Total Control Page 9

  importantly, they're mounted low, so no flames would fly toward the wings or the fuselage.

  So even if you have twin catastrophes--a flaming engine and a fuel leak--the design features of the aircraft and the environmental conditions prevailing at thirty-five thousand feet and an airspeed of over five hundred miles per hour would pretty much ensure that the two shall not meet." He rubbed his foot against the wing. "I guess what I'm saying is I wouldn't bet the farm on a bad engine having crashed this bird." He paused. "There's something else."

  Kaplan once again knelt beside the jagged edge of the wing.

  "Like I said, there is clear evidence of an explosion. When I first checked the wing, I was thinking some type of improvised explosive device. You know, like Semtex wired to a timer or altimeter device.

  Plane hits a certain altitude, the bomb goes off. The blast fractures the skin, you got almost immediate rivet failure. Hundreds-of miles-per-hour winds hitting it, that wing's gonna open right up at the weakest point, like unzipping your fly. Spar gives way, and barn.

  Hell, the weight of the engine on this section of the wing would have guaranteed that result." He paused, apparently to study ,the interior of the wing more closely. "The twist is I don't think a typical explosive device was involved."

  "Why's that?" Sawyer asked.

  Kaplan pointed inside the wing to the exposed section of the fuel tank near the fuel panel. He held his light over the spot. "Look at this."

  A large hole was clearly visible. All around the perforation were light brown stains and the metal was warped and bubbled. "I noticed those earlier," Sawyer said.

  "There is no way in the world a hole like this could have been naturally generated. In any event, it would've been caught on routine inspection before the plane took off," Kaplan said.

  Sawyer put on his gloves before touching the area. "Maybe it happened during the explosion."

  "If it did, it was the only ?pot it happened to. There are no other markings like this on this section of the wing, although you got fuel everywhere. That pretty much rules out the explosion having caused it. But I do believe something was put on the fuel tank wall." Kaplan paused and nervously rubbed his fingers together. "I think some thing was put on it deliberately to cause that hole."

  "Like a corrosive acid?" Sawyer asked.

  Kaplan nodded. "I'll bet you a dinner that's what we find, Lee.

  The fuel tanks are of an aluminum alloy structure consisting of the front and rear spars and the top and bottom of the wings. The thickness of the walls varies around the structure. A number of acids will eat right through a soft alloy metal like that."

  "Okay, acid; but, depending on when it was applied, it was probably slow-acting, to let the plane get up in the air, right?"

  Kaplan answered immediately. "Right. The transponder continually sends the plane's altitude to air traffic control, so we know the plane had reached its cruising altitude shortly before the explosion."

  Sawyer continued his line of thought. "Tank gets pierced at some point during the flight. You got jet fuel spilling out. Highly flammable, highly explosive. So what ignited it? Maybe the engine wasn't on fire, but how about just the standard hear thrown off from the engine?"

  "No way. You know how cold it is at thirty-five thousand feet?

  It'd make Alaska feel like the Sahara. Besides, the engine housing and coolant systems pretty much dissipate the heat thrown off from the engine. And any heat it does generate sure as hell ain't gonna end up inside the wing. Remember you got a damn fuel tank in there. It's pretty well insulated. On top of that, if you got a fuel leak, because of the plane's airspeed, the fuel will flow backward and not toward the front of the wing and below, where the engine is located.

  No, if I were inclined to take down a plane this way, no way would I count on engine heat being my detonator. I'd want something a lot more reliable."

  Sawyer had a sudden thought. "If there was a leak, wouldn't it be contained?"

  "In some sections of the fuel tank the answer to that would be yes.

  In other areas, including where we got this hole, the answer is no."

  "Well, if it went down like you say--and right now i'm inclined to think you're right, George--we're going to have to focus on everybody who had access to that aircraft at least twenty-four hours before its final flight. We're going to need to go easy. It looks to be an insider, so the last thing we need is to spook him. If anybody else is involved in this, I want every last sonofabitch."

  Sawyer and Kaplan walked back to their cars. Kaplan looked over at the FBI agent. "You seemed to accept my sabotage theory pretty readily, Lee."

  Sawyer was aware of one fact that made the bombing theory infinitely more plausible. "It'll need to be substantiated," he replied without looking at the NTSB man. "But, yeah, I think you're right.

  I was pretty sure it was that as soon as the wing was found."

  "Why the hell would someone do that? I mean, I can understand terrorists taking out an international flight, but this was a plain-vanilla domestic. I just don't get it."

  As Kaplan was about to get into his car, Sawyer leaned on the door. "It might make sense if you wanted to kill someone in. particular, in a spectacular fashion."

  Kaplan stared at the agent. "Down an entire plane to get to one guy? Who the hell was on that thing?"

  "Does the name Arthur Lieberman ring any bells?" the FBI agent asked quietly.

  Kaplan searched his brain but came up empty. "Sounds damn familiar, but I can't place it."

