Murder in Foggy Bottom (7 page)

Pauling smiled. Barton had his cute moments. “The Russians are shooting down our commuter airlines with nearly obsolete missiles?” Pauling said.

“Somebody is, and if this initial evaluation holds up, they’re using weapons out of the old Soviet Union.”

Pauling lowered himself into a chair and slowly, pointedly exhaled. “Same with the other two accidents?” he asked Barton, who’d relaxed into parade rest, adopting what would pass as a starched slouch.

“Undetermined as yet.”

“What do you want me to do in Moscow?”

“Be there in case you’re needed.”

“Just ‘be there’?”

“On hand. First, pick up on some of your former contacts with Russian businessmen, more specifically, arms dealers.”

“What makes you think Russian arms dealers sold these particular missiles, Colonel? Thousands of vintage Grail missiles have been manufactured and sold to every dictator, so-called freedom fighter, and head case in the world. They could have come from anywhere.”

“And there’s usually a trail. With bits of paper. What’s the saying—‘Follow the money’?”

“What about domestic terrorist groups?” Pauling asked. “No one’s taken credit for the attack?”

“If the Bureau knows, it’s not sharing it with us—yet.”

“Who do I report to in Moscow?”

“Your old friend, Lerner.”

“At the embassy?”

“You’re back wearing your trade and commerce hat, which should make you happy. You’ve been grousing ever since you got here about sitting behind a desk. No one knows how this event is going to play out, Max. Whether the planes were brought down as part of a conspiracy by a domestic terrorist group, or this represents the actions of a foreign power, the ramifications are immense, especially if it involves the Russians. If those missiles came out of Russia, and their so-called government played any role, no matter how tangential, Congress and the administration will want blood.”

“The Russian government may be screwed up big-time, Colonel, but it’s not dumb enough to sanction the sale of missiles to terrorist organizations here.”

“Of course not, but those missiles had to find a way out of the country. A skid somewhere had to have been greased. First task: Find out who greased it.”

Pauling stood and went to the door, turned, and said, “You’re right, Colonel. I hate sitting behind a desk. I’ll send you a postcard. I’ll leave right away.”

“No, Max, check in with Tom Hoctor at the CIA first.”

“Hoctor? I thought I was reporting to Bill Lerner.”

“You are, but Hoctor’s running the show from here. I spoke with him an hour ago. He expects you at Langley at ten tomorrow morning. You’ll get a briefing from the missile guys, the arms trade, the rundown on what’s been going on in Russia recently.”

“There hasn’t been any good information coming out of Moscow since I left.”

“Your modesty is overwhelming, Pauling.”

“Anyone
else
I’ll be working for? I don’t like reporting to a committee.”

“Ten in the morning, at Langley. Thanks for coming in.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it.”

8

That Afternoon
George Washington University

Jessica Mumford tried to get her students in post-Soviet Russian-U.S. relations back on track but was losing the battle. By the time they’d arrived at the three o’clock class in GW’s School of Diplomacy and International Relations, the only thing on their respective and collective minds were the day’s airline tragedies and the unconfirmed reports that missiles had been involved. Professor Mumford could have dictated an end to that discussion and insisted upon returning to the subject of the lecture— the Duma, Russia’s lower house, and the new structure of power within it—but she decided doing so would only result in the students missing the salient points of the lecture.

Her fifteen disciples that day proffered many theories, all based upon speculation, an exercise for which Jessica had little patience. Since becoming an adjunct professor of diplomacy and international relations at the university, she’d taught what she believed—that too many of the country’s diplomatic decisions and actions or inactions were rooted in supposition and conjecture, rather than formulated from verifiable international reality. Facts! Focused decision making based upon them. These were her mantras.

When at her full-time job as an analyst specializing in post–Cold War, post–Soviet Russia at the Department of State, she applied that belief to auditing the volumes of information crossing her desk each day. Some of her less methodical colleagues found her approach to be mildly annoying at times, and downright abrasive at others. A Siberian expert in the department once remarked to an associate, “No wonder her husband walked out on her. You say ‘I love you’ and she’ll want to know what you base it on.”

“Shame,” said his friend. “She’s good-looking. I wouldn’t mind a little of that myself.”

