Джозеф Хеллер - Maximum Impact

His hands shook, and several times, trying to bring the trembling under control, he grabbed the edge of his desk and squeezed until they cramped. When he finished writing, he read over the words he’d fed to the computer but barely remembered:

“Two key members of the National Transportation Safety Board team investigating last week’s fatal crash of a Sexton 811 at Dulles International Airport have themselves been killed violently in the last four days, although police say at this time there is no reason to suspect a link between the deaths.

“Mark Antravanian, 48, an engineer studying whether the Sexton’s Converse engines played any role in the crash, died in a one-car accident in Fairfax County in the early hours of Sunday morning.

“Michael McGill, 52, the chief pilot for TransAmerican Airlines and chief of the systems group within the NTSB’s Sexton team, was shot to death Tuesday evening in a Pennsylvania Avenue drugstore, where he apparently walked in on an attempted robbery.

Police in Virginia and the District of Columbia…”

Pace broke off reading and closed his eyes. It was like a book-length nightmare, with a new death in each new chapter.

“Steve, drop the story in my basket,” Wister called urgently. “We’ve got to move.”

Pace nodded and keyed the story off his screen and into electronic storage, where the national editor could pick it up.

He considered calling Kathy but thought better of tormenting her with the story tonight. She didn’t need that on top of her own grief.

“Do you want me to take you home?” Schaeffer asked. He’d come up behind Pace.

“No, thanks, Avery. I’ve got my car.”

“You’ll be all right?”

“I’m not all right, but I can make it home.”

“You did a good job tonight. I know how hard it was for you. I’m sorry about Mike, Steve. I am. I liked him a great deal myself. If you need to, you can take tomorrow off. Let us know where to reach you in case something breaks.”

Pace was shaking his head. “I don’t want the day off. I don’t want to sit around thinking about this. I need to move ahead, finish what we started together.”

“Do what you think best,” Schaeffer said. “But don’t think of yourself as being alone. I’m right here with you, and Paul’s behind us. I don’t know if your suspicions are correct, but we’re going to find out.”

Late that night, Pace sat in his living room. It was darkened, except for one light that let him see when his drink was getting low. He consumed a third of a fifth of Black Jack and remembered Mike McGill. He’d been trying to get drunk, without success, he thought. He was considering giving up and going to bed when a random image jolted him from his chair. Of course! It had to be!

He’d assumed Mike was killed in the aftermath of his confrontation with Vernon Lund over Mark Antravanian’s death. But Lund wouldn’t have known where to find McGill. Only one person knew that. Only one person knew that to find Pace was to find McGill.

“Goddamn you, you sonofabitch,” Pace whispered.

You almost had me believing in you. We probably weren’t out of the building before you were on the phone issuing a contract on Mike’s life. You bastard! Damn you to hell!

Pace picked up his sport coat and located his small address book in the deep pocket sewn into the lining. Through booze-glazed eyes, he found what he was looking for, nodded as he confirmed the address he remembered, and tossed the little book on the coffee table. He strode out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Moments later he was back in his car, wheeling onto 22nd Street, west into Georgetown.

Pace was sufficiently drunk that he had to close one eye to keep a focused view of where he was going, but he drove slowly and deliberately to the elegant home on R Street where he had attended two receptions. He knew it would be fruitless to try to find a parking spot on the oversubscribed and narrow Georgetown street, so he double-parked, blocking two cars against the curb. Their owners wouldn’t be going anywhere at this hour. And what he was about to do wouldn’t take long. Who the fuck cared, anyway?

Pace leaped up the nine front steps and leaned on the doorbell. Nothing. He slapped the brass knocker against the door’s metal sounding cap. Still nothing. He was about to press the bell again when the lights went on inside the house and on the front porch, and the door opened. NTSB Chairman Ken Sachs stood there, blinking in the brightness of his vestibule. He was wrapped in a satiny-looking red and black robe, his hair was tousled, and a heavy beard shaded his face.

“What the hell…” he started, and then he recognized his visitor. “Steve? What the hell do you want at this hour? I’ve got a plane to catch at Andrews at 6.”

“I don’t care what the fuck you have to do,” Pace snarled. “I came to tell you your little assassination squad did a real good job tonight.”

“What do you mean? Have you been drinking?”

“Goddamned right. So would you if a good friend of yours was murdered, along with some innocent people who did nothing but be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What are you talking about?” Sachs demanded. He was fully awake now, his eyes blazing. “Who was murdered? Where?”

“It was real smooth, too, you bastard. Even the cops and my editors think it was a drug stickup. But you and I know better, don’t we? You couldn’t let someone with Mike’s credibility stay alive with his suspicions. So you—”

“Mike? Mike McGill? What—”

“—planned a little scene in the drugstore to make it look like he was killed in a bungled drug robbery. I wanted to let you know I don’t buy it. And I’m not going to let it lie, either. You got rid of one problem, but you’ve still got me.”

“Steve, I don’t know anything about this.” There was an edge of anger in Sachs’s voice. “I want you off my property right now. I’ll call the police if I have to. I won’t have you standing out here cursing me in the middle of the night and waking up the neighborhood.”

“I’m going,” the reporter sneered. “Have a nice trip to Illinois. Give my regards to Michigan Avenue.”

Pace turned from the door, intending to make a dramatic departure, but the alcohol in his system conspired against him. He lost his balance and slammed into the wrought-iron handrail, the only thing that kept him from pitching headfirst down the brick steps. He continued with as much dignity as his condition allowed. He heard Sachs close the door behind him, and the porch light went out, leaving him to find the way to his car in darkness.

Pace let himself into his apartment a few minutes later. He closed the door and sagged against it, feeling triumph in the certainty he had found the mastermind behind the ConPac conspiracy and the murders of Mark Antravanian and Mike McGill.

He spotted his glass on the kitchen counter next to the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and decided to have a small victory drink. He dropped in ice cubes to the rim and added enough sour mash to cover the ice. He raised the glass in a salute to himself and walked back into the living room.

What had Avery said? We’ll push and push until someone pushes back. Well, the shoving match had started, and it would gain momentum when the Chronicle hit the streets the next morning. Most people reading Pace’s story would find it mildly interesting and possibly a little disquieting. But those readers weren’t the audience Pace was after.

Ken Sachs and a small number of others would be able to read between the lines. They would know the two deaths had nothing to do with coincidence, but more importantly, they would know Steve Pace knew it, too.