“I thought that MD-eleven was an American airliner,” she said, glancing at her handwritten notes while adjusting her bra and straightening a cascade of shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair. Jake Rhoades was an important official at FBI headquarters, while she was assigned to the D.C. field office, reporting to him on special assignments. Nevertheless, Jake was easy to talk to, and their relationship, while appropriately professional, was cordial. She could kid him without fear.
There was a mumbled reply from the Beltway and she glanced back at the screen to see if the signal was breaking up.
“I’m sorry, Jake. Say again, please.”
“I said I probably ought to just give you a synopsis of the situation.”
“Good idea,” she replied, glancing at her watch and diverting her gaze toward the couch, where she’d laid out two blouses. She had to appear downstairs in thirty minutes, looking perfectly professional and perfectly feminine at the same time. The expensive charcoal-gray suit she’d bought especially for the speech was ready. But which blouse sent the right message?
“Okay,” Jake continued. “You already know the basic fact situation, right?”
She walked quickly to the couch, holding her chin in her right hand as she looked at the two blouses and nodded unseen toward the computer screen. “I believe so,” she said, smoothing the frilly one, aware that it still bore the scent of her favorite perfume. “An American MD-eleven crashed with no survivors a mile inside Cuban waters for unknown reasons, killing three hundred twenty-six, and the President ordered a naval blockade of the recovery area, which triggered a hysterical reaction from Castro, which in turn has triggered hysterical speculation that Cuba somehow shot it down for penetrating Cuban airspace, which would be bizarre given all the commercial air traffic flying daily over Cuba. The cockpit voice recorder and flight data recorder were missing for three weeks, then mysteriously showed up, pinging their little hearts out underwater, and the National Transportation Safety Board seriously suspects that someone recovered them earlier and tampered with the CVR tape since the last three minutes are gone, even though the aircraft never lost power.” She straightened and glanced at the screen. “Is that about right?”
Jake’s eyebrows had risen. “I’m impressed, Kat. You listen well.”
She picked up the plain white blouse and held it at arm’s length. It was spartan and uninteresting, but in keeping with the seriousness of a major address on airline terrorism. “Did I miss anything?” she asked.
“Not really, except we’re sure Cuba has a small submarine, and there is some evidence that they could have snatched those black boxes and altered them to hide whatever really happened. And you know that the Bureau and the NTSB are working hand in hand on this, which means we get more than our share of media pressure.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t talk to the media.”
“Well, you may not have a choice. A major conference on air terrorism with you as the closing speaker is a magnet for media types looking for a quote. I’m not saying don’t talk to them. What I’m saying is, don’t speculate! The nuts are coming out of the woodwork with every conceivable conspiracy theory, trying to tie it in with Swissair, EgyptAir, TWA 800, and God knows what else. Before long, they’ll have this connected to the Challenger accident and the loss of the Titanic.”
“Such is the nature of conspiracy theorists,” Kat replied, studying the extreme fatigue showing in Jake’s eyes. He was only forty-six, but he looked a decade older.
“True. Look, Kat, the President and his people are pressing the hell out of NTSB, and us, to find a theory that doesn’t include Cuba, conspiracies, space aliens, or terrorists. The Bureau isn’t going to give in to that pressure, of course, nor is the NTSB, but I’ve gotta tell you, it’s becoming excruciating. All I’m saying is, whatever you do, don’t fan the flames by pointing in one direction or another.”
“So, if they ask me whether this could have been an act of terrorism…?”
“Then say we have insufficient information to point in any direction. Tell them that massive mechanical failure is just as possible as anything else. The NTSB’s favorite phrase, I’m told, is that it’s too early to rule anything in or anything out.”
“Got it.”
“I mean it, Kat. Be really careful. One slip with the media and your name goes up in lights. Again.”
“And… you’re saying that this would be bad, right?”
“Kat!”
She suppressed a chuckle. “I’m kidding, Boss. But what if it is Cuba?”
“Then after the inevitable invasion force lands, you can apply for a position as the Bureau’s legal attaché in Havana. I almost pity Fidel if he’s responsible for this.”
“What’s the chance this is terrorism, Jake? The real word, not the party line.”
There was an ominous silence from the other end, broken at last by a sigh.
“If this is an act of terrorism — not a mechanical malfunction, and not something the Cubans did — then we’re in deep trouble. We haven’t got a clue how they did it, although a missile is a distinct possibility. That’s why I doubt…”
There was the sound of a telephone ringing in the background.
“Kat, can you hold a second?”
“You bet,” she replied, looking at her watch again, her mind focused on the mystery of the MD-11 crash and the frustrating lack of evidence. Her eyes drifted back to the couch.
The frilly one. I enjoy looking feminine. If the boys have a problem with that, so be it! She snatched the blouse from the couch and began putting it on, smiling to herself, remembering the compliments and the glances she always got when she wore it. She buttoned it and removed her dark gray skirt from the hanger, pulling it on and adjusting it to let the hem fall just above her knees, wondering how much longer Jake would be. A touch up with the hair spray and a quick review of the script and she’d be ready.
Jake’s voice returned. “You there, Kat?”
She began moving toward the computer as she finished fastening the skirt. “Right here, Jake.”
“I’ve got to go. Break a leg.”
Kat reached out and snapped the panties off the tiny camera, smiling broadly. “Thank you for your support, Sir! I’ll report back tomorrow.”
“Ah, may a senior officer be permitted to tell a subordinate agent that her appearance is, ah, in keeping with the highest traditions of the Bureau?”
She smiled and cocked her head slightly. “He certainly may.”
“Then please be so advised.”
She saluted smartly. “Yes, Sir. Highest traditions. I take it that’s a reference to J. Edgar’s alternate dress code?” She laughed, noting his momentary confusion, her blue eyes sparkling at the compliment. Jake was married and moral, but very male.
“Ah, I meant…”
“I know what you meant, Jake,” she said, “and I appreciate it very much.”
Kat disconnected and closed the screen as her eyes darted again to the time. Twenty minutes!
She finished touching up her makeup to fit the harsh lights of the ballroom twenty floors below. Makeup, hair, earrings, the dark-gray pumps, and the suit coat. Then a quick run-through of the script.
Men have it so easy! she thought. Shirt, tie, pants, coat, and out the door.
The exotic aroma of sandalwood filled her consciousness again, and she stood for a moment with her eyes closed to breathe deeply. The cabinetry was made from it. Sandalwood and teak were set off by the fresh arrangement of fragrant tropical flowers sent to each speaker, along with a tray of fruit and cheese and champagne. A Bach concerto was playing softly in the background, adding a touch of panache.