"Hi, Jammer. Sorry to keep you waiting."
"No problem, Honeywell. Been busy?"
"Not as busy as you — I saw the news clip of you leaving that meeting. You really caused a ruckus."
"Thanks. It's my signature move."
"I especially liked the end, when you told the reporter to go to hell."
"They played that part?" He feigned surprise. "Oh, well. It could have been worse. I was going to call Bastien a manipulative shitmouse — just couldn't think of the right French translation."
Sorensen stared him down and was about to say something when a waitress scooted up and looked at her expectantly.
Davis advised, "Go with the imported beer, Budweiser. It's only eight bucks a bottle."
She ordered a martini, then reached for the snack mix and took a handful. "So is there really a new angle in the investigation?"
"Maybe. We listened to the voice tapes. I heard some things I didn't like. I think we should be looking deep into the flight control software."
"You think there's a glitch in it?"
"It has happened before. The designers can't imagine every corner of the flight envelope. I've seen accidents where computers and pilots have gotten into a fight for control. It's not pretty. So I gave the board a recommendation."
"What was that?"
"I said we should ground all C-500s."
"You can't be serious — will they?"
"No, not a chance. But it'll give them something to think about. Something besides Bastien s spectacular suicide theory."
She said, "I understand that Bastien has called another press conference for tomorrow."
"I heard. He asked me to come. Probably so we could hold hands and show unity."
"And?"
Davis popped a pretzel into his mouth. "I told him he didn't need another press conference. I told him he needed a piece of rebar shoved up his undulating spine."
He saw Sorensen stifle a grin, but then her expression turned serious. "You're kidding, right?"
Davis shrugged, left it open.
"Jammer, do you think this is smart? Antagonizing him?"
"I don't like how things are going, and I'm not one for half measures." He sipped his beer and reflected, "You know, it's probably just as well I didn't stay in the Air Force. Can you imagine me as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff? I'd just advise the president to go nuclear for everything. And none of that gradual response crap. Massive retaliation, that'd be my style."
Sorensen's martini arrived. It came in a curved-stem glass that looked very unstable. She took a long draw. "So why do you think Bastien wants to hang this whole thing on Earl Moore?"
"Hard to say. Maybe because it's easy. Earl Moore isn't around to defend himself. Or maybe because it's more dramatic than a line of bad computer code or a faulty mix of composite resin."
"Did you ever consider that he might be right?"
Davis paused. "Its not out of the question. But I really doubt it."
"Why?"
"I visited his wife back in Houston. After I saw her, I made a side trip to Moore's apartment. In truth, I found a few things I hadn't wanted to find. An empty Jack Daniel's bottle in the recycle bin. A few beers in the fridge. But that was it. And thank God, no goodbye cruel world' note sitting like a headstone on the dining room table."
"So he had been drinking," she said.
"Apparently. Just like at the hotel the night before the flight. But I found some other things in his apartment. There was a schedule for his son's soccer team with the scores filled out to mid-season. An e-mail confirmation for a pair of shoes he'd ordered online the day before he left. He just wrote a check to fund his IRA account. And Moore TiVo'd two ballgames on TV."
Davis drained the last of his beer and looked squarely at Sorensen. "I can't say what was on his mind the day of the crash. But when Earl Moore left home, he had every intention of coming back."
Two hours after spotting Fatima, Whittemore was sipping ginger ale in a dark corner of a cheap bar. He would have preferred something more substantial — disciple of the grain that he was — yet the idea that Caliph might be nearby demanded absolute sobriety.
Fatima had taken a cab from the ferry terminal and checked into a cheap hotel, a place that might get two stars if the rating inspector came on just the right day. She had taken a key from the front desk, given her bag to a bellman, and gone straight to the bar. That was over an hour ago. Since then, she'd done nothing but drink — rum and soda, if he wasn't mistaken. The more plowed she got, the more Whittemore was sure that Caliph's arrival was not imminent. Who would meet their boss in the shape she was getting into? Especially when your boss was the world s most ruthless terrorist.
It was a dreary establishment. The old wood floors had been worn smooth by generations of hard boots and dragged chairs, and patterns of dirt and dust denoted the spots where there had been no recent meeting between spilled beer and a mop. A brass rail, dull and dented, ran along the foot of a hardwood bar. The elbow-high bar itself had probably been stout fifty years ago, but now was riddled with tiny holes — termites or worms. Above it all, the wall trim sported a coat of fresh red paint that accented the rest like lipstick on an aging drag queen.
It was just after nine in the evening and the place was half full, a typical mix of transients and regulars, Whittemore figured. Groups of men and women interacted casually, and a few couples nuzzled in dark corner booths. A handful of men were perched at the bar on high wooden stools. They were spaced evenly between empty seats, hunched and immovable, the type who hold drinking among life's more solemn pursuits.
Fatima was largely ignored.
Whittemore decided that the pictures he'd seen had not done her justice. She was even uglier in real life. The dim light, mostly red and green hues cast from neon beer signs, gave her dark, pitted complexion an unearthly aura. She still had on the same clothes she'd worn on the ferry, and if Whittemore had read the immigration guy correctly, she probably smelled like puke. Even from thirty feet away in a dark room, her hair looked like she'd just rinsed it in the crankcase of an old truck. She was overweight, maybe a hundred extra pounds on a five-five frame. Not obese by American standards, but her clothes were inappropriately tight and highlighted the fact that all her acreage was down the wrong roads. Big thighs, big belly, no chest — Fatima was the penultimate loser in life's genetic game of roulette. Whittemore's regard for Caliph slipped a few notches. If I was the world's most wanted terrorist, I'd at least have a hot messenger.
His attention ratcheted up when Fatima stood. Looking marginally steady, she stretched like an overweight cat, scratched her crotch, and moved to the bar.
"I wan' another drink!" she demanded in English. Her voice was throaty, the words slurred like she had a mouthful of glue.
The bartender was a short, heavyset guy wearing an apron. He frowned. The room was relatively quiet, so Whittemore heard his response. "One more," he said, "then you must go."
Fatima smiled and looked the guy over like he was hanging on a hook in a butcher's shop. "You married?" she asked.
He held up his hand to show a ring.
"Ah, hell, that don't matter! You kinda cute."
He slid her cutoff drink across the bar, along with the tab.
"What time you finish work?"
The man ignored her and went to the far end of the bar to engage one of his regulars — a guy who was snickering.
Whittemore gauged the scene. He knew a lot about drinking. Knew people handled it differently. Some giggled. Some got nasty. Some fell asleep. From the look of it, Fatima Adara got horny. One of God's little jokes, he decided. He hoped none of the men at the bar was that desperate. The last thing he needed was for some free-range drunk to stumble in and confuse things. Ever so briefly, Whittemore considered sending Fatima a drink himself, maybe engaging in some alcoholic nuptials. A little amorous pillow talk might give him Caliph. Then again, it might give him erectile dysfunction. Whittemore wanted a promotion, but he had his limits.