saw.” He turned to Lester. “Why not just tell your wife that you witnessed the plane accident, are giving a statement to the police, and that you’ll be home later in the day?” The agents nodded; they understood that what Lazzara said was, in fact, an order.
Mullin and Lazzara watched them leave.
“Two eyewitnesses, in two different accidents, claim missiles brought down the planes,” Lazzara said.
“Doesn’t mean it’s true,” Mullin said. “We had hundreds of witnesses who claimed they saw a missile hit TWA 800. They were all wrong.”
“That was one plane. This involves two, on two coasts. You aren’t ruling out the criminal element, are you?”
“It’s on the table along with every other probable cause, but until there’s some confirmation, I’d prefer it not be bandied about in the press.”
“No argument from me, but that’s wishful thinking. How do you want to handle the interview with our fisherman friend?”
“Do it jointly, get it down officially.”
“Okay. Ready?”
“No. Hold him for a few hours. I can’t leave here yet.”
Lazzara walked away. Mullin started back to where his team was examining wreckage, and where EMS was removing the first of the bodies. His expert on metals was on his knees looking closely at a shaft of metal three feet in length and a few inches wide.
“What’s that?” Mullin asked.
“Not sure, Pete, but it’s not part of the plane. There’s a smaller, similar piece over there.”
“No idea what it is, where it came from?”
“Could be a piece of a weapon of some sort.”
“Weapon?”
“Yeah.”
“A missile?”
The metals expert looked up at Mullin and winced. “I’m no missile expert, Pete. But I’d say it’s a possibility.”
7
Early That Afternoon
The White House
Mike McQuaid, special assistant to the president of the United States—on terrorism—prepared to leave the Situation Room on the first floor of the White House. He hadn’t wasted time changing into more formal clothing after receiving the FBI call at his Maryland home. He wore the same khaki pants and red-and-white-striped short-sleeve shirt he’d had on when the call came through. He’d spent the past fifteen minutes calling members of CSG, the Coordinating Security Group on terrorism, setting up a video teleconference between the involved agencies—the State Department, the Joint Chiefs, Secret Service, the Pentagon, and Justice. Because aircraft were involved, the FAA was included on the list.
“Mike, the president wants you,” an aide said after answering a phone.
“Keep things moving,” McQuaid said.
He was ushered into the Oval Office, where Anthony Cammanati paced.
“Everyone in the loop?” Cammanati asked. National Security Advisor Cammanati was a squarely built man with heavy black eyebrows and a permanently creased, broad forehead. His physical appearance, including his navy-blue suit, white shirt, and tie, set him apart from the fair-skinned, redheaded, slender, casually dressed McQuaid.
“In the works,” McQuaid replied.
Both men straightened as Lawrence Ashmead, president of the United States, entered the room. The door was closed behind him and he went directly to his desk. As usual, he was in shirtsleeves, wide, red suspenders, and a nondescript blue tie. Ashmead was known as a hands-on president, less statesmanlike and presidential than his predecessor. To a fault, some on his staff felt: He’d been governor of Missouri before capturing the White House, and ran things too much like a governor, micromanaging rather than viewing the proverbial larger picture. But he was liked and respected by most; those who’d ended up on the receiving end of a sizable temper were the exception.
He looked at McQuaid and Cammanati with probing eyes. “So, tell me,” he said.
McQuaid brought him up to speed on the three aviation accidents, using half-formed sentences, the bulleted approach he knew Ashmead preferred.
“. . . spoken with all
Mullin and Lazzara watched them leave.
“Two eyewitnesses, in two different accidents, claim missiles brought down the planes,” Lazzara said.
“Doesn’t mean it’s true,” Mullin said. “We had hundreds of witnesses who claimed they saw a missile hit TWA 800. They were all wrong.”
“That was one plane. This involves two, on two coasts. You aren’t ruling out the criminal element, are you?”
“It’s on the table along with every other probable cause, but until there’s some confirmation, I’d prefer it not be bandied about in the press.”
“No argument from me, but that’s wishful thinking. How do you want to handle the interview with our fisherman friend?”
“Do it jointly, get it down officially.”
“Okay. Ready?”
“No. Hold him for a few hours. I can’t leave here yet.”
Lazzara walked away. Mullin started back to where his team was examining wreckage, and where EMS was removing the first of the bodies. His expert on metals was on his knees looking closely at a shaft of metal three feet in length and a few inches wide.
“What’s that?” Mullin asked.
“Not sure, Pete, but it’s not part of the plane. There’s a smaller, similar piece over there.”
“No idea what it is, where it came from?”
“Could be a piece of a weapon of some sort.”
“Weapon?”
“Yeah.”
“A missile?”
The metals expert looked up at Mullin and winced. “I’m no missile expert, Pete. But I’d say it’s a possibility.”
7
Early That Afternoon
The White House
Mike McQuaid, special assistant to the president of the United States—on terrorism—prepared to leave the Situation Room on the first floor of the White House. He hadn’t wasted time changing into more formal clothing after receiving the FBI call at his Maryland home. He wore the same khaki pants and red-and-white-striped short-sleeve shirt he’d had on when the call came through. He’d spent the past fifteen minutes calling members of CSG, the Coordinating Security Group on terrorism, setting up a video teleconference between the involved agencies—the State Department, the Joint Chiefs, Secret Service, the Pentagon, and Justice. Because aircraft were involved, the FAA was included on the list.
“Mike, the president wants you,” an aide said after answering a phone.
“Keep things moving,” McQuaid said.
He was ushered into the Oval Office, where Anthony Cammanati paced.
“Everyone in the loop?” Cammanati asked. National Security Advisor Cammanati was a squarely built man with heavy black eyebrows and a permanently creased, broad forehead. His physical appearance, including his navy-blue suit, white shirt, and tie, set him apart from the fair-skinned, redheaded, slender, casually dressed McQuaid.
“In the works,” McQuaid replied.
Both men straightened as Lawrence Ashmead, president of the United States, entered the room. The door was closed behind him and he went directly to his desk. As usual, he was in shirtsleeves, wide, red suspenders, and a nondescript blue tie. Ashmead was known as a hands-on president, less statesmanlike and presidential than his predecessor. To a fault, some on his staff felt: He’d been governor of Missouri before capturing the White House, and ran things too much like a governor, micromanaging rather than viewing the proverbial larger picture. But he was liked and respected by most; those who’d ended up on the receiving end of a sizable temper were the exception.
He looked at McQuaid and Cammanati with probing eyes. “So, tell me,” he said.
McQuaid brought him up to speed on the three aviation accidents, using half-formed sentences, the bulleted approach he knew Ashmead preferred.
“. . . spoken with all
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