The what-ifs were back, pounding at Pontowski, demanding their price. Slowly, he shook his head, still trying to quiet his demon of responsibility. “Johar Adwan was a good pilot. I flew against him in combat and was damn lucky to have survived.” He read the disbelief on the inspector’s face. “He never lost situational awareness yesterday.”
“How can you be sure of that?” the inspector asked.
“Because there was no fire. I looked inside the wreckage when I retrieved the videotape from his HUD. Johar had turned off the ignition and the fuel selector valve before impacting the ground. He knew he was going to crash and never gave up.”
The inspector closed his notebook and gathered up the tapes. “Well, we have a lot of work to do.” He paused. “General Pontowski, I’m going to have to ask you for your logbook.”
Pontowski shook his head. “I’ll send you a certified copy.”
“Please, don’t play games with me.”
The two men looked at each other, neither wanting to get into an argument. But they were staking out the boundaries of the investigation. Pontowski almost said the FAA was not the Gestapo but was saved when the door opened and a man and a woman carrying briefcases marched in. Both were dressed in dark business suits. The man snapped out a business card and handed it to Bender because he looked like he was in charge. “Jonathan Slater from Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.” The woman sat down and clicked open her slim briefcase. Bender read the card, frowned, and handed it to the FAA inspector. Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube was a high-powered law firm with offices in every major city in the United States. Just to get them to answer the telephone required a yearly retainer fee of $50,000. “We represent Mr. Beason’s family,” Slater announced as if he spoke for an ecclesiastical power.
The woman handed the FAA inspector a subpoena. “We’re filing a wrongful-death action against all parties for the death of Samuel Beason, and subpoenaing all relevant documents.” She reached for the tapes.
The FAA inspector slapped her hand. “Don’t get grabby,” he told her. He unfolded the subpoena and started to read.
A cell phone buzzed and all five reached for their phones. It was for Bender. He flipped it open. “Bender here.” Even in that simple greeting, there was authority. He listened to the summons from the White House. No emotion crossed his face. He broke the connection and waited for the inspector to finish reading the subpoena.
“You had better get a federal judge involved,” the inspector told the lawyers.
“This is a court order,” the man said. “Are you defying it?”
The inspector shook his head in disgust at the legal gimmicks lawyers would try, even very high-priced ones when they were out of ideas. “Wrong court.” A little smile crossed his face. “We’ll provide you copies at the proper time.”
The two lawyers exchanged glances. “We’re sorry you’ve chosen not to cooperate,” the woman said. The smile never left the inspector’s face as the two lawyers retreated, slamming the door behind them.
“Eat shit,” the inspector muttered. “They want to bury the tapes.”
Pontowski decided he liked the man. “You’ll have my logbook as soon as I can find a Xerox and make a copy for myself.”
“Thank you.”
“I have to get back to Washington ASAP,” Bender told the two men. “There’s a plane waiting for me at Sky Harbor.” Sky Harbor was Phoenix’s international airport twenty-six miles away. But to get there through traffic and into the terminal could take more than an hour.
“I can fly you there in the Mentor,” Pontowski offered. It was quickly arranged.
“I hope you’re coming back,” the inspector said.
“Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?” Pontowski asked.
“Well, we’ve still got three Marchettis that are good to go and since Fine, Schlossmaker, and Trouble want to gather evidence, maybe we can model the accident for them.” Pontowski didn’t reply, but the idea of reflying the accident appealed to him. “Perhaps,” the inspector continued, his face solemn but his eyes giving him away, “we could take those two legal beagles along.” He paused. “Since they’re gathering evidence, of course.”
“Most assuredly,” Bender allowed.
“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Pontowski replied.
Dennis escorted the four local politicians from Maddy Turner’s hometown in California into the Oval Office and checked his watch. It was late afternoon and they were thirty-five minutes ahead of schedule. He beat a hasty retreat to ensure that the photographers were ready to record the meeting. Then he made a panic phone call to Maura O’Keith. They had a problem.
Photographers loved Turner. She was naturally photogenic and captured the camera. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for one of her guests. One woman, who happened to be the mayor and one of Turner’s most avid supporters, had a sense of fashion caught somewhere between bag lady and troll. Dennis shuddered at the thought of a photo of the two together. Such pictures had a life of their own and always came back to haunt the White House. Five minutes later, Maura was in the secretary’s office as Dennis explained the problem. The intercom buzzed. They were ready for the photographers and Dennis wished that Turner was a little less efficient in shortening her schedule.
Maura spoke to a secretary, appropriated her scarf, and followed the photographers into the Oval Office, tying the scarf around her shoulders. She made a pretense of examining her daughter’s hair, pronounced it fit for photographing, and generally acted like a mother, which thoroughly charmed the visitors. Then she did the same for them. She lingered over the mayor and smiled. “I know just the thing. It’s the light in here, you know.” She produced a hairbrush from her ever-present handbag, brushed the woman’s hair back on one side and curled it down and around the other cheek. She stepped back, surveyed her handiwork, and then draped the secretary’s scarf around the woman’s shoulders and tied it with a loose knot. The improvement was dramatic and the photographers went to work. Maura spoke to the woman when Dennis ushered them out. “The scarf looks so much better on you. Why don’t you keep it as a souvenir of your visit?” The woman beamed at Maura.
As usual, Parrish stayed behind. The day was over and they went over the next day’s schedule. “That’s about it, Madame President. Nothing’s brewing, so you should have a quiet evening.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Did Stephan send over a list of names to replace Rudenkowski?”
Parrish nodded and extracted the list from his folder. “And this,” he said, handing her a private memo.
Turner looked through the list and the brief biographies before reading the memo. “So Stephan is certain that replacing Rudenkowski will have adverse fallout.”
“Well,” Parrish said, “he has made major campaign contributions to Senator Leland and does have influence. Rudenkowski probably figures he paid for the ambassadorship and deserves to keep it.”
“Richard, my instincts tell me Poland is going to be a problem. Exactly how, I’m not sure. I want a professional over there as head of mission. But if I read Stephan’s memo correctly, Rudenkowski will cause problems if I request his resignation.”
“Big problems, Madame President.”
She stared at the painting over the fireplace, considering her options. “Check and see if there’s something else we can offer him.” She thought for a moment. “And have the FBI and treasury take another look into his background. Poke around a bit but keep State out of the loop for now. I want to be sure there is nothing that could prove embarrassing if it became public knowledge.” Parrish understood perfectly. It was the old carrot-and-stick approach. “Like Patrick used to say,” she said, thinking of Patrick Flannery Shaw, her former chief of staff, “kiss them on the cheek before you kick ’em in the Charlies.”