  "Well, if you were an investment banker or stockbroker, or a congressman on the Joint Economic Committee, you'd know. Actually, he's the most powerful person in America, maybe the entire world."

  "I thought the most powerful person in America was the president."

  Sawyer smiled grimly. "No. It's Arthur Lieberman with the big S on his chest."

  "Who the hell was he?"

  "Arthur Lieberman was 'the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board. Now he's a homicide victim along with a hundred and eighty others. And my hunch is, he's the only one they wanted to kill."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JASOn Archer had no idea where he was. The limo had seemed to drive around for hours, he couldn't be sure, and DePazza, or whoever the hell he really was, had blindfolded him. The room he was now in was small and bare. Water dripped in one corner and the air was thick with the odor of mold. He sat on a rickety chair across from the one door. There were no windows. The only light came from a naked overhead bulb. He could hear someone on the other side of the door. They had taken his watch, so he had no idea what time it was. His captors brought him food at very irregular intervals, which made it difficult to ascertain how much time had passed.

  Once, when food was brought to him, Jason had noticed his lap-top computer and cellular phone resting on a small table just on the other side of the door. Other than that the outer room was much like the one he was in. The silver case had been taken from him. There had been nothing in it, he was now reasonably certain. What was going on was beginning to become clear to him. Christ, what a sucker! He thought of his wife and child, and how desperately he wanted to be with them again. What Sidney must be thinking had happened to him. He could barely comprehend the emotions she must be feeling right now. If only he had told her the truth. She would be in a position to help him. He sighed. But the bottom line was that telling her anything would have put her in danger. That was something he would never do, not even if it meant never seeing her again. He wiped the tears from his eyes as the image of eternal separation fixed itself in his head. He stood up and shook himself.

  He wasn't dead yet, although the grimness of his captors was far from reassuring. However, they had made one mistake despite their obvious care. Jason took off his glasses, placed them on the concrete floor and carefully scrunched them with his foot. He picked up one jagged piece of glass, positioned it carefully in his hand, then walked over to the door and pounded on it.

  "Hey, can I get so
mething to drink.?"

  "Shut up in there." The voice sounded annoyed. It wasn't De-Pazza, probably the other man.

  "Listen, dammit, I've got medication to take and I need something to take it with."

  "Try your own spit." It was the same man's voice. Jason could hear a chuckle.

  "The pills are too big," jason shouted, hoping someone else might hear him.

  "Too bad."

  Jason could hear the pages of a magazine being leisurely turned.

  "Great, I won't take them and I'll just keel over dead right here. It's for high blood pressure and right now mine's clear through the roof."

  Now Jason could hear a chair scraping the floor, keys jangling.

  "Step back from the door."

  Jason did so, but only a short distance. The door swung open. The man held the keys in one hand, his gun in the other.

  "Where are the pills?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  "In my hand."

  "Show 'em to me."

  Jason shook his head in disgust. "I don't believe this." As he stepped forward, he opened his hand and held it out. The man glanced at it. Jason swung his leg up, connected with the man's hand and sent the gun flying.

  "Shit," the man yelled. He hurtled toward Jason, who met him with a perfect uppercut. The jagged glass caught the man right across the cheek. He howled in pain and staggered back, blood streaming down from the grisly wound.

  The man was large, but his muscle had long since started to turn to fat. Jason exploded into him like a battering ram, smashing the older man flat against the wall. They briefly struggled, but the far stronger Jason was able to hurl the man around until he collided face first with the cinder-block wall. One more serious head thrust into the wall and two vicious punches to the man's kidney's and he slumped to the cold floor unconscious.

  Jason picked up the gun and ran through the open doorway. With his free hand he scooped up his laptop and cell phone. Stopping for a moment to gauge his surroundings, he spotted another doorway and, pausing to listen for any sound, he hurried through it.

  He stopped and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He swore under his breath. He was in the same warehouse, or one identical to it. They must have been driving in circles. He cautiously slipped down the steps and onto the main floor. The limo was nowhere in sight. He suddenly heard a sound from the direction he had just come. He raced to the overhead door, searching frantically for the switch to open it. His head jerked around as he heard running footsteps.

  He ran across the warehouse to the opposite end. Hidden in a corner behind some fifty-gallon drums, he carefully placed the gun on the floor and clicked open his laptop.

  The laptop was a sophisticated model complete with a built-in phone modern. He turned on the computer's power switch and used a short cable housed in his laptop's case to hook his computer's modern to his cellular phone. Sweat poured from his brow as the machine took a few seconds to warm up. Using his mouse, he clicked through the necessary function screens and then, in the darkness, his fingers guided by strong familiarity with the keys, he typed his message.

  So intent was he on sending it, Jason did not hear the footsteps behind him. He began to type in the e-mail address of the recipient.

  He was sending the message to his own America Online mailbox.

  Unfortunately, like people who couldn't remember their own phone number because they never called it, Jason, who never sent e-mail to himself, didn't have his e-mail address programmed into his laptop.

  He did remember it, but typing it cost him a few precious seconds.

