Authors: Thomas Kirkwood
“What?”
“You know, meet her, enchant her, see what you can do for her.”
“You’re kidding? You want me to cozy up to the daughter of the most anti-American politician in France?”
“What better way to prove him wrong?”
“Jesus, Sophie, I don’t know if I can fake it. What does she look like?”
“Better than the best you’ve schlepped home from the club.”
“Even Irène?”
“Even Irène. I can’t promise she’ll be more interested in your balls than Mr. Wilson’s, but if you put your heart into it, you should at least be able to make friends with her.”
“How? Where would I meet her?”
“Simple, Steven. You’ll be her tennis instructor. She’s spending the summer at a villa near Nice. She belongs to a fancy club. I’m told she plays there every day. If you want the job, I’ll arrange for you to be the visiting pro.”
Steven felt slightly overwhelmed. “Come on, Sophie, how can you arrange something like that?”
“I’ve been in business a long time, darling. I have friends. Give me the nod and the pro down there will be offered a fabulous temporary job in Beverly Hills. Believe me, he’s not the type to turn it down. The tentative exchange I’ve worked out calls for you to stand in for him while he’s gone.”
“Then?”
Sophie laughed. “Just follow that golden
schwanz
of yours.”
“Hang on, hold on just a minute. You’re actually going to send me down there to seduce Michelet’s daughter?”
“With a large salary, a vacation home near the beach and a generous expense account. And to sweeten the pot, Steven, my job offer goes beyond the Michelet book. I’m asking you to become my assistant on all future projects. A few years apprenticing with me will make you a very employable journalist. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He shook his head in disbelief. He was happy, sure, but the whole thing sounded a little suspect. “Yes. And one thing’s for sure. The usual methods of breaking into print haven’t worked for me.”
“How do you know, Steven? The ‘usual methods’ involve the submission of completed articles. From what you’ve told me, you’ve never completed anything. But enough on the negative side. If you stop procrastinating and learn the fine art of perseverance, you’ll become a superb journalist. I hope you’re not offended I’m asking you to begin your career by playing gigolo.”
“Offended? I’m flattered you think I’m irresistible. But I’m not, Sophie. I get turned down all the time. Besides, I’m sure her father makes her wear a chastity belt. Even if I manage to grope my way to the winning combination, I’ll get shot before I find out anything about the old man.”
“But you’ll have no trouble getting out of bed in the morning, will you?”
“Come on, Sophie. You’re joking about all of this.”
“No. And, Steven, I didn’t say you had to seduce her. It would be preferable, of course, but if I must, I’ll settle for a nice platonic friendship.”
“It’s not going to work. I’m a tennis playing bum who’s quit enough jobs and graduate programs to give my father an ulcer. Why would the daughter of a cabinet minister be interested in someone like me?”
Sophie didn’t answer immediately but made a silent counter-clockwise tour of her office. When she was ready to talk, she sat down and slid her folding chair forward until their knees touched.
“Steven, be a little gentler on yourself. You are a bright and extremely handsome young man who’s had the guts to avoid the castration traps of career and marriage. You are not a bum, and even if you were it wouldn’t matter. The French attach tremendous importance to the
family
. This is especially true of the social climbing bourgeois snobs you’ll be associating with. You’re from a rather prominent family, right? Didn’t you tell me your father was CEO of New England Plastics?”
“I’m not my father.”
“You’re missing the point. To these people, if your family’s all right, so are you. What about your mother? I’ll take a guess. President of the local DAR.”
“No. Chairman of the Connecticut Republican Party.”
“That’s marvelous. And your brothers?”
“Bob’s an eye surgeon in Greenwich, John’s a tax attorney in New Haven and Dean has become a big shot on Wall Street, don’t ask me how.”
“Perfect! And you, the most talented of this prestigious lot, have been saved for better things. I promise you’ll be as socially acceptable as an American in France can be. And trust my judgment, Steven. She’s going to like you.”
He felt restless – intrigued but restless. He had a powerful urge to fiddle with the books and papers lying all around but knew Sophie would be at his throat if he touched anything.
“Okay, here’s where I stand. I don’t mind befriending her or even sleeping with her if it works out that way, but I don’t want to deceive her.”
“What do you mean, Steven?”
“Well, let’s say she goes for the whole enchilada. Do I have to make her believe I’m in love with her?”
“Let me ask you something, darling.”
“What?”
“How much time do you spend telling your women friends here you
don’t
love them? Relax. Be yourself. Once you get started, you’ll forget your qualms.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Hold my hands, Steven. I want you to feel my warmth. I want it to flow through your fingers and into your heart. You must not believe I’m a cold-blooded viper.”
“Viper,” he said, giving her his hands. She squeezed tightly, and he was surprised by how much warmth he felt.
She laughed. “You’re going to do great. Even if you never meet Michelet, even if your information on him is hearsay, I’ll still be ahead of the game.”
