Final Approach (55 page)

“We're not,” she said, pointing to a large tote bag. “Dinner is already here, sir. But first, a little music.” Cindy reached down and produced a small tape recorder, which she snapped on, the sweet sounds of a string quartet playing Bach's Double Concerto in D filling the room. “Next, le tablecloth.” Out came a checkered red-and-white plastic tarp, which she draped over the small table by the window. “And, the menu includes hamburgers à la golden arches, pomme frittes from the same source, a naïve little white wine with great pretension and a screw-top cap, and enough cheese to feed an army of rats—but why discuss the House of Representatives tonight.” They were both laughing as Kell tried to pull her out of the chair with carnal intent.

“No, no, no. Not yet!” she said in mock alarm, her index finger in his face.

“Why not?”

“Your suit. Your suit is wrinkled.”

“So?”

“We should hang it up. Out of your suit, please.”

“Okay …” He began taking off his suit coat. “But what should I get into?”

Cindy smiled as she undid the top button of her blouse and slowly rose from the chair, moving to him and touching the tip of his nose very lightly with her finger. “Did the honorable gentleman from Kansas ask what he should get into?”

Kell looked amused but puzzled. “Yes.”

“Me.” Cindy began undoing his tie. “Dinner can wait. I can't.”

An hour north of New York City in the dead of the night, Kell awoke alone and startled for a second, rolling over to see Cindy standing at the window in the darkness, watching the lights go by, the evocative sound of railroad crossing bells approaching, dropping in pitch as the train shot past, the volume dying rapidly in the distance behind them, the sound of heavy steel wheels clickity-clacking occasionally over unwelded rail sections beneath the car. What a beauty she was, he thought, the changing lights and flickering shadows playing off her breasts, the lightness of her tawny hair cascading over tan shoulders, the deeply provocative shape of her stomach and buttocks the essence of femininity. How lucky to be with her, to have her love and her trust.

Cindy's plan worked, as usual. In wartime, he had told her, the Army would need her as a logistics expert. They were in the cabin surrounded by snow by 2
P.M.
, and on the slopes by 3, having a ball, Cindy leading him on merry chases through the snow on rented skis. In the interest of anonymity, Kell kept a pair of dark glasses in place into the evening as they mingled with the après-ski crowd in the restaurant, but no one seemed to notice who he was, or even care. They watched a movie at the lodge, a well-acted love story with Matthew Broderick and Jodie Foster set on a space station in near-Earth orbit, and ended the evening in front of a roaring fire back in the cabin, wearing little but contented expressions, debating the finer points of what lovemaking would be like in a weightless environment.

The phone woke them at 9:30
A.M.
on the twenty-third, the sun shining through the front windows, the day full of promise. Kell was surprised to hear Fred's voice, and more surprised when Fred explained he was patching through a call from the White House assistant chief of staff.

“What is it?” Cindy rubbed her eyes and snuggled up to his back as Kell propped himself on his left elbow and tried to sound professional.

“Shhhh!” He said it softly over his shoulder, holding the mouthpiece, waiting for a voice on the other end.

“Senator Martinson? You there?”

“Yes. How are you?”

“Fine Senator. I'm sure sorry to bother you, but the President asked me to chase you down. King Hussein is flying in on short notice to discuss his initiative for Beirut. Since we know you two are friends and fellow pilots, the President was hoping you could come help us out.”

“Entertain him, you mean?”

“Not entirely. There are some substantive things we'd like you to help us present. Anyway, could you make it?”

“Yes,” Kell said without hesitation. “Just tomorrow?”

“That's right, Senator. You could get back on a plane by two.”

“What time do you want me there?”

Kell felt Cindy's warmth diminish as she moved away slightly, her hand leaving his chest, her arm retracting.

“Call me through the White House switchboard when you get in this afternoon,” the voice said, “and I'll have the final itinerary. The king's coming into Andrews, and we'll shepherd you out there for the arrival.”

“Fine. See you then.” Kell hung up the phone and rolled over, his eyes spotting the obvious disappointment on Cindy's face.

“Presidential request, honey. I'm sorry. Hussein is coming to town, and it's a privilege to be asked. I should not refuse.”

