Murder in Foggy Bottom (3 page)

Below, fisherman Al Lester’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of the Dash 8’s fully throttled engines. He looked up as the aircraft banked and passed directly above his canoe, its left wing dipping as though tossing a greeting. Lester mumbled something less welcoming in return. He continued to watch as the plane reached the far end of the lake and maintained its climb attitude over a vast, undeveloped wooded area to the south of the reservoir. He returned his attention to his fishing line, giving it a few jerks to prompt the lure into a seductive jiggling action. Then, he took a final look up at the Dash 8. What he saw stunned him, froze him, caused his hands to involuntarily shoot up to his face. The fishing rod flew out of the canoe, and his favorite fishing hat, with dozens of hooks and lures dangling from its crown, went into the water.

The sight had such a potent impact on him that he thought for a moment it might have been an apparition
—
hoped
it was—a special effect from one of those damnable action-packed movies or video games popular with young people. The plane’s silver, sleek profile split apart. A vivid orange ball erupted where the left wing joined the fuselage, and the faint sound of an explosion reached Lester’s ears a second later. The fisherman watched as the wing separated from the aircraft and began a slow, topsy-turvy descent to earth, followed by the rest of the plane, silently twisting and turning against the blue sky, the only sound the breeze on Rye Lake and the beating of Lester’s heart. He saw other things falling, too, smaller things— bodies came to mind; he closed his eyes and lowered his head.

When he opened his eyes, it was over except for a lingering wisp of black smoke dissipating into the atmosphere. There was a second when he thought it hadn’t happened, that he’d had a fleeting daydream or a mini-stroke. He immediately knew neither had been the case. He may have had a pacemaker installed two years ago, and his right knee might ache from arthritis, but Al Lester’s eyesight was good, remarkably good for his age; he’d been told that only last week by his optometrist.

No, what he’d witnessed was only too real. It had happened. One of the planes he so often cursed for their noise had exploded in midair and fallen to the ground, gone silent, along with whoever was on board.

It was the
other
thing he’d seen that was so unreal.

3

That Same Day
Pittsburgh

The cold front that had sent some advance clouds into Westchester County was already firmly established in the Pittsburgh area when Max Pauling arrived at a private airport west of the Steel City. Rain had come down in buckets earlier that morning, but things had improved by the time he’d filed an IFR—Instrument Flight Rules— flight plan with the crusty airport operator. Flying out of such a small airport could have been done under Visual Flight Rules, but Pauling was headed for Washington, where he’d have to negotiate that area’s sophisticated air traffic control system. Besides, he was proud to have earned his IFR license, and flew under instrument rules as often as possible to keep his skills sharp.

He left the flight operations center, as the shack with peeling yellow paint was known, and went to where he’d tied down his Cessna 182S two days earlier. He’d purchased the single-engine, fixed-gear plane a year ago from a Maryland flying club shortly after returning from a seven-year stint in Moscow. There he was ostensibly a member of the Trade and Commerce Division of the U.S. embassy, but in reality was on assignment for the Central Intelligence Agency. He’d been called back to Washington to join a special task force in the State Department’s Counterterrorism Division—Russian desk, a joint effort with the CIA. Officially, he was now an employee of State; unofficially, he reported to two masters, Army Colonel Walter Barton, State’s director for counterterrorism operations, and his boss and friend at the CIA, Tom Hoctor. It was, as far as Pauling was concerned, a clumsy, convoluted arrangement, but not at all unusual in the murky, often unfathomable, seemingly unintelligent world of intelligence, Washington style.

Pauling sat in the Cessna’s left-hand seat and checked that the magneto switches and mixture control were off and that the throttle was closed. After securing his overnight bag on the right seat with the seat belt, he got out and did a slow walk-around, visually inspecting the aircraft’s exterior for loose parts, dents in the prop, and for any signs of leaks on the ground. He manually manipulated the control surfaces on the wings and tail assembly to ensure they moved freely, then confirmed the fuel gauge readings with a dipstick and drained a small amount of fuel into a clear plastic tube to see if it was free of water and other contaminants. He undid the tie-downs, took another look at the brightening sky, and was about to get back into the plane when “Hey, Mr. Pauling!” stopped him.

A young man in greasy coveralls yanked off earphones attached to a Walkman as he approached. His name was Juan, and he worked for the airport’s owner and operator. Pauling knew him from having flown in and out of the airport dozens of times. Pauling often visited his two teenage sons, who lived in Pittsburgh with Doris.

“Juan, my man,” Pauling said. “What’s up?”

“You hear?”

“Hear what?”

“The accident. A plane went down this morning.”

“Commercial flight?”

“Yeah. In New York.”

“Kennedy? LaGuardia?”

“No, some small airport up in the boondocks. Westchester or somethin’ like that.”