“Sophie, just listen to me for a minute. I’m not saying I don’t like the idea of getting close to the guy. I do. Even if he’s not the danger to humanity you think he is, it’ll make a good story. But there must be another way. We’re supposed to be the decent ones. Aren’t we stooping to Michelet’s level if we set out to deceive his daughter?”
“Oh, my dear friend, lighten up! Can’t you see you’ll be doing the poor girl a favor?”
“A
favor
!”
“That’s right. My sources tell me Michelet is determined to pick the husband. You know, there are circles in France where this is still done. It’s a political thing. He wants her marriage to bolster his new image of respectability. Isn’t that disgusting?”
“Sure, but – ”
“Anyway, Steven, I’m told he has a list of men he considers acceptable, mostly aristocrats. Wouldn’t you say you’d be doing her a favor if you gave her the chance to escape the old man’s list of jerks and pick her own boyfriend?”
“You’re just making this up so I won’t feel guilty.”
“No, it’s the absolute truth.”
“Jesus, Sophie, I don’t – ”
“I know, I know, you need some time to think about it. Fine. I’ll give you until three o’clock. While I’m waiting, why don’t we debauch at Pétits Pères, as you suggested before your unseemly fit of Calvinism? We’ll have a terrific lunch and an expensive bottle of Bordeaux, and I’ll show you photographs of the girl I guarantee will dissolve any vestiges of piety still clouding your judgment.”
Steven took a deep breath. Maybe Sophie was right. Maybe he needed to loosen up. If she was serious about the job, it was the opportunity of a lifetime for a guy who wanted to be a journalist.
She was halfway to the door. He caught up and took her arm. “By the way, Sophie, does this sweet young thing have a name?”
“Nicole.”
“I like it,” he said as they strolled out.
Chapter Two
Washington, D.C.
Summer 1999
Frank Warner, the NTSB’s head of air crash investigations, had an ambivalent relationship to his telephone. On the negative side, he could never escape the bugger. It was set up to ring simultaneously in his Georgetown home and Washington office. If no one answered, the call went looking for him like a blood hound. He had a phone in his government car, a tiny cellular for public places and a water-proof beeper for the beach. The previous summer a call had nailed him on the first day of his vacation while he was scuba diving in 20 feet of water off the Bahamas.
In the last quarter century, the wounds his personal life had sustained at the hands of his telephone were enormous. If he had been the type to discuss such things, he might have offered as an example the failure of his first marriage and his resultant childless state; or the failure of his second marriage and his present wifeless state. The calls had a way of coming at dinner parties his former spouses had planned for weeks, or during rare and wonderful moments of intimacy. And they could always be counted on to sniff out vacations 5,000 miles away . . .
His close-cropped hair was mostly gray. When exhausted, which was often, the bags beneath his attentive brown eyes grew heavy and their whites became badly bloodshot. The rest of him, however, showed few signs of aging. He was 6ʹ2ʺ and built like a tight end. Except for an occasional cigar he did not smoke, and he carefully monitored what he ate and drank. The stress of his work took care of any excess calories.
At age 57 Warner drove himself and his staff without regard for anyone’s personal comfort. He demanded superior performance and got it, even when an investigation required 20-hour days and uninterrupted weeks on the road. In spite of this, he was a well-liked boss. It was clear to everyone that he wasn’t in the thing for self-aggrandizement, a rare quality in official Washington.
Warner kept two packed bags by the front door of his home, one for warm climates, the other for the cold. An identical set of bags waited in his office. It was his policy to be en route five minutes after a call, day or night, and he required the same preparedness of his staff.
He reached for his warm weather bag, the same tattered valise he carried to Brazil the trip his second wife had left him. Claire, his new companion, accompanied him out the front door and waited with him at curbside. She was an M.D., specialty trauma: she knew what it meant to be on call. She stood with him in silence until his ride came.
He drove with his assistant, Tim Simmons, to Reagan Airport. In less than an hour he and 10 members of his Go Team were aboard an NTSB Gulfstream II, climbing through 20,000 feet. They were en route to the Peach Tree-DeKalb Municipal Airport on the north side of Atlanta.
Warner opened the briefing in the conference area at the back of the plane. “Simmons, please bring us up to date.”
Simmons, 35, an engineer with youthful good looks, had gone from being Warner’s goat when he joined the NTSB fresh out of graduate school to his most trusted investigator. He said, “I roused Delta Operations during the drive to the airport. A Seven-Six, outbound for Frankfurt, two-hundred-eighteen on board. No information yet on survivors, but the prognosis is doubtful. The aircraft lost an engine shortly after take-off, visual confirmation from the tower. The engine landed on airport property, which will simplify our task.”
Simmons lit a cigarette, and the non-smoking contingent let him get by with it this once. “All indications are that the pilot kept the aircraft under control. In other words, no violent maneuvers to regain control after the engine broke loose that would explain later events.”