“That poor bastard.”
“I want you to do two things for me, and you can consider this a formal police order. First, don’t go anywhere to see anybody without telling someone where and how long you’ll be. And if you attack anything head-on, don’t go alone. Clear?”
“I’ll try. Things happen fast sometimes. You can’t always make those arrangements.”
“Yeah, well, you try. Real hard. ’Cause if you fail, I’m going to be waiting for you when you get back, if you get back, and I’m gonna kick your butt.”
Leaving the receiver between his head and his left shoulder, Pace thumbed the telephone peg clearing his line, then dialed the number at Hangar Three.
“Is Mike McGill around?”
“Yeah, but he’s in a meeting.”
“With who?”
“Who’s calling?”
“That’s not important. But it’s urgent I speak to Captain McGill.”
“They don’t want to be disturbed. I won’t even ask unless you tell me who you are.”
“Could I leave a message?”
“Sure.”
“Remind Captain McGill that he was out late with somebody a few nights ago and ask him to call that person as soon as he can.”
“What is this, some kind of riddle?”
“No, it’s important.”
“I’ll see he gets it.”
“Thanks.”
He called Glenn Brennan at the Pentagon.
“Howdy-doody,” the Irishman said. “What’s up?”
Pace told him about Mark Antravanian.
“Holy shit!” Brennan exploded when Pace finished. “That changes everything.”
“Now we’ve got the mysterious phone calls to Mike, the meeting he set up, the guy who didn’t show—”
“I know the scenario,” Brennan interrupted. “What does that state cop think?”
“He thinks there’s something to it. He’s treating it as a homicide.” Pace didn’t tell his friend of Clay Helm’s warning. He considered it a cop’s overreaction.
“Damn you, anyway!” Brennan groused. “Why do you get onto these things on a day I’m stuck over here in the fudge factory?”
Pace laughed. “I’ll keep you posted,” he promised. “And if I need help, I’ll ask for you. Meanwhile, you should consider yourself fortunate.”
“Why?”
“You’re only playing war games over there. I’m about to beard Paul Wister, and that’s a lot more dangerous.”
Avery Schaeffer was saying good-bye to a visitor to his office, and Pace waited at a discreet distance until the two men parted and the editor returned to his desk. Then he knocked softly on the doorjamb. Schaeffer looked up and smiled.
“Yes, Steve?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, but something’s come up you and Paul need to know about.”
“Did you talk to Paul?”
Pace was surprised. Business at the Chronicle was never confined to channels.
“Well, no,” he replied. “I was hoping to tell you both at the same time.”
“Okay. Ask Paul to come in.”
“You got another hot tip?” Wister asked. He was smiling, but the words had an edge.
“Yes,” Pace replied tightly.
“Got any facts to back them up this time?”
Pace held his tongue and allowed Wister to lead him back into Schaeffer’s office.
“You want the door closed, Steve?” Schaeffer’s question was a surprise. His office door almost never was closed.
“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.”