinks than she could juggle with two hands. She lost count after three, sipping more often out of nerves and excitement than a desire to get drunk. Someone who considered a spritzer a stiff order, she was dizzy before thirty minutes had passed.

  Who needed Cam?

  The compliments kept pace with the drinks and the trays upon trays of international hors d’oeuvres. She understood why single women appreciated Washington so much. On the arm of Cam, the few cocktail parties she had attended had always proved frightfully boring. But now! Now she was having the time of her life. She secretly hoped he’d forgotten about the party, or had a flat tire or a meeting he “simply couldn’t get out of.” God, had that excuse grown tiresome!

  When the band struck up a fairly convincing version of “In the Mood,” a few of the older couples began to dance, and as if reading her thoughts, a darkly handsome young man who had mentioned something about being with the National Gallery (what he was doing at this particular party was anybody’s guess) invited her to dance, placing her drink down for her and swinging her out onto the floor. As far as she was concerned, he was the second coming of Fred Astaire, and in her best Ginger Rogers imitation, she attempted to follow his graceful footwork. After another dance she had to take a break.

  In the powder room there was a pack of cigarettes on the counter. Marlboros. Her favorite.

  Cam had helped her to quit twice. Their one split had followed a series of arguments surrounding her “weakness,” her inability to kick the habit. But there were the Marlboros, and she was feeling as good as she could recently remember. As she fixed her hair the pack continued to stare at her, and finally she opened the hard-box lid, slipped out a cigarette and put the accompanying butane lighter to it. She wanted to dislike it, because she knew how bad it was for her, but with a few drinks in her the smoke felt absolutely wonderful curling d
own her throat, tasted fantastic, and she wasn’t sorry at all. She smoked it down, enjoying herself immensely, stole a few more from the pack and, placing them in her purse with the disposable lighter, headed back out to her waiting audience.

  A few minutes later, she glanced up and saw Cam entering the room. At first, she felt anger at his being so late. This was quickly replaced by relief—they had the night in front of them—and guilt over the cigarettes. She experienced a flutter of happiness within her breast: she was wearing a new dress, she had a couple of drinks in her, and her date had finally arrived. But this happiness was quickly sabotaged as Cam stepped aside, revealing a tan and incredibly fit Lynn Greene. It was all made very much worse when Cam held up a finger to the woman as if to say Wait a minute. His gesture confirmed that they had arrived together.

  Indignation rose within Carrie flushing her face scarlet. She gulped down the remainder of her drink, grabbed her National Gallery dancing partner by the hand and steered him out onto the dance floor, immediately in step with a romantic ballad. She pressed herself close, a slender hand around his neck, and nestled her head into his comfortable but somewhat unwilling shoulder. The moment was broken as her partner lifted his arm and waved slightly to a tall, extremely handsome dark-haired woman with green eyes, clad in a stunning white dress.

  “A friend?” Carrie asked, unavoidably slurring her syllables.

  “My wife,” the man responded. “Sylvia,” as if an introduction were appropriate.

  It figured. This man had been the most polite, and while attentive, had in no way come on to her, which was why she felt safe with him. Married! At that instant Cam spotted her, smiled broadly, apparently not the least perturbed. He pushed his way to the bar, where he ordered a drink. He stood by the band watching her dance. Eventually, the song ended. Carrie’s partner politely excused himself, caught up to and kissed his wife. Together, they edged through the crowd to the opposite bar, the wife checking one last time to make certain Carrie wasn’t following.

  “Hello there,” Cam said over his glass of cranberry juice. He seldom drank at these occasions, considering them work. He leaned forward for a kiss, but Carrie, suddenly fearing he might smell the cigarette on her, averted him at the last second, offering only her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Really I am. I could tell you that it was unavoidable, but I know it wouldn’t help. Still, it was. I always say that, don’t I?”

  She nodded, tongue-tied and a little too drunk. It fed her anger but she resisted this with everything she could muster. She would not give in to it. She would not be a victim of behavior patterns as Cam always was. The progression of events seemed apparent enough to her: Lynn Greene worked out of Los Angeles. Cam had gone to Los Angeles; they had reunited; and now, here was Lynn Greene, three thousand miles from home. It could all be explained by work—she was certain of that—but it seemed a little too cozy. Still, she wanted to believe him. It was a new dress. It was a decent enough band. It was early yet. If only she could think of something to say.

  “Aren’t you talking to me?” he asked.

  Fearing the booze might cause her to say something she would regret, she simply said, “Hi,” and retreated to her purse, where, against her intentions, she located and lit a cigarette.

  The band began to play a poor rendition of a Beatles song.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked, making nothing of the cigarette.

  This made her feel all the more guilty. “Vodka, in any number of combinations.”

  “Be right back.” He disappeared behind a swirl of dancers. She took a drag and blew the gray smoke high over their heads.

  Daggett ordered them both vodka and tonics and returned to her as quickly as possible. She continued to smoke, though clearly was uncomfortable about it. He tried his best to ignore it. “Listen,” he said intimately, “I really am sorry about being late. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  “No need to. You’re here. I’m glad for that.” She squinted at her cigarette. “I hate being single. I’m so glad I’m not single. Really.” Smoke ran into her eyes as she attempted to keep the cigarette away from him. She frowned at it.

