“Oh, how sad!”
I overheard that exchange but didn’t turn to catch Roberts’s reaction. I was concentrating on the announcer and the pictures, as no doubt hundreds of millions of people all over the world, in schools, offices, airports, homes, bars and brokerage firms were also. The video was hard to watch, live television pictures from helicopters and a news crew on the ground. The effect was mesmerizing and horrific. A picture of a smashed airliner always stirs a visceral reaction. Nowadays everybody flies in those things, sooner or later, so seeing one crumpled like tissue paper and on fire gets to your gut. The only good news was that for the people on the plane it was over quickly. The announcer didn’t mention that bright spot, however.
The announcer must have been listening to his producer, however, because he said the nation’s cellular telephone system was paralyzed as everyone, everywhere, tried to call their family and friends to alert them to the disaster.
The spell was broken fifteen minutes later when the first report, soon confirmed, came out that the president was not on the plane.
“Oh, thank God,” three of the women said in unison.
He had stayed behind in Denver for a secret conference with senators and governors from his party to plot political strategy, the announcer said.
The nation and the world breathed a collective sigh of relief. At least the American head of state was still alive. Even though about 150 staffers, aides, Secret Service agents, communications specialists, and a few reporters were aboard and presumed dead.
In the room where I was, we all clapped. It wasn’t that we were political friends of the prez, because I doubt if we all were, but he was the head of state, and it was a huge relief.
About that time I realized that Jake Grafton was standing against the back wall, watching the tube.
After a while the secretaries wandered off, back to their desks, but we three EAs stayed glued to the tube. The stock market was gyrating madly. When it closed at 4 P.M. Eastern Time, the Dow was down a couple of hundred points.
Two hours after the crash, the first accusation, by an airport security guard, that the plane had been brought down by a drone aired on a Fox News affiliate and was picked up by the network we were watching.
A burned-out van containing three bodies was found in a Denver parking garage and surrounded by FBI, local police, Secret Service and Homeland Security agents. Hundreds of uniformed and plainclothes officers converged on the crash scene, the roads around the airport and the burned-out van. Thousands of people were questioned, surveillance video was confiscated for review, roadblocks were set up, and several million people in Colorado were severely inconvenienced.
An obviously distraught president appeared on television. He was being briefed, he said. He was overwhelmed by the tragedy that had struck his official family, amazed that by a quirk of fate he wasn’t on that plane and had no answer to the question of why the plane had taken off with the Air Force One call sign, which was supposed to be used by the executive Boeing 747 only when the president was aboard.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Apparently it just happened. We’ll have to wait and see.” He asked that all national flags at government and post office buildings nationwide be lowered to half mast. “The nation has lost a lot of really dedicated public servants. Their families have my sympathy.”
After he said that, I realized Grafton was gone.
By six that evening I was the only person left in the conference room. The network anchors were speculating about causes. If there was a drone involved, it sounded like murder. A terror strike, or an assassination attempt? Or was it just an aircraft accident?
Zoe Kerry joined me, and together we watched the wrap-up. The fire in the wreckage was out and it was covered with foam.
That was when I remembered the surveillance system I had installed at Grafton’s house. I found Grafton standing by the reception desk with Anastasia Roberts. She was telling him that she had been called by the White House and asked to inform several families that their loved ones were dead.
“Sure. Go do it,” he said. “And give them our condolences.”
“I may not make it in to work tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
Roberts strode out, and he turned to me. “Tommy, I can’t get on the Internet to check the system at my house. Seems the satellite feed should be working, but apparently it isn’t. Security had the van come over here to augment grounds security. I think Callie should be home from the university by now. Would you run by there and make sure everything is okay?”
“Sure. On my way.”
I said good night to everyone who was still there, including Jennifer Suslowski, grabbed my jacket and headed for the stairs. Now I was worried. If I were a hit man, a disaster like this would have been the perfect time for a little improvised mayhem. With every possible witness, and my victims, glued to the tube, I would have a rare opportunity.
In the parking lot I tried my cell phone. Couldn’t get a connection. Everyone in the world was calling someone. I tore out of the Langley lot and headed down the GW Parkway into Roslyn.
Thank God the Graftons lived close, not an hour and a half away out in the suburbs.
Fifteen minutes later I drove by their place, looked it over, then drove into the garage across the street and parked on the top deck. Lots of cars, but not another soul did I see on my way up. I walked down, looking for people on each level. One car drove in on the third deck, parked, and a guy in a suit got out. Fiftyish, a little overweight. His tie was loose, and he had obviously had a few on the way home. It was that kind of day.
I wondered if he knew anyone on that crashed plane. Heck, I wondered if I did. About the only White House denizen I knew was Sal Molina. I wondered if he …
I jaywalked across the street and headed for Grafton’s building. Kept my eyes moving, looking for guys sitting in cars, people leaning out of the open garage …
Nothing. Paused in front and tried to get the surveillance video on my cell phone. It wouldn’t log on to the network. Technology, ain’t it great?
Went into Grafton’s building, pushed the button on Grafton’s mailbox. After a moment, “Hello.”
“Mrs. Grafton, this is Tommy Carmellini. May I come up for a moment?”
“Sure, Tommy.”
The door clicked; I entered the empty lobby and summoned the elevator. Up I went.
The door opened into an empty hallway. I walked down it to the Graftons’ door and knocked.
Callie Grafton opened the door. Talk about a classy lady! Smart, erect, trim and still gorgeous — if and when I commit matrimony I want a lady like Callie Grafton!
“Hello, Tommy. Come in.”
I did so. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but the Internet is overwhelmed and we couldn’t get the video from the cameras. I thought I’d drop by to check on you.”
“You’ve heard the news about Air Force One, of course.”
“Oh, yes. Terrible.”
“Have you had any dinner?”
“Uh … no. Have you been here all afternoon?”
“No. I just got home about a half hour or so ago. I’m fixing a salad for dinner. Will you join me?”
“I’d be delighted if you’ll give me a few minutes to look around.”
“Of course. Whenever you are ready.”
I checked the Wi-Fi under the television. Still working normally, as far as I could tell. Then I went out of the apartment and rode the elevator to the top floor, used the stairs to the roof. The door was locked. I used my little assortment of picks and got it within a minute.
Up on the roof I went over to the unit we had installed to send the Graftons’ Wi-Fi feed to the satellite.