Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I think we have to look at that possibility.”

“Find out the truth,” she said. “I have to know.”

“My word on it,” he promised.

He drove Kathy home to Georgetown after dinner. She asked him to come in. He declined. He knew where that could lead, and somehow it didn’t feel right so soon after her brother’s death.

But as they stood in the doorway and kissed deeply, the kiss of two people rediscovering something each had thought lost, Pace almost changed his mind.

The last twenty-four hours left Pace spent, physically and emotionally, by a crazy-quilt pattern of highs and lows. The professional side was low. He hadn’t been beaten this day, but he hadn’t scored any major victories, either. Both Justin Smith at the Times and Russell Ethrich at the Post had the angle that the FAA was considering grounding the Sexton 811 fleet as a precautionary measure. The personal side was high. He would rather have dwelt on that, on Kathy, but business intruded.

He had to follow up the Virginia accident. Although he’d dismissed the idea of a conspiracy yesterday when he talked to Mike, he hadn’t been able to let it go. Mike had him pegged right: He would stay with it until all the mysterious questions had answers.

He stopped by his mailbox and found two pink telephone-message slips, one from Sally Incaveria, the other from Clay Helm. Maybe, finally, there was an end to the car-accident investigation. He returned Helm’s call first.

The captain was in but he was on another line. Pace left word.

Then he called Sally at the paper’s office in McLean, Virginia. She was waiting to hear from him. “Have you talked to Clay?” she asked immediately.

“Yeah, but he was on the phone when I called back. Did he turn up something?”

“The ID of the driver. I wrote the name down, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Who was it?”

“Mark Antravanian. I don’t know anything about him. I didn’t try to find out where he lived because I didn’t want to call his family.”

“I know. Those calls are tough.”

“I keep thinking maybe they don’t know yet. I’d hate to be the one to break the news. Does the name mean anything to you?”

It was vaguely familiar, but Pace couldn’t place it. “Spell it,” he said.

“A-n-t-r-a-v-a-n-i-a-n.”

“Mark?”

“Right, with a ‘K.’”

“Damn, I’ve heard it before. Did Helm tell you anything else?”

“A couple of things, but I think you should—”

Pace’s phone beeped.

“—hear it from him.”

“Sally, I’ve got another call. Maybe it’s Clay. I’ll give you a call-back later.”

“Right.”

“And thanks.”

It was Helm. “You talk to Sally this morning?” the police officer asked.

“Just now. She gave me the name. Said there was more I should hear from you.”

“I asked her not to give you the details until I had a chance to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“This is your story. I’m not going to ask you to give way to the police and not pursue it. But I think we should work it together. The car that burned was a rental. The driver was a man named Mark Antravanian. He was a specialist on turbine-engine performance from McDonnell Douglas. He was a member of the team investigating the Sexton crash.”

Pace started to say something, but his throat closed. Every nerve in his body was trilling. His mouth went dry, and his heart raced. He tried to get saliva across his tongue, but he couldn’t generate any. He squeezed the telephone receiver in a death grip.

“Pace?”

“Yeah.” His voice was barely audible.

“This could be bigger than you ever imagined.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to talk to someone.”

“Don’t do anything on your own.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“Wait. There’s something else.”

“What?”

“I checked around. This guy was never reported missing. If I was on that team and one of my people suddenly disappeared, I’d say something to someone.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. But if I were you, I’d ask the question.”

“You mean all this time and his family didn’t call anybody?”

“He didn’t have a family that we can find. But he had co-workers. Nobody called.”

“That poor bastard.”

“I want you to do two things for me, and you can consider this a formal police order. First, don’t go anywhere to see anybody without telling someone where and how long you’ll be. And if you attack anything head-on, don’t go alone. Clear?”

“I’ll try. Things happen fast sometimes. You can’t always make those arrangements.”

“Yeah, well, you try. Real hard. ’Cause if you fail, I’m going to be waiting for you when you get back, if you get back, and I’m gonna kick your butt.”

Leaving the receiver between his head and his left shoulder, Pace thumbed the telephone peg clearing his line, then dialed the number at Hangar Three.

“Is Mike McGill around?”

“Yeah, but he’s in a meeting.”

“With who?”

“Who’s calling?”

“That’s not important. But it’s urgent I speak to Captain McGill.”

“They don’t want to be disturbed. I won’t even ask unless you tell me who you are.”

“Could I leave a message?”

“Sure.”

“Remind Captain McGill that he was out late with somebody a few nights ago and ask him to call that person as soon as he can.”

“What is this, some kind of riddle?”

“No, it’s important.”

“I’ll see he gets it.”

“Thanks.”

He called Glenn Brennan at the Pentagon.

“Howdy-doody,” the Irishman said. “What’s up?”

Pace told him about Mark Antravanian.

“Holy shit!” Brennan exploded when Pace finished. “That changes everything.”

“Now we’ve got the mysterious phone calls to Mike, the meeting he set up, the guy who didn’t show—”

“I know the scenario,” Brennan interrupted. “What does that state cop think?”

“He thinks there’s something to it. He’s treating it as a homicide.” Pace didn’t tell his friend of Clay Helm’s warning. He considered it a cop’s overreaction.

“Damn you, anyway!” Brennan groused. “Why do you get onto these things on a day I’m stuck over here in the fudge factory?”

Pace laughed. “I’ll keep you posted,” he promised. “And if I need help, I’ll ask for you. Meanwhile, you should consider yourself fortunate.”

“Why?”

“You’re only playing war games over there. I’m about to beard Paul Wister, and that’s a lot more dangerous.”

Avery Schaeffer was saying good-bye to a visitor to his office, and Pace waited at a discreet distance until the two men parted and the editor returned to his desk. Then he knocked softly on the doorjamb. Schaeffer looked up and smiled.

“Yes, Steve?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, but something’s come up you and Paul need to know about.”

“Did you talk to Paul?”

Pace was surprised. Business at the Chronicle was never confined to channels.

“Well, no,” he replied. “I was hoping to tell you both at the same time.”

“Okay. Ask Paul to come in.”

“You got another hot tip?” Wister asked. He was smiling, but the words had an edge.

“Yes,” Pace replied tightly.

“Got any facts to back them up this time?”

Pace held his tongue and allowed Wister to lead him back into Schaeffer’s office.

“You want the door closed, Steve?” Schaeffer’s question was a surprise. His office door almost never was closed.