  He asked gently, “Would you like me to get rid of that?”

  “Please.”

  He pinched it between his fingers as if it were contaminated, and cut his way through the congestion to the far wall where he located a freestanding sandbox ashtray. As he twisted it into the sand, he noticed a gold filter standing butt-up in the sand. A butt identical to the one he had found in Seattle. With some difficulty, he recalled the report that had crossed his desk, naming the brand and style: Sobranie—Black Russian filters. A rare brand in the United States, it was available throughout Europe, though expensive.

  Could it be put down to coincidence that he would find the same cigarettes being smoked here? It was a big crowd, an international crowd to be sure. His curiosity won out. He had to know who was smoking these cigarettes. He would think of nothing else until he did, which would only further spoil the evening. He began to justify his need: there weren’t that many people smoking; with a brand as uncommon as this, how hard could he or she be to locate? But to allow these thoughts was itself trouble, for suddenly he was filled with pure, hot panic. This was, after all, a party celebrating tougher restrictions on airline security. What if this reception was the target? What if Bernard hadn’t built two barometric detonators, as he suspected, but instead, one barometric and one clock?

  Could a bomb be smuggled into this party? Doubtful. He had passed through a metal detector and a couple of city cops on his way in. The very nature of the reception would have demanded the toughest security procedures. But what about the cars outside? How thorough was the security?

  He rudely barged his way back through the hordes and reached Carrie, regretting his words before he even uttered them. “Something’s come up,” he said as gently as he could. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Promise. Not long at all.” She rolled her eyes. “Save me room on your dance card?”

  Her eyes pleaded with him. He saw hate, love, and confusion.

  “Bear with me,” he said.

  “Go on,” she told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Only a couple of minutes.”

  “Sure.” He saw the courage and strength it took for her to say this, for her eyes betrayed her, but it was one of those efforts so typical of her. It was times like this that he saw himself through her eyes, and wondered how he deserved her.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Go on,” she insisted, giving him a gentle but convincing shove. “They’re going to play another slow song soon.”

  He targeted a male smoker and closed in. The important thing was not to panic, not to jump to any conclusions. Part of him wanted to believe that the bomber might be here at this party, but the more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. Ward’s killer was not the only person who smoked Sobranies. And what would an international terrorist be doing at a Washington social affair? Milling with other guests and making small talk. He settled down some with this reasoning, though he didn’t abandon his assignment.

  The music faded into the background. His attention fixed on the guests. A black and gold cigarette would be fairly easily spotted. He weaved his way through the crowd smoothly. Here, the slate gray fumes rose from a small cluster of talkers … A woman … A white cigarette with a white filter. There, another. Group by group, face by face, he pursued the smoke.

  “Cam!” An arm reached out and snagged him. The voice sounded familiar, but at first there were too many faces with which to associate it. “Right here,” the man next to him said. Daggett recognized Richard Tuttle, now a senior vice-president in a security consultant firm. He wanted to break loose, but Tuttle had him firmly by the arm. Tuttle had been a special agent until forced into mandatory retirement at fifty-five. Now he consulted for commercial carriers—for probably five times the pay. His company had been instrumental in the adoption of the recent legislation that this reception
was celebrating. He introduced Daggett to his friends. Daggett wanted out. He shook hands all around. He tried to sidestep Tuttle, to quickly move on, but Tuttle, feeling the liquor, retained him firmly in his grip. To tear himself away might create a scene—more trouble than it was worth: Tuttle and Mumford went way back.

  Tuttle excused them both and drew Daggett away from the others. He had hard facial features and a youthful laugh. He spoke in a very low register, which sounded unnatural and forced. “You all right?”

  “A little distracted is all. I’m in a bit of a hurry. Working,” he added.

  “I understand.”

  No you don’t, he felt like telling the man. “Well—” Daggett said, giving a little jerk and trying to pull away. Tuttle’s grip remained ironclad. “With this one safely in the win column,” Tuttle began, “I’m more than likely going to be wearing an executive VP hat any day now, and that’s going to leave a hole in the ranks, if you follow me. We could use someone with your experience. Bring you in at the VP level, or damn near it. First year you’d take home maybe forty or fifty—I know, I know,” he said, expecting Daggett to protest, “but by year three or four you’d be pulling in at least twice that, maybe three times depending on how the rest of the company grows, and we’re growing like gangbusters! You’d be at an executive decision level, not one of the flunkies catching a goddamned plane every other day.”

  “Richard—”

  “Hell, this isn’t anything close to a formal offer. But I’d like you to let me take you out to lunch one of these days and lay it all out there for you. Make it official and let you think about it. That child of yours, Dirk is it?”

  “Duncan—”

  “You won’t believe the health benefits, retirement plan, and profit-sharing programs we’ve got. Even some of Dirk’s past expenses may be covered here—we’d have to look at that. How about a lunch one of these days?”

  Duncan’s expenses … Here was everything Carrie wanted for them: security, high pay, reasonable hours, benefits. The temptation of a cushy desk job seem only too appropriate when his elevated blood pressure was causing a painful drumming in his ears, and sweat formed on the back of his neck. Was Tuttle sweating? Hell no. Did Tuttle work to midnight only to head back to the office at six in the morning? He was tempted.