“Probably sex by the book. She’s got a computer for a heart.”

Jessica was aware of the assorted attitudes but dismissed them. Reacting would, she knew, only dignify them. She also wasn’t displeased that there was speculation about her personal life. Let them fantasize how she spent her time away from State, who she had dinner with, what movies she saw and enjoyed, the men she slept with. If compartmentalism was now in vogue in Washington since the Clinton years, she was all for it.

She ended the class a few minutes early and issued an admonition to her students the way a judge would to a sequestered jury being dismissed for the evening: “Don’t jump to conclusions until you’ve heard all the facts. Remember, we don’t know whether the planes were downed by missiles. We don’t know whether, if they were, the missiles were foreign or domestic. We don’t know whether it’s organized terrorism or miscellaneous madness. We don’t know who or what, only where and when. Why is an even bigger question. One thing no one needs is knee-jerk finger pointing at groups or individuals. See you next week.”

As she watched them leave the room, she experienced a sense of pleasure and purpose. Some of them, ideally the best and the brightest, would go on to play important future roles in how the country conducted its relations with other nations—friend, foe, or the conveniently neutral. If she could help shape them into persons who viewed their world realistically, and humanely, her efforts in the classroom would be more than validated.

She packed up and stopped in an office she shared with other adjunct professors. Her boss at State had called earlier that day about the aircraft crashes and told her to be ready to report at any time. She’d mentioned she had a class to teach in the afternoon. “No need to cancel,” he’d said. “Now.”

Jessica sat down at the nearest phone and quickly dialed his number.

“It’s Jessica. I just dismissed my class. Need me?”

“No, but keep your beeper on.”

“What’s new?”

“Looks like a missile, Jess. Little doubt about it.”

“Any suspects?”

“No. I got from Colonel Barton in Counterterrorism that the missiles might be Russian-made, old Soviet SAMs.”

“SAMs? Surface-to-air?”

“Uh huh, but that’s not official. You’ll be at home?”

“I’m heading there now.”

After checking her mail, Jessica looked for a cab to take her to her apartment in Columbia Plaza, on Twenty-third Street, almost directly across from the State Department building. Mackensie Smith pulled up in his blue Chevy sedan and rolled down the window. “Jessica,” he called, “need a ride?”

“On my way home, Mac.”

“Get in.”

Mac Smith and his wife, Annabel Reed-Smith, had become Jessica’s friends two years ago after Mac delivered a guest lecture on international criminal law to her class. Smith had been a top-flight attorney in Washington until his wife and only child were killed in a head-on collision on the Beltway. He lost his passion for the rough-and-tumble world of the criminal courtroom after that, closed his practice, and joined the faculty of GW’s esteemed law school.

Annabel, a matrimonial attorney when she and Mac met, had been toying with the idea of giving up her own practice to open an art gallery specializing in pre-Columbian art, a subject she’d fervently studied since her undergraduate years. With her husband’s encouragement, she took down her shingle, found space in Georgetown, and successfully launched her dream.

Because their individual interests and circle of friends cut across many lines, the handsome couple’s names appeared frequently on invitation lists, which they carefully parsed to leave themselves enough private time alone to enjoy their new apartment in the Watergate— and to enjoy each other.

Smith had the radio tuned to all-news station WTOP as Jessica got into his car.

“The investigation into fatal crashes of three commercial airliners this morning, including one headed for Washington from New York and carrying an undetermined number of area residents, is continuing. Information from reliable anonymous sources at various agencies gives growing credibility to eyewitness reports of missiles hitting two of the planes shortly after they’d taken off. All three planes were smaller, commuter-type aircraft. The death toll in the three accidents is eighty-seven. The Washington-bound airplane carried thirty-six passengers and a crew of three. The FBI is scheduled to hold a press conference within the hour about this multiple, unprecedented tragedy. We’ll bring that to you live. Stay tuned!”

A jazzy recorded promo for the station caused Mac to turn off the radio. “They keep pounding away with what we already know.”

“They have all those hours to fill.”

“You hear anything new, Jess?”

She considered mentioning what her boss at State had said about the missiles possibly being Russian-made but knew she shouldn’t. “No facts,” she said. “How’s Annabel?”

