Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Go ahead, then. What’ve you got?”

“Let me go right to the bottom line. The person killed in the car wreck on 193 Saturday night was Mark Antravanian. He was a turbine-engine specialist from McDonnell Douglas, and he was a member of the go-team’s power-plants group.”

Schaeffer and Wister exchanged looks, and the national editor blew a low whistle.

“Close the door,” Schaeffer ordered. Then he told Pace to start from the beginning.

“Well, when I got in this morning, I found a couple of messages—”

“No, I mean from the very beginning. I want to hear the whole story from the start.”

“Back to Saturday?”

“All of it, from wherever it started.”

And so Pace told it all again, finishing with his failed attempt to reach Mike McGill.

“Does the switchboard know you’re in here?”

“No.”

Schaeffer lifted the receiver and punched the 0. “This is Schaeffer. Does Steve Pace have any recent messages, like in the last thirty minutes? Fine. If he gets any calls now, transfer them to this extension. He’ll let you know when he’s back at his desk.”

He put the receiver down and turned back to Pace. “Is it remotely possible, from all you know of the NTSB, past investigations, the FAA—the whole schmear—that these investigators can be reached?”

“You mean bribed?” Pace asked.

“Bribed, intimidated, threatened, anything.”

“In my heart, I’d like to believe not.”

“What does your head tell you?”

“Everybody’s got his price.”

“ Could it be done?” Wister insisted. The straight arrow was finally interested.

“I don’t know. The airline-regulation apparatus is riddled with potential conflicts that wrongheaded people could use to good advantage.”

“Like what?” Wister asked.

“The FAA’s congressional mandate for one. It’s supposed to promote commercial aviation and regulate it, too. A lot of people wonder whether the agency can serve two masters, and a lot of people have concluded it can’t. For another, the FAA’s use of designated engineering reps.”

“Of what?” Schaeffer asked.

“Designated engineering representatives. DERs. They’re the people who oversee design, construction, and modification of airplanes. The FAA would have to hire a cast of thousands to do all that work itself, so it designates representatives from aerospace companies to do it instead. The DERs know the projects because they work on them.”

Schaeffer’s mouth was open. “You mean the FAA is relying on the judgment of individuals whose first loyalties are to the companies building the aircraft?”

“That’s the way it goes.” Pace confirmed. “And it works most of the time. As much of a conflict of interest as it is, the system doesn’t break down often.”

“What about the NTSB?” Wister asked. “Same thing?”

“No,” Pace said. “There’s been an accident or two when the NTSB blamed pilot error and I thought the evidence pointed to something else. But I never thought there were any dark motives involved. The NTSB’s biggest problems are short-staffing and overwork. You get out in the field, you find yourself working five accidents at once, having to consult your files all the time to make sure you don’t attribute findings to the wrong investigation. You see guys at your pay grade working for the FAA or the Defense Department making twenty percent more money for fifty percent less effort so you get out. The turnover’s very high.”

“That doesn’t answer the question: Is a cover-up is possible,” Wister reiterated.

“I don’t know, Paul,” Pace said. “I honestly don’t.”

“Who would know? Who could you ask that you would trust?”

“Mike might know, and if he didn’t, he’d know how to find out.”

“Go out to Dulles and find him,” Schaeffer ordered. “You’re off everything else. Find Mike McGill and get me a scenario. I have to know if we’re dealing with something plausible or a goose too wild to chase.”

“When I called earlier, he was in a meeting in Hangar Three,” Pace repeated. “I can’t get anywhere near that place. I’m willing to go, but I could miss his call if I leave the office.”

“Take my car,” Schaeffer said. “It’s got one of those cellular phones in it. I hate it. Only damn time it rings is when something’s gone wrong here or when Cornelia needs me to pick up a bunch of parsley for dinner. I’ll call the garage and tell them to bring it up. Leave word with the switchboard that if anybody calls you, they’re to be referred to the phone in the car.” He scribbled the number down on a piece of paper and started to hand it across the desk when his phone buzzed.

“Schaeffer… yes, he is.” He handed the phone across to Pace. “It’s your man.”

“Pace. Hey, Mike, our state police friend called and—”

“I know,” McGill interrupted. “The word got around here this morning.”

“You knew him?”

“Not well, but I’ve been involved with him off and on for a number of years. He was a good guy. Remember I told you there was something familiar about the voice, the slight accent? I don’t know why I didn’t recognize it. If he was our mysterious caller, and he was the one who believed there was a cover-up in progress, I think we have to take it seriously.”

“I’m with you. Where do we start?”

“I’ve already started. I just finished a profane exchange with Lund.”

“Over what?”

“Over the fact that an investigator disappeared and nobody reported him missing.”

“You braced Lund with that?”

“You bet I did.”

“What did he say?”

“He was defensive about it at first. But he said he’d take it up with Elliott Parkhall.”

“Did you just alert the chief suspects?”

“I don’t give a damn. Mark was too good a man to let his death pass without an explanation. Besides, if he was my caller, I owe him.”

“We need to talk.”

“Why don’t you meet me in two hours at the Marriott?”

“Can you get away?”

“Absolutely. This is now a legitimate part of my investigation.”

“I’ll be there. Meanwhile, keep a low profile.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Clay Helm thinks this could get dangerous.”

“I’m sure it could.”

Schaeffer, Wister, and Pace spent another forty-five minutes going over options for the Chronicle. If other papers tied Mark Antravanian to the Sexton crash, his role in the investigation would be the second paragraph in a six-paragraph story about a car wreck. They were confident they alone knew of the possibility Antravanian was on a special mission on the night of his death. There was no need to rush into anything. They could take all the time and care they needed.

But for what?

What were they getting into, getting the Chronicle into?

It was Wister who put their concerns into words.

“We have to find evidence that supports a cover-up theory,” he said. “We have to see the evidence and get expert analysis of it. But who do we trust? What’s left of the power-plants group is suspect. Vernon Lund is suspect. So we go higher. But how high? How far do we have to climb to get out of the conspiracy, assuming there is one?” He looked to Pace.

“I suspect it’s limited to people at Dulles,” the reporter said.

“I’ll tell you what we do: we start pushing,” said Schaeffer. “We ask questions. We press for answers. We play it like a boxer looking for an opening in the opponent. We jab and step back, jab and step back. We press and irritate, and sooner or later someone will take a wild punch and give us the opening we need.”