Sedgewick steepled his fingers and looked over them. “Why all the secrecy? Why not just ask Laos to do a search and rescue effort? I’m not sure I understand the need for subterfuge. The senator’s daughter went down in a private plane. I’d think that would be enough.”
All eyes swiveled to Cornett.
“The senator requested that we handle this subtly,” Cornett said. “There are fears that Christine’s absence could be used by hostile factions to exert leverage over him, or at least to capitalize on an unfortunate situation.”
“Assuming she’s alive,” Whitfield said.
“But the odds go down every day the plane’s not found,” Sedgewick fired back. At twenty-nine, having graduated at the top of his class at Harvard with a JD from Harvard Law, he was a rising star, and brilliant, if somewhat abrasive.
“I’ve balanced that against the other issues in play,” Whitfield said, “and frankly, the likelihood of her having survived a crash, given the terrain, the size of the plane, and all other known factors, is slim to none. After speaking to experts, I’ve resigned myself to that fact. But I want to be certain. It’s one thing to think you know, another to have confirmation.”
Sedgewick frowned slightly. “What other issues, sir?” he asked. “I can’t offer a valid opinion without all the facts.”
Whitfield eyed the two CIA men. “We’ve received some chatter from the Chinese end that implies that she fell in with the wrong crowd. She was dating a fellow over there who might, and I stress the word might, have been involved in… might have been up to no good.”
“I had no idea,” Sedgewick said, his voice low. “You mean something illegal? Smuggling? Drugs?”
“I don’t have all the information yet, but apparently he was an undesirable. That’s all we know.” Whitfield paused. “We believe he was also on the plane.”
“Then it might not have been accidental?”
“Anything’s possible. We don’t know. But it’s a working theory I have.” Whitfield stood, signaling the meeting was at an end. “Gentlemen, I will expect regular updates as this unfolds. And I appreciate your assistance in the matter. It’s obviously deeply troubling, and the sooner I have answers, the sooner I will be at peace.”
“We’ll do everything we can, Senator,” Cornett assured him. “This is a top priority.”
“I appreciate it, gentlemen. Give my warm regards to the director.”
“I will.”
Sedgewick showed the CIA men out and then headed back to the chamber. Whitfield was behind his desk, poring over the bill. He would normally have had one of his aides write a summary for him, but he wanted something to take his mind off Christine’s accident, and work was his favored diversion.
Sedgewick cleared his throat, and the senator fixed the younger man with a concerned stare. “Sir, don’t take offense, but is there something you haven’t told me about the Christine situation?”
“Why do you say that?” Whitfield deflected.
“Nothing. Just an impression.”
“I suggest you get your antennae tuned, Alan. You’re normally more on point than that.”
“Yes, sir. Again, I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken. This has been difficult for everyone involved. I know you don’t see the wisdom of conducting the search the way I am, but you’ll have to believe that I have valid reasons.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“I trust that puts the matter to bed?”
“Absolutely. Will there be anything else?”
“I’ll need the notes for the meeting tomorrow on my desk by eight forty-five.” Whitfield was chairing a Department of Defense oversight committee that was dealing with trillions that had gone missing from the DOD over the last decades. Tomorrow was the commencement of deliberations on whether there should be formal hearings on the matter. The morning before the 9-11 terrorist attack brought down the twin towers in New York, Donald Rumsfeld had announced that there were over two trillion dollars unaccounted for at the DOD. That investigation had ended abruptly the next morning when the section of the Pentagon that housed the staff researching the money trail had been killed by the plane strike. Following the attacks, the administration had been galvanized into action, and the missing money had been back-burnered as the country geared up for war.
But questions kept arising, and the press had grown more inquisitive as years had passed — and now the American public wanted answers.
Which made Whitfield’s job all the harder, because there were national security issues at play, as well as matters that might affect confidence in the country’s leadership.
Whitfield had a reputation as tough but fair, and was one of the few members of the Senate who was respected on both sides of the aisle. At some point, a presidential run wasn’t out of the question, so he needed to be balanced in his steerage of the committee, showing no undue favoritism to any of the parties involved.
Tomorrow morning, he would be in the hot seat.
A position he was more than familiar with, but which weighed heavily on him with the loss of his daughter.
He sighed again and glanced wistfully at a carafe brimming with eighteen-year-old Scotch on his bookshelf, and then lost himself in his work, the complex nuance of the bill commanding all his attention if he was to absorb it in time for the vote.
Chapter 15
Alex faded in and out of consciousness. The painkillers pumping through him blunted the worst of the agony from his injuries but left him in a fugue state, a Neverland of blurred images and confused impressions. The air smelled like industrial cleaner, astringent and laced with the peculiar medicinal smell particular to hospitals. Beside him, a monitor beeped with each beat of his heart, and he registered the pressure of a pulse oximeter on his finger as he shifted on the bed.
He cracked an eye open and saw daylight. So he hadn’t been out that long. Assuming it was still the same day. He tried to bring his wrist into focus and then gave up when he realized his watch was missing.
Alex replayed the moments before impact again and again in his imagination, searching the impressions for anything that might hint at who had been driving the car that struck him. But it was no good. All he remembered was a glimpse of a grill, and then the world tilted as he flew through the air, pain overloading his synapses from his ruined legs and the impact of his landing.
He cursed the effects of the drugs, and prayed that he hadn’t sustained any permanent brain injury that was causing the memory glitch. Bones they could always pin together, he knew from friends who’d taken bad hits while on their Harleys, but the old gray matter was an entirely different matter.
The door opened and a nurse entered. At least, Alex thought she was a nurse. For some reason he couldn’t get his eyes to focus. Eye. His left lid seemed to be stuck shut.
The woman spoke to him in broken English, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. The words seemed to distort as she talked, sounding more like a vacuum cleaner’s whine than conversation. Alex groaned and closed his eye again — he’d find out soon enough what she was going on about, if it was important.
When he came to again, he was moving. The harsh white glare of overhead fluorescent lights strobed above him as he was rolled down a hall. He could just make out two orderlies wheeling him along the corridor, a plasma bag connected to the gurney and draining into his arm. Maybe he was going into surgery? The throb from his legs was muted from the morphine, and he hoped that whoever was making the calls wouldn’t amputate them. The thought of being legless sent a spike of fear through him, and he struggled to speak.
“My… legs…”
The effort was wasted, because the gurney’s forward momentum didn’t slow. He tried again, but what emanated from his mouth was a strangled moan in place of words. He decided to save his strength for battles he could win.