“Fine. What’s your read on the accidents?”

A shrug from Jessica. “Without knowing who was on those planes, it’s impossible to conjure a motive. Maybe even knowing that won’t provide any answers.”

“Missiles,” Smith said more to himself than to her as he pulled up in front of the apartment complex. “Shades of TWA 800 and the missile theorists.”

“With a big difference, Mac,” said Jessica. “In the TWA case, most missile theorists speculated it was an accident, remember? A Navy exercise gone awry. If
three
missiles were used, that’s no accident.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Annabel and I are planning a dinner party a few weeks from now. Annie will call. Hope you’re free.”

“Depends how this crisis plays out, but I’d love to come.”

As she was about to get out of the car, a twin-engine commuter plane taking off from Reagan National Airport flew low over them and disappeared from view behind a building.

“I wonder what the passengers on that plane are thinking,” Smith said.

“Hopefully, more pleasant thoughts than I’m having,” she said. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Can I go home now?”

Al Lester sat at a folding table in an empty hangar at Westchester County airport. Dozens of law enforcement, NTSB, and medical personnel milled about. The retired fisherman sighed. Bell Atlantic telephone technicians had installed an emergency bank of phones on another table in a corner of the cavernous building. Across from Lester sat Peter Mullin, NTSB’s lead investigator, and FBI Special Agent Frank Lazzara.

“Of course you can go, Mr. Lester,” Lazzara said. “You were free to go any time you wanted to.”

“I sure didn’t feel that way.”

“Sorry if we misled you, but you should know that the information you’ve given us has been valuable,” said Mullin. “We do have one request, however.”

“Not to talk to anybody,” Lester said.

“That’s right,” Lazzara said. “The press are all over the airport, Mr. Lester, and you know what they’re like. They’ll take anything you say and twist it, blow it up to suit their own purposes. If it was a missile you saw—”

“That’s what I saw,” said Lester. “No doubt about it.”

“And we don’t doubt you,” Mullin said. “But it’s important that we not get people panicked until we have all the facts, until we really know why the plane crashed.”

Lester stood and stretched; his back ached, so did his knee. “I’ve been hearing what’s going on around here,” he said. “This wasn’t the only plane that went down, right?”

Neither Mullin nor Lazzara responded.

“You don’t have to worry about me and the reporters,” Lester said. “I don’t have any use for them. Buncha lyin’ buzzards.”

Lazzara laughed, stood, and put his arm around Lester’s shoulder. “That’s right, Mr. Lester. A bunch of lying buzzards. Keep that in mind when they start asking you questions. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

“No need. Nancy’s somewhere out there waiting for me.”

“Well, I’ll walk you out and help you find her,” Lazzara said, his hand still slung over Lester’s shoulder, as if he were a buddy. “Thanks for all your cooperation. Hope you have better luck fishing tomorrow.”

Nancy Lester stood by their car a hundred feet from the hangar, behind a barrier of stanchions and orange ropes that had been established to keep bystanders away from the command center. When she saw her husband approaching, accompanied by another man, she came to the rope and waved. A uniformed patrolman stepped in front of her.

“It’s okay,” Lazzara said, flashing his Bureau badge at the cop, who lifted the rope for them to duck under.

Nancy Lester hugged her husband. “Are you all right, Al? What’s happened? Why are you—?”

“I’m fine, Nancy. Oh, this is Agent Lazzara from the FBI.”

“FBI? What have you done?”

“I didn’t do anything, Nancy. I had to give them a statement, tell them what happened to that plane this morning. I think I probably solved everything for them.”

Lazzara smiled. “Your husband’s been very helpful, Mrs. Lester. Well, you two get on home and enjoy some dinner. Nice meeting you, ma’am. Good night, Al. Pleasure meeting you.”

Lazzara watched them walk hip-to-hip to the car, Al Lester’s arm about his wife. The agent smiled. Nice guy, nice couple. They reminded him of his own mother and father.

His pleasant reverie was short-lived. He returned to the hangar, where things distinctly not as pleasant were taking place, including the arrival of the dismembered bodies of the passengers and crew of the Dash 8.