“You didn't, in any event,” she said, smiling rather weakly.

“I'll be back tomorrow night, and then nothing will get in the way till we come back on the second.”

She said nothing for a few seconds, kissing him lightly then and slipping out of bed and into the satin robe he had given her. Her words were spoken to the far wall, her voice very quiet. “I'll make us some coffee. We'll need to get you moving.” Kell watched her glide into the kitchen in the chill of the morning air, worried that she was truly upset by something politically unavoidable. But she would understand. She always did. After all, she was a pro at this business.

She kissed him good-bye at noon before opening the door, a hurry-and-get-yourself-back-to-me send-off which kept him smiling all the way down to the interstate and over to Burlington. While Kell stepped on a Boeing 737 bound for Washington National, Cindy tried to lose herself in a book back at the cabin, deciding then to pull out the box of tinsel she had brought and decorate a tiny Christmas tree. At least they would have Christmas Eve, she thought. He was a senator. She wanted him to be successful and powerful and summoned occasionally by the President of the United States for state functions. So if she wanted all that, she asked herself, why was she crying?

The snowstorm began in Washington at 2
P.M.
on the twenty-fourth, as King Hussein and Kell were leaving the White House for Andrews. They had become acquainted several years back at a state dinner when the king discovered that the senator was a fellow pilot. They had spent most of that evening telling each other pilot “war stories” while the diplomats fumed in the distance, and a friendship developed. Whenever Hussein came to town, Kell was called, usually by the king himself from Amman, Jordan. This trip had been too sudden for the normal call, and Kell had been unavailable—until the White House got involved.

The flurries had increased to a steady snowfall by the time the motorcade arrived at the Air Force base, and the king, a qualified Boeing pilot with a personal Lockheed Tristar 1011 and a type rating to command it, directed that his airplane be deiced. That complete, he and his American-born wife, Queen Nor, the daughter of a former FAA administrator, waved goodbye and lifted off the tarmac at 3:15
P.M.
A White House limousine took Kell directly to Washington National, fighting its way through heavier and heavier snowfall, arriving at 4:20 for a 4:30 flight. Kell had called ahead from the car and was told not to worry, the flight would be delayed at least thirty minutes. By the time he reached the gate, it had been canceled. At 6
P.M.
, unable to keep up with the accumulation, the airport manager closed the airport, Dulles following close on its heels.

“Cindy?”

“Kell. Where are you?”

A pause, and too long at that. She knew by the slight echo he wasn't close. “Honey, we're snowed in here at National. Everything's cancelled. I tried to get an Air Force bird, and I'm still working on that, but even Andrews is having trouble. I'll take the first thing I can get northbound. Are you doing okay up there?”

“Yes. Just missing you terribly. How did things go with Hussein?”

“Very well.” Kell filled her in on the day, and when her interest seemed to flag, changed the subject back to the obvious. “I'm going to stay out here for awhile, just in case.”

“No. Go back to your apartment, Kell. Try in the morning.”

“Well, I may at that. I'm so sorry, Cindy. Let's just pretend Christmas isn't for another day and a half. It'll be okay.”

He replaced the receiver with a hollow feeling, more for her than himself. She could have been with her mother and father in St. Joseph. They were getting on in years, and it was a sacrifice for her to be with him. But when duty calls …

When it was obvious nothing with wings was going to fly northbound until Christmas Day at the earliest, Kell checked into a hotel in Crystal City adjacent to the airport. Somehow it didn't seem right to go home. He phoned to give Cindy the number, then dove into a fitful, lonely sleep. It certainly didn't seem like Christmas. In the morning he phoned her as soon as he had rebooked his flight and the airport began the process of reopening. “I'll be there, if all goes well, by seven tonight.”

“No, Kell. I've had some time to think. I want you to stay there. I'm coming back.”

“What? Cindy, no! We've still got a week together. We …”

“Don't leave, Kell. You'll just pass me in the air. I'll call you back with my inbound flight time. I've already arranged transportation.”

“Cindy …” But the line was dead. He tried again but she wouldn't answer, and when he at last found someone at the lodge to physically go check the cabin, she had left.

