the involved agencies, Mr. President. Vice Chairman Poe at NTSB confirms two eyewitness claims—missiles hitting the planes, California and New York—but no tangible evidence. The lead investigator . . .” he consulted his notes “. . . Peter Mullin— they found metal fragments at the New York scene that could have come from a missile—on their way to the Pentagon for analysis. FBI agents on the scene in New York confirm the eyewitness account.”
“Confirm it! It
was
a missile?”
“No, sir, sorry. They confirm that the New York eyewitness
claims
he saw a missile hit the aircraft.”
“What about Idaho?”
“No eyewitnesses there, sir.”
“What’s the possible link between them?” Ashmead asked, more of himself than the others. “If those three planes were shot down by missiles, there has to be a reason. Who was on them?”
“We don’t have passenger lists yet, sir,” McQuaid said. “They’re being officially withheld until next of kin are notified. We’re working with the airlines.”
“Government officials on the planes? Businessmen from the same industry? Scientists? Mobsters in witness protection? Somebody with a new insurance policy for a couple of million? Christ, people don’t target three planes in three different parts of the country—and on the same day—unless there’s some common denominator.”
“We’ll know more when we have passenger names and backgrounds, Mr. President.”
“How much of the missile theory has gotten out?”
“The press? The FBI and NTSB are keeping a lid on the eyewitnesses, but it’s already been leaked.”
“How? Where?”
“CNN. They went with the rumor story ten minutes ago.”
“How’d they get it?”
Shrugs from McQuaid and Cammanati.
Ashmead punched a button on his phone: “Send Chris in here.”
A minute later Ashmead’s press secretary, Chris Targa, entered.
“What’s being reported on the aviation accidents?” the president asked.
“It’s the lead story, Mr. President. No surprise, with three commercial planes down the same morning. Got to be a first.”
Cammanati started to ask something of Targa but stopped.
“The missile theory,” Ashmead filled in, not prone to keeping things from his press secretary as were other presidents. “Are they talking about eyewitnesses saying they saw missiles hit the planes?”
“CNN is, sir, but they’re couching it. ‘Unconfirmed reports,’ ‘alleged sightings,’ that sort of thing.”
“What kind of planes were they?” the president asked. “All the same make and model?”
“No, sir,” McQuaid answered, again referring to notes. “Two Canadian-made Dash 8s, one Saab 34, Swedish-made. Three different airlines.”
“So whoever shot missiles at them wasn’t out to cripple a particular aircraft manufacturer or airline.”
“Evidently not, sir,” said McQuaid.
The president asked to be kept abreast of any news reports playing up the missile allegations, and dismissed Targa and McQuaid. Alone now with Cammanati, who’d been a boyhood friend, Ashmead sat back and twisted his mustache—he was the first man with facial hair to sit in the White House since Teddy Roosevelt. “It’s terrorists, isn’t it, Tony? There can’t be any other explanation.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, sir, and if it’s a foreign group, state sponsored, we’ve got a war on our hands.”
“Call a meeting.” Ashmead looked at his watch. “Six this evening. Appropriate Cabinet members, FBI, Justice, our counterterrorism people.”
“Poe from NTSB?” Cammanati asked.
“Sure, but it looks like a criminal act. FBI’s show now.”
“The Bureau and State’s counterterrorist people are meeting as we speak, sir.”
“Good. Coordinate this effort, Tony. Assemble a team. Use anybody you need, pull ’em off whatever they’re doing. That’s from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The State Department
Max Pauling was running late. He entered the huge, square, nondescript, singularly
“Confirm it! It
was
a missile?”
“No, sir, sorry. They confirm that the New York eyewitness
claims
he saw a missile hit the aircraft.”
“What about Idaho?”
“No eyewitnesses there, sir.”
“What’s the possible link between them?” Ashmead asked, more of himself than the others. “If those three planes were shot down by missiles, there has to be a reason. Who was on them?”
“We don’t have passenger lists yet, sir,” McQuaid said. “They’re being officially withheld until next of kin are notified. We’re working with the airlines.”
“Government officials on the planes? Businessmen from the same industry? Scientists? Mobsters in witness protection? Somebody with a new insurance policy for a couple of million? Christ, people don’t target three planes in three different parts of the country—and on the same day—unless there’s some common denominator.”
“We’ll know more when we have passenger names and backgrounds, Mr. President.”
“How much of the missile theory has gotten out?”
“The press? The FBI and NTSB are keeping a lid on the eyewitnesses, but it’s already been leaked.”
“How? Where?”
“CNN. They went with the rumor story ten minutes ago.”
“How’d they get it?”
Shrugs from McQuaid and Cammanati.
Ashmead punched a button on his phone: “Send Chris in here.”
A minute later Ashmead’s press secretary, Chris Targa, entered.
“What’s being reported on the aviation accidents?” the president asked.
“It’s the lead story, Mr. President. No surprise, with three commercial planes down the same morning. Got to be a first.”
Cammanati started to ask something of Targa but stopped.
“The missile theory,” Ashmead filled in, not prone to keeping things from his press secretary as were other presidents. “Are they talking about eyewitnesses saying they saw missiles hit the planes?”
“CNN is, sir, but they’re couching it. ‘Unconfirmed reports,’ ‘alleged sightings,’ that sort of thing.”
“What kind of planes were they?” the president asked. “All the same make and model?”
“No, sir,” McQuaid answered, again referring to notes. “Two Canadian-made Dash 8s, one Saab 34, Swedish-made. Three different airlines.”
“So whoever shot missiles at them wasn’t out to cripple a particular aircraft manufacturer or airline.”
“Evidently not, sir,” said McQuaid.
The president asked to be kept abreast of any news reports playing up the missile allegations, and dismissed Targa and McQuaid. Alone now with Cammanati, who’d been a boyhood friend, Ashmead sat back and twisted his mustache—he was the first man with facial hair to sit in the White House since Teddy Roosevelt. “It’s terrorists, isn’t it, Tony? There can’t be any other explanation.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, sir, and if it’s a foreign group, state sponsored, we’ve got a war on our hands.”
“Call a meeting.” Ashmead looked at his watch. “Six this evening. Appropriate Cabinet members, FBI, Justice, our counterterrorism people.”
“Poe from NTSB?” Cammanati asked.
“Sure, but it looks like a criminal act. FBI’s show now.”
“The Bureau and State’s counterterrorist people are meeting as we speak, sir.”
“Good. Coordinate this effort, Tony. Assemble a team. Use anybody you need, pull ’em off whatever they’re doing. That’s from me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The State Department
Max Pauling was running late. He entered the huge, square, nondescript, singularly
Similar Books
