Pete frowned. He’d expected a back-and-forth about the state of Tom Patrick’s non-career, an attempt to barter his way back in – even a resignation speech – but this was out of left field.

‘Camel pack pulled into the engine? Yeah, sure.’

‘C’mon, Pete! They fire frozen turkeys at these fuckers in type approval and they don’t come apart like that. Munro didn’t find any evidence of the pack in the compressor or turbine.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe the guy kept his Zippo in the pack. That’d make a dent. But based on surrounding evidence, the disturbance causing the disintegration of the compressor, it’s a sound conclusion.’

‘It’s circumstantial at best,’ said Tom.

Pete leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s why they call it probable cause.’ When Tom didn’t smile at his NTSB humour, he asked, ‘Why?’

Tom paused. ‘I don’t know. Just a hunch.’

‘Care to share?’

Tom looked as embarrassed as he ever did. ‘It’s very … hunchy.’

Pete prepared himself. ‘Hunch away.’

‘The jet that went down in South Africa. The 737?’

‘I saw that.’

‘You see how the fuselage was sliced apart just fore of the port wing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Like the LAX 737.’

‘What’s the connection?’

‘Like I said, it’s just a hunch. This Chris Stern …’

‘The smoker?’

‘The quitter. Apparently he’d take a smoke from the pack, have a drag, then button it back into his coverall pocket. Never carried the pack. His buddy told me Stern was real careful about it.’

‘His buddy would.’

Tom nodded in tacit agreement, but raised his eyebrows at the same time to show a question still lingered.

‘There was a cigarette on the cement, Tom. Not in Stern’s pocket.’

‘I know. But Stern was cut in half right under the chest. His pocket too. That could be how the cigarette ended up on the floor.’

‘But you don’t know.’

Tom came back with an edge. ‘Maybe if I was lead on the case instead of Lenny Munro, we’d all know.’

‘Maybe. And maybe we’d all be up to our asses in lawyers.’

Tom shrugged.

Pete let it go. ‘Then what do you think caused the engine to tear apart like that?’

‘I don’t know, but one thing’s for sure. The South African jet wasn’t brought down by a Zippo at twenty-five thousand feet.’

Pete sighed. ‘Munro’s investigation was by the book—’

Tom gave a disparaging snort and Pete frowned. ‘Don’t snort at the book