Fly by Wire

Chapter TWELVE

It was called L'Hotel Continental Lyon. A mile from Building Sixty-two, it had been virtually taken over by the investigation s contingent. Davis thought it was a nice enough place, comfortable but not self-absorbed with the likes of high thread-count Egyptian sheets or matching terrycloth bathrobes. His room was on the third floor, with a tree-scraping view of the Lyon airport in the distance.

His first real night's sleep had gone well, his body now fully adapted to the time shift. Davis hit the restaurant for breakfast at eight. He occupied half a table for two, ordered eggs, toast, and coffee. Service was fast, and he polished off the meal before tipping the coffeepot. It was good stuff, better than what he brewed at home. Not that that was saying much. Halfway through the first cup, he spotted Sorensen.

She was smartly dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. She looked fresh, well rested. But then, women like Sorensen always did. She was attractive — not like a fashion model, but in a more basic sense. Sorensen could wake up first thing in the morning, run a quick hand through her hair, and she'd be nice to look at.

She smiled on making eye contact, and Davis nodded her over.

"Buy a girl a drink?" she asked, pointing to the spare coffee cup.

"You bet, Honeywell. Have a seat." Davis did the honors.

"Honeywell? Is that my new call sign?"

"I like it."

She let it go, and asked, "Did you sleep well?"

"Always do."

"That's the sign of a clear conscience."

"Or no conscience at all."

Sorensen smiled a morning smile, bright and cheerful. The waiter came and she ordered fruit and a pastry. As soon as he was gone, she went to her handbag and pulled out a rolled-up newspaper. She set it on the table and pointed to the headline.

Davis ignored the print, found himself looking at her finger. It was long and slender. No fake nails or stylish colors. Just a basic manicure, maybe a coat of clear. A woman who kept herself up, but didn't have time for the works.

She said, "Have you read this article?"

"No, but let me guess — Suicide suspected in air crash."

"That's pretty much it. Bastien has to prove it now, doesn't he?"

"Not much choice."

"And what about you? Are you going to try and disprove it?"

He paused for a long moment. "I will be a pattern of all patience."

Her gaze grew pensive. "That's Shakespeare. King Lear."

"Is it? Damn. Thought I had it first." The phone in his pocket vibrated. Davis said, "Excuse me."

He saw a text message Jen had sent last night — for some reason it was just now reaching him. She was still fired up about the dance, convinced that to miss it would be ruinous, a social disaster of cataclysmic proportions. He pecked out a response: Will talk tonight after school. Davis snapped the phone shut and shook his head, exasperation seeping out. "Women," he fussed.

"Daughter driving you crazy?"

Davis paused, looked at her closely. "Yeah." He topped off his cup, taking his time. "Tell me, Honeywell, have you been out to the crash site yet?"

"No. Have you?"

"Yesterday. It's always the first thing I do."

"Why is that?"

He considered it. "Like I told you, I'm a visual guy. I like to see the big picture."

"And did the big picture tell you anything?"

"It told me lots of things. For starters, nothing is missing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Jammer's first rule of accident investigation — look for things that should be there, but aren't."

"Such as?"

"My first investigation was aT-37. A training airplane. It went down out in the middle of nowhere in New Mexico, one pilot dead. My partner and I found the wreckage easy enough, and on the first look we noticed something strange — the two main landing gear were gone."

"Gone?"

"Completely missing — no wheels. By the scars on the ground you could tell which way he'd come from, so we hiked back in that direction. Haifa mile later we came to a mesa, one of those big oval plateaus with a flat top. We still didn't see anything, so we went around it, and at the base of the far side we see a pair of main landing gear, nice as can be."

"How did they get there?"

"That's what I wondered, so we climbed to the top of the mesa — which wasn't easy. And do you know what we found?"

Sorensen shook her head.

"Skid marks."

"Skid marks?"

"Lots of them. You see, the top of this mesa was very flat, and apparently it had become sport among the local instructors to drop in during training flights and do touch-and-go's. Until one guy came in too low. He sheared off the landing gear, and that took out his hydraulics. From there, he lost control of the jet. Too low to eject."

"So this guy was just out messing around? I can't believe a pilot would do something so dangerous."

Davis eyed her. He fell silent and his gaze turned hard.

"What is it?" she asked.

Davis did not reply. Very deliberately, he picked up the spoon Sorensen had just used to stir her coffee, held it over the table, and slowly bent the stem to a ninety-degree angle.

Her words came in the measured cadence of forced calm. "What are you doing, Jammer?" The good humor that had framed her was gone, lost under his attack on the flatware.

"Tension or torsion?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did this metal fail in tension or torsion? Anybody with rudimentary training in crash investigation would know"

Sorensen drew a deep breath, looked down intensely at the table — if she'd been drinking tea, he might have thought she was trying to read the leaves in her cup. Davis dropped the deformed spoon on the table. It clattered when it hit, and a few other patrons looked their way.

"What gave it away?" she asked.

"A few minutes ago, when I took that message. You asked me if my daughter was driving me crazy."

"And—"

"And I never said I had a daughter." He held up the wedding band he still wore. "You should have deduced I was talking about my wife. But then — you already know my wife is dead."

The silence was extended. No more pert expression or snappy comebacks. "Jammer, look—"

He raised an index finger to cut her off, then deliberately moved his hands to grip the cloth at the sides of the table — as if at any moment he might turn the whole thing over. His voice fell low and ominous. "Who the hell are you?"

Sorensen bit her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have been upfront with you."

"Upfront about what?"

Her next words were quiet, yet distinct. As if she didn't want to say it twice. "I work for the CIA."

"CIA? As in Central Intelligence Agency?"

She nodded once. "Jammer, we need your help."