“That’s hardly the boondocks, Juan. How bad?”

Juan shrugged. “They didn’t say. I was listening to music when the announcer came on with a news bulletin.”

“Sorry to hear it. Thanks for replacing that mag for me.”

“Hey, happy to do it, Mr. Pauling. See you next time. Safe flight.”

Juan watched Pauling climb up into the left-hand seat of the Cessna. Of all the private pilots who flew in and out of the small airport, Max Pauling was, as far as Juan was concerned, the most professional. Other pilots looked like what they were, average citizens enjoying the hobby of flying. Pauling had the look of a pro, a military pilot about to take off from a carrier deck, or a veteran commercial captain getting ready for a transatlantic flight in a jumbo jet. He dressed differently from average private pilots, who flew in and out of the airport wearing sports jackets, Bermuda shorts and T-shirts, or suits, even occasional tuxedos when they were coming in to attend fancy parties. Not Pauling. Although he was a civilian pilot in a small, single-engine aircraft, he always wore a green jumpsuit from his military days, and his favorite item of clothing, a tan Banana Republic photo-journalist vest with twenty-six pockets—“My answer to a woman’s purse,” he was fond of saying when asked about the vest. He approached his preflight check with precision and purpose. He even
looked
like a professional or military pilot: square face and close-cropped hair, lots of wrinkle lines from peering into the sun, obviously a sturdy guy, fit beneath the jumpsuit.

Pauling’s demeanor, too, impressed the impressionable Juan. He was easygoing and always courteous, something Juan couldn’t say about some of the demanding, unreasonable amateurs he met on the tie-down line.

Strapped in the left-hand seat, Pauling set the throttle at half power and leaned out the open window to shout “Clear!” to alert anyone in the vicinity that he was about to start the engine. He turned the key; the engine and prop cranked over easily. Pauling waved to Juan, who threw him a smart salute—good kid, Pauling thought— and squeezed the throttle forward just enough to break inertia and to begin his taxi to the end of the thousand-foot macadam strip, the airport’s only runway. He tuned his radio to the ground control frequency and announced into the handheld mike, “Cessna three-three-nine Alpha rolling.”

“Okay,” the airport owner rasped from the yellow shack.

Pauling held his toes on the brake pedals as he advanced the throttle all the way to the instrument panel, then released it. The Cessna jerked forward, gaining speed, until the natural lift created under the curved wings was sufficient for Pauling to pull back gently on the yoke.

Procedures at the airport called for a right turn as soon as it was safe to avoid flying over a housing development. He banked right, leaned out the fuel mixture once he’d reached his announced cruise altitude, set the throttle to 75 percent power, and settled back for the two-hour flight to Washington.

He flew most of the trip on autopilot, adjusting the Cessna’s heading and altitude when instructed to do so by ground controllers. This was prime time for Pauling, alone in his little plane, his pride and joy, above the stresses of daily life on the ground, at work, and in his personal life. It was what fishing was for some men. He did his best thinking when in the air, indulged in his most fertile and useful reflections.

This most recent visit with his ex-wife and sons had been like most visits since their separation and subsequent divorce four years ago—practiced civility by the adults, guarded behavior by the sons to avoid the appearance of taking sides. The only potential for a fissure in their adult politesse was when his older son, Rob, asked when he and his brother could go flying with Dad.

“Don’t even ask,” Doris said.

“Dad’s instrument rated,” Rob said. “He’s as good a pilot as any airline captain.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Max said.

“I don’t care how many licenses he has, he flies that silly little plane that a stiff breeze could blow over. You’re not going up with him.”

Years earlier, Max had taken offense at her stance, silently considering it an assault on his ability and, yes, his manhood. But he no longer argued.

“You live with Mom and you do what she says,” he told them, glancing at Doris for approval. “When you’re older and making your own decisions, there’ll be plenty of time to fly together, maybe even get you started on flying lessons of your own.”

Another glance at his wife brought a stern look in return. He smiled, and she resumed basting that night’s dinner, as if the ham were him.

He’d never blamed Doris for filing the divorce papers while he was in Moscow. Once he’d joined what they once called the Company—the CIA—he was barely home, certainly long enough to father two kids, but that hadn’t taken long. The marriage had quickly become one in name only, he off on secret ventures to exotic places, she running a house, paying the bills, and bringing up two energetic sons without him around to help. In a sense, it was a relief when he learned she was divorcing him. He didn’t contest it, nor did he attempt to make a case for custody. He wouldn’t have been any better a father than he’d been a husband. The boys needed a full-time father and a mother; whatever Doris’s feelings for him, her love of their sons was profound.

