LACKING VIRTUES (45 page)

Typical, thought Warner, trying to read the expression on Ed Willis’ face. The one time these guys got their act together and agreed to move in the same direction, it was the
wrong
direction. He had his work cut out for him getting them to abandon their present mind set.

“Don’t let me disturb you,” Warner said, knowing he would have to disturb them in some drastic fashion later. “Please go ahead, General Salinski. I apologize for the interruption.”

“No need to apologize, Frank. But it’s too bad you missed the President. He didn’t know much about military matters when he was first elected. You should have heard him today.”

Warner lowered his head. Things were worse than he realized. By excluding him from the meeting until now, Galloway had deprived him of the chance to influence the proceedings. Opinions that were perhaps still divided a few hours ago had now crystallized around the destruction of Iraq. If he was going to stop this dangerous juggernaut, he would have to do it soon.

Salinski thundered on about the country’s military options. Warner tuned him out but it didn’t help. He was unable to think clearly. The call he’d gotten from Sergeant King after lunch kept running through his head like a broken record.

It was all so mind-boggling, so incredible:  “Hey, Mr. Warner, looks like we’ve got something here. The guy at DiStefano Sand and Gravel, the guy named Chuckie Stafford, positively identified your photo. Even better, sir, the owner was back from vacation. He also identified the man in your picture. That’s the individual who paid them for the cement job at Stein’s Tool and Die – ”

Salinski wrapped up his presentation and asked for questions. Warner decided he should jump in as soon as the general sat down. But he still had no plan of attack, no idea how he was going to make the men in this room understand that the conspirators could only be nailed by learning more about Claussen and his recent contacts. And that was only part of what he had to get across. He had to make them see the horrible consequences of punishing the wrong party. The country would end up looking ridiculously inept, the guilty would walk and, worst of all, the United States might remain vulnerable to future attacks on its airliners.

That should be enough to deter them if they remained open to the truth.

Should be. But when the politicians were desperate to appease an irate public, when the military brass were searching for a way to become heroes again, the truth could be a low priority. Still, he had to try.

The drone of the meeting intensified around him like a growing swarm of bees. Arguments broke out during the questioning session. They were not arguments over whether to hit Iraq but how and when the attack should take place.

This was a war council working itself into a bellicose frenzy. Secretary of State Jerry Olsen, the man who had taken control of the last meeting, tried valiantly to interject a word of restraint. He was shouted down. Things were not looking good.

Galloway hit the table with his gavel. “All right, that will do. We’ve outlined the situation. We’ve heard the options. I’ll brief the President on what was said after he left. I know he’ll make the right decision. This meeting is adjourned.”

Warner sprang to his feet. “Just a minute, Galloway. You’re about to steer the country in the wrong direction. I have new and conclusive evidence that Iraq is not to blame.”

“Mr. Warner, didn’t you hear me? This meeting is adjourned!”

“Look, Galloway, if you want to bomb Iraq, go bomb Iraq. But don’t try to justify it with the present air safety crisis. There is no connection between the crashes and any Middle Eastern nation. I know who is responsible. While you were in here trying to influence the President, I was out gathering information. Does anyone in this room care to hear the truth?”

“Be quiet, Mr. Warner. We’ve had to suffer your incompetence long enough. The evidence is in and, believe me, it’s conclusive. I don’t know who you’re trying to protect with your eleventh hour histrionics, but this administration cannot and will not tolerate any more diddling. The public won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it. And the President won’t stand for it. Good day.”

“Mr. Hopkins!” Warner shouted at the White House aide who had been taking notes of the meeting. “Don’t stop! Write my remarks into the record. I was intentionally told the wrong time for this meeting by Mr. Galloway. He knew from Hal Larsen that there were holes in the existing evidence, and that I would challenge it. Iraq is not to blame. I know who is. I want the President to be informed that I know. Would you kindly get that on paper.”

“Don’t write a word, Hopkins,” Galloway seethed. “And delete anything you have written from the point I adjourned this meeting onward. What is said after adjournment does not constitute part of today’s session.”

Galloway put an arm around General Salinski’s shoulder and led him into the corridor to make sure Warner didn’t approach him. The others left too, avoiding Warner as if he had some dread disease.

Warner caught up with CIA Director Willis in an anteroom and blocked his exit. “All right, Ed, let me have a word with you.”

“Sure, Frank, but not here. I’ll be available around ten this evening.”

“You’re available right now. You’re not going anywhere until you’ve heard me out.”

Willis tried to keep walking. Warner glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then grabbed him by the arm and viciously jerked him down into a chair. “I need an agent in Paris tomorrow night. Your man, William Fairchild, has been notified of the situation. He or one of his people could fit the bill. He cites need for approval from the top. You’re the top, Ed. I want you to get on the wire and get your Paris contingent moving.”

Willis rubbed his elbow. “What the hell’s gotten into you, Frank? I spoke with William Fairchild this morning. I know about that crackpot journalist who came to see him. I hope she’s not the source of your information. Because if she is, Frank, all I can say is that this crisis has put you under more stress than any of us realized.”

