2
Now Cahill was wide awake.
‘Have you called Tim’s cell phone?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Melanie replied. ‘It defaults to voicemail.’
‘What about his car?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it at the airport somewhere, maybe in a long-stay car park or something?’
‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Look, get back in touch with the police and tell them that he said he would be on the flight and that he’s ex-Secret Service. That should get their attention. Ask them to check for his car and call the airline as well.’
She took a few deep breaths.
‘I’ll do that.’
‘They’ll have access to security cameras covering every inch of the airport so if his car is there they’ll find it. But you realise that will just confirm he was at the airport. Not that he got on that flight. Or any flight.’
‘It would be better if he wasn’t on it, you know. They’re saying that there are no survivors.’
‘Take small steps right now. Find out what you can.’
Cahill was about to end the call when something jagged into his mind, a shard of mental glass.
‘Melanie, you said he got fired from the Service. Have you tried calling there?’
‘I did. I couldn’t get past the front desk. It was almost like they fed me a script. I don’t know what’s going on.’ She started crying. ‘I trusted him,’ she said. ‘And he never let me down before.’
‘He was always someone I could trust,’ Cahill told her.
‘He said the same about you. He looked up to you so much.’
Cahill didn’t know how to respond.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go talk to the police again and I’ll call you after. But let me give you my numbers so you know how to get me.’
Cahill jotted down her home and mobile numbers.
‘Is there anyone there with you? Any family?’
‘My son’s coming with his wife. He’ll be here soon.’
‘Good. Take care, Melanie.’
Cahill sat at his desk staring at the TV screen and the devastation wrought by the crash. It would be just past midnight in Washington. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for – Scott Boston, his old boss in the Secret Service.
Cahill called Boston’s office number. Had a hunch that if he was still the same man he might be at his desk even at midnight on a Sunday. He liked to work when it was quiet.
Boston picked up on the second ring.
‘Scott, it’s Alex Cahill.’
Boston said nothing for a moment.
‘Alex, Jesus. It’s been a while. How are you?’
‘I’m good, Scott. How’s life in the Service?’
Standard platitudes.
‘You know, same old same old. What can I do for you at this time on a Sunday?’
‘Actually it’s early Monday for me.’
‘I forgot. How’s it working out for you over there?’
Cahill’s hand went involuntarily to his side. He felt the ribs he had broken in an explosion last September during what was supposed to have been an easy gig protecting an actress at a film premiere. He was sure Boston would have heard about it through government channels – would have heard that Cahill had lost one of his men, Chris Washington, in the same incident.
‘It’s been an interesting couple of years, you know. Listen, I’m calling about one of the guys. Tim Stark.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Cahill heard the caution in Boston’s voice.
‘We stayed in touch after I left and I just heard he got fired from the Service.’
‘Alex, you know I can’t talk to you about that stuff. Who told you that anyway?’
‘His wife.’
‘Melanie? When did you speak to her?’
‘Just now. She called me from Kansas. Said she thinks he was on that plane that went down over there.’
Cahill heard a noise on the other end of the phone, like Boston had stood up quickly and his chair had shot back and hit something.
‘What plane?’
‘You didn’t hear? The one that went down outside Denver. It was headed your way.’
‘He was coming to Washington? Tim Stark was coming here?’
‘Looks that way.’
Boston was quiet.
‘Scott, what’s going on with this?’
‘Alex, I’ve got to go. Sorry.’
Cahill held the phone away from his ear as Boston slammed the receiver down to end the call. He was left in the quiet of his study listening to nothing but the dial tone.