The maroon-and-metallic 737 was the very same one that had brought him back two days before. He recognized the tail number as it nosed into the gate at National. Cindy was all business, of course, when she came up the jetway. It was home territory, and they could be easily recognized. But the need to be circumspect was tearing him up.

“Why? That's all I want to know. Why?” he said, anguish in his voice.

She motioned him out to the concourse and in silence they walked toward the main part of the old terminal before she turned to him suddenly. “My flight to Kansas City is on TWA, Kell, in thirty minutes. Let's go down to their club room.” She turned, leaving him stunned and rushing to catch up. “You're going home?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Has something happened with your parents?”

“No.”

“No? Then,
why
Cindy? Answer me!” He tried to stop her, to whirl her around, but she pulled away and kept walking resolutely to the southern section of the terminal and through the doors of the club room to a private upstairs alcove where she sat down facing him, waving him to an opposite chair.

“Kell, I tried to rationalize it. It was a political plus for you to be called back here. You needed to come. That was good.”

“Then why …?”

She looked at him sadly, tears betraying her attempt at control. “There I was, holding on to you, so close I could almost hear your thoughts. And you didn't even ask.”

“Ask what?”

“You didn't even ask whether you should go. You just accepted.”

“Cindy!”

“No, Kell. Remember when I said I needed to be sure who came first when the chips were down? If you can't even ask me, then Lady Politics owns your soul.”

“I
had
to go.”

“All you had to do was touch my face and ask if I minded. That's all. Nothing more.”

He sat back, defeated, and looked at her, feeling her slip away. “I'm sorry, Cindy. I didn't think.”

“I know.”

“You're going back to St. Jo for awhile?” The look in return chilled him. “How long?”

She was too slow to answer, and his stomach was already churning when she finally spoke.

“I don't know, Kell. You'll have to put me on leave, or fire me. I don't know when or even if I'm coming back. Fred can pick up for me. I'll communicate with him on where everything is.”

She saw the pain in his face, but knew it had to be part of the process. “I need you, Cindy.”

“And I truly need you, Kell. That is exactly the problem.”

It hurt to see him hang his head in such gloom. “Kell, I'm not saying it's over. But I'm less sure now than before. I know if I'm going to live with you, love you, be your wife, I have to take a backseat. That's hard for me. I don't know if I can accept it.”

“God, Cindy, this is like a replay of the breakup of my marriage, for Christ's sake.”

“Well, perhaps you understand why
she
couldn't adapt. Is it so hard to see why?”

“It's hard to even think about losing you. My God! It's Christmas. It's impossible to think about not being with you.” He looked up suddenly, “What am I going to do at the office? Sneadman's a good aide, but he's not ready for prime time. How about that hearing? The NTSB bill? We did that together, how can I do that alone?”

“You may have to.”

“Cindy …”

She looked at her watch and got up. “I've got to go … or I won't.”

“Then don't. Please. I'm begging you not to leave.”

She started to reply, then shook her head, took his hand, and began guiding him to the stairway and the door. They walked in silence to the gate, Kell struggling against feelings of emptiness and panic as she handed the ticket to the gate agent and took the boarding pass.

They walked to the window next to the door before she turned to him. “Give me a week or so.”

“This was to be our week, Cindy.”

“As were the last two nights, my love.”

Her choice of words gave him a glimmer of hope, and he held her hands in his. “I love you, Cynthia Elizabeth Collins.”

“And I, you, Kell. Give me some time. It is I who has to adjust now, or not at all.”

And she was gone.

24

Thursday, December 27

Joe Wallingford had just turned his desk calendar to the current day when Beverly Bronson charged into his office and slammed the door behind her, eyes flaring and mouth set. “So, Mister Wallingford. You only dropped by Senator Martinson's office for a social visit with Cynthia Collins, huh? Like hell you did!” Beverly slammed a copy of Senate Bill 323 on his desk—the NTSB bill—along with a copy of the subcommittee's letter inviting Chairman Dean Farris to testify on January 8. “You had a hand in this, didn't you, Joe?”