Warner had to take a deep breath to calm himself. “Look, I have new evidence from Seattle which I’ll gladly share with you. What the journalist told your man in Paris is correct. Those who commissioned these atrocities are French, not Iraqi. They’re going to meet tomorrow night in a house outside Paris. I have access to a listening post. With proper nighttime equipment, we can also shoot photos.”

“I’m sorry, Frank, but I’ve heard the entire ludicrous  –  ”

“Just a minute. I haven’t finished. You’re going to hear it again. A large sum of money is to be paid to the ex-Soviet agent hired to bring down the planes. If you will work with me, we can record this transaction. We can solve a terrible crime and return our civil aviation industry to health.

“If I’m wrong, Ed, what’s the downside? There isn’t one. It will take time to organize a military action. The proponents of the Iraqi hypothesis will not be delayed. However, Ed, if you are wrong  –  ”

Willis stood abruptly. “All right. I get the point. Now tell me something, Frank. Are any of these Frenchmen whom you believe, for reasons I can’t fathom, to have commissioned these crashes, per chance in public life?”

“Yes. You know that from Fairchild.”

“Then what I have to say to you is this:  I cannot authorize the Agency to do what you’re asking. We do not have the authority to conduct such operations against friendly governments. However, if you believe this strongly you’re on to something, why don’t you go over there yourself? Put your own career on the line, not someone else’s. If you bring back hard evidence of the sort I can use, I guarantee you’ll have the Agency behind you.”

Warner reflected for a moment. They weren’t leaving him much choice. “Suppose I were to do just that. Would you be willing to furnish me with cameras and listening devices?”

“Frank, come to your senses. We already know who the culprit is. You’re not going to find anything over there. Most likely, you’re going to get caught. In that case, I must be in a position to shrug my shoulders and claim I had no idea you were in France. If you’re schlepping around a bunch of our equipment, that would be difficult to do, wouldn’t it?”

Warner almost took a swing at him. “Fuck you, Ed. If you’re representative of our intelligence community, it’s no wonder the Soviets had thirty undisturbed years to perfect Operation Litvyak. Get out of here before I lose my temper.”

Warner lingered for a few minutes, trying to remember if anything in the NTSB charter gave him the authority to exercise what had become his last option. Literally speaking, the answer was no. But in a broader sense, the answer was yes. This wasn’t the normal situation for which bureaucratic rules were written. Whatever the book said, his responsibility to the millions of men and women who boarded commercial aircraft every day was more important. A court of law or governmental disciplinary body might disagree. He didn’t care. He had to go.

***

Simmons paced nervously around the office, waiting for the promised call from his boss. He had accompanied Warner to the White House for the meeting. During the drive, Warner had brought him up to date on the contents of the call from Sophie Marx and the positive identification of Claussen’s photo by the cement people in Seattle.

What a relief! Trying to make sense of the puzzle created by these crashes had driven him crazy. Now it was clear they hadn’t been dealing with an ordinary succession of crashes but with the work of a brilliant sabotage operation. No wonder they had not been quick with answers. In fact, if it weren’t for some damned good luck in Seattle and the coincidental discovery by the woman in Paris, they still wouldn’t have a clue.

He only hoped they hadn’t come upon the solution to the puzzle too late. He hoped that Warner had been able to convince them this wasn’t just another false lead. There had been so many. He sat in his swivel chair, put his feet up on his desk and stretched. Yes, Frank Warner would somehow have managed to get the job done.

The telephone rang at last. “Tim, it’s me.”

“Chief! Did they see the light.”

“No. It was an unmitigated disaster. I’ll be on Air France, Flight 23 to Paris, departing Dulles at six forty. I want you to meet me there with my cool weather bag and the best listening and recording device you can come up with. See if Schultz is still in the lab. If so, have him issue you the camera with the infrared lens we acquired last spring. And Tim, get yourself a police escort. Tell them we have an emergency abroad. I want you at the airport in an hour.”

“It’s rush hour, chief. I  –  ”

“Just be there.”

Warner hung up and Simmons burst into action. He grabbed his assistant, Gwyn, who was on her way out, and marched her back into the office. “Get me a driver and a police escort to Dulles. This is an emergency. Emergency, Warner’s orders, don’t take any guff. I’ll be waiting down below in five minutes. I want them out front with motors running.”

He rushed to the lab, where Schultz was putting on his coat. “Emergency, Bob, get me the infrared camera.”

The old man moved like he had been hit with a cow prodder. Everyone in this building knew what emergency meant and how to respond to it. Never mind that he had taken certain liberties with the usual definition.

Listening device . . . listening device.  While he waited on the lab foreman to return with the camera, his eyes settled on a black box from one of the crashes. Perfect, he could disassemble the shell and take out the guts during the drive to the airport. Hook that CVR to an independent power supply and you’d have a recorder as good as any.

He started to scavenge. Tools, simple tools, a battery pack, something to carry the whole mess in.

By the time Schultz returned, he was ready. He swung back by the office to pick up Warner’s cold weather bag, then took the six floors of stairs down to ground level at a full sprint. No missed aerobics today.

He stepped into the murky evening rush hour just as his car and police escort pulled up.