Later that night, he and Doris sat alone on the screened porch at the rear of her house. Max knew she enjoyed being with him, and he liked sitting with her. Romantic love was a thing in their distant past; there had never been any talk of giving it another try. But there was a comfort in spending time with someone you knew intimately, and with whom you’d shared a good hunk of your life. No need for posturing, no putting silly spins on things when the other person knew the truth.

“How’s Washington?” she asked.

“All right.”

“Must be blah after romantic Moscow.”

“
Romantic
Moscow? You’ve never seen the leftover Soviet Union.”

“I understand Russian women are very beautiful— and seductive.”

Where was this going? he silently wondered.

“They are beautiful, almost as beautiful as American women.”

“Does that include me?”

“I
meant
you.”

“Thank you.”

She looked away from him and placed the knuckle of her right index finger against her lips. Max knew what that meant; there was something she wanted to tell him but was debating whether to do it.

She looked at him again. “Max, I’ve met someone.”

“You have? Who?”

“Someone at work. A nice man.”

“An accountant?” She worked in a large accounting firm.

“Yes.”

“A solid citizen. Accountants are solid.”

“Dull, you mean?”

“I didn’t say it. I mean dependable.”

He saw her smile in moonlight filtering through the screen. “Look, Doris, if you’ve fallen in love with a nice guy, I’m happy for you. I really am. All I care is that he’s good to the kids if you end up marrying him. He’s what, divorced, widowed, never married?”

“Divorced. He has two daughters. They’re about the same age as Rob and Joe.”

“Sounds like it has all the makings of a fifties sitcom.”

“Which you never enjoyed.”

“On TV or in real life?”

“Both. The role of husband and father was beneath you.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Doris. I had other things on my mind.”

Her laugh was not sarcastic. “Other things. God, Max, you really do love what you do, don’t you?”

“Shouldn’t I? You’re supposed to love what you do.”

“Which is supposed to include being a husband and father.”

“I wasn’t bad—when I was around.”

“Max, even when you were around, as you put it, your mind was in some dark alley in Beirut, playing the bad guy, wondering whether the real bad guys would get on to you and put a bullet through your brain. I—”

“Are we about to get into an argument? There’s no need for that. We’re not married anymore. You knew what I did for a living when you married me.”

“No, I didn’t. That was against the rules. ‘Sorry, honey, but I’ll be away for six months, can’t tell you where or why, I’ll miss you, take good care of the kids—’ ”

“I don’t want an argument, Doris.”

“Nor do I. I married you, Max, because you were the most charming man I’d ever met, not that I’d met many charming men at age twenty-four, but you were smooth. Part of the job description, isn’t it?”

Max said nothing.

“I suppose I just want you to know yourself and not have any illusions about who Max Pauling is. And I understand, I really do. There are men who marry and father children and mean well, but who have a pull in some other direction that overrides changing diapers and helping with homework and attending school concerts and parent-teacher meetings.”

“I agree, Doris. You’re right. A PTA meeting can’t hold a candle to a cloak-and-dagger meeting in some Moscow alley with a half-crazed Russian mafioso. And as for school concerts, grade-school music teachers either have a special place in heaven or they end up serial killers. No, Doris, my adrenaline did not flow when the kids were squeaking on their clarinets. I’m glad you’ve met your accountant.”

“You’re being facetious.”

“No, I’m not. Being married to a solid citizen is—”

“Don’t jump ahead too far, Max. We’ve just been dating a few months.”

“Well, however it turns out, know I just want the best for you and the boys.”

“You always have, and I appreciate it. You? No Mrs. Max Pauling number two in the future?”

“No. I have my work and my plane and—”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Max. You aren’t saying that the handsome, rugged ex-Marine I married doesn’t have women falling all over him? I read there’s at least four women to every man in Washington.”

“Can’t prove it by me. Does your friend own a plane?”

“No, thank goodness.”

“Then we probably won’t have anything in common except that we fell in love with the same knockout woman. If I get in trouble with the IRS, will he help me?”

“Think I’ll get to bed. Good night, Max.” She came to where he sat, kissed him on the forehead, and left him alone to sit in the still darkness for another hour before going to the guest bedroom, where he stood in front of the mirror staring at the face peering back at him. From his perspective, he hadn’t changed much from his Marine days in ’Nam, although there were the dozen or so crevices lining his face that hadn’t been there, and the skin under his eyes sagged a little, and some silver had crept into his brown hair and—he hadn’t lost any hair; there was solace in that, and he kept fit through regular workouts, including weights. His Marine uniform still fit.

But time marched on, as it was said, and Pauling knew it. His sons were on the verge of becoming men; his wife, still attractive, was not the dazzling young gal he’d married, and seemed interested in settling down with a middle-aged accountant with two teen daughters. On top of that, he, Max Pauling, had been relegated to a desk job, put out to metaphorical pasture. What next?