  While his finger hovered over the keys, a light flashed over him, a strong arm locked around his neck.

  Jason managed to click on the send command. The message leaped electronically off the screen. For one brief moment. Then a hand slashed in front of his face, grabbed the laptop from him, the cell phone dangling precariously in the air at the end of the short cable. Jason could see the thick fingers hitting the necessary keys to cancel the e-mail.

  Jason swung a short, brutal punch that connected with his assailant's jaw. The grip relaxed on the laptop and Jason was able to snatch it and the cell phone away. He slammed a foot into his attacker's abdomen and raced off, leaving the man face down on the floor. Unfortunately, he left the 9mm behind as well.

  Heading toward a distant corner of the warehouse, Jason now could hear racing feet coming from all directions. There would be no escape for him, that was clear. But he could still do something.

  He dodged behind some metal stairs, dropped to his knees and started typing. A shout nearby made him jerk his head up. His flying fingers, so accurate now, failed him as his right index finger hit the wrong keystroke when typing the recipient's e-mail address. He began typing the message, the sweat pouring down his face, stinging his eyes. His breath came in big clumps, his neck ached from the stranglehold. It was so dark, he couldn't even see the keyboard. He alternated between staring at the tiny electronic images on the screen to desperately scanning the warehouse as the shouts and running feet came nearer and nearer to his location.

  He didn't realize that the small amount of light thrown off by the computer screen was like a laser show in the dark warehouse. The sound of men running hard toward him barely ten feet away made him cut short his message. Jason hit the send button and waited for the confirming signal. Then he deleted both the file he had sent and the name of the recipient. He did not look at the e-mail address as his finger held down the delete key. He then slid the laptop and cell phone across the floor and underneath the steps until they stopped far back in the corner. He had time to do nothing more as multiple searchlights hit him squarely in the face. He slowly stood up, his breathing heavy but his eyes defiant.

  A few minutes later the limo pulled out of the warehouse. Jason was slumped over in the backseat, several lacerations and deep bruises on his face, his breathing irregular. Kenneth Scales had the laptop open and was cursing loudly as he stared at the small screen, powerless to reverse what had occurred minutes earlier. In a fit of rage he tore Jason's cell phone free from the cable and repeatedly smashed it against the door of the limo until it dropped to the floor in jagged pieces. Then he pulled a small secured-line cellular phone from his inner jacket pocket and punched in a number. Scales spoke slowly into the phone. Archer had contacted someone, sent some message. There were a number of possible recipients and they would all have to be checked out and appropriately dealt with. But that potential problem would just have to keep. Other matters would now demand his time.

  Scales clicked off and looked over at Jason. When Jason managed to look up, the pistol's muzzle was almost against his forehead.

  "Who, Jason? Who'd you send the message to?"

  Jason managed to catch his breath as he gripped his painfully bruised ribs. "No way. Not in a million years, pal."

  Scales pushed the muzzle flush against Jason's head.

  "Pull the trigger, you asshole!" Jason screamed.

  Scales's finger started to press down on the Glock's trigger, but then he stopped and roughly pushed Jason back against the seat.

  "Not yet, Jason. Didn't I tell you? You've got another gig to do."

  Jason stared up helplessly at him as Scales smiled wickedly.

  Special Agent Raymond Jackson's eyes took in the area with one efficient sweep. He moved into the room, shutting the door behind him. Jackson shook his head in quiet amazement. Arthur Lieberman had been described to him as a fortune-builder with a career several decades long. This hovel did not conform to that description. He checked his watch. The forensics team would be here shortly to conduct an in-depth search. Although it seemed unlikely that Arthur Lieberman personally knew who had blown him out of a peaceful Virginia sky, on investigations of this magnitude, every possibility had to be explored.

  Jackson went into the tiny kitchen and quickly determined that Arthur Lieberman did not cook or eat here. There were no dishes or pans in any of the cupboards. The only visible occupant of the refrigera
tor was a lightbulb. The stove, though old, showed no signs of recent use. Jackson scanned the other areas of the living room and then walked into the small bathroom. With his gloved hand he carefully edged open the door to the medicine cabinet. It contained the usual toiletries, nothing of significance. Jackson was about to close the mirrored door when his eye caught the small bottle edged in between the toothpaste and the deodorant. The prescription label had dosage and refill information and the physician who had prescribed it. Agent Jackson was unfamiliar with the name of the drug. Jackson had three kids and was an informal expert on prescription and over-the-counter drugs for a host of ailments. He wrote down the name of the medication and closed the door to the medicine cabinet.

  Lieberman's sleeping chamber was small, the bed little more than a cot. A small desk sat against the wall nearest the window. After examining the closet, Jackson turned his attention to the desk.

  Several photos on the desk showed two men and one woman ranging in age from what looked to be late teens ro mid-twenties. The photos appeared several years old. Lieberman's kids, Jackson quickly concluded.

  Three drawers confronted him. One was locked. It took Jackson only a few seconds to open the locked drawer. Inside was a bundle of handwritten letters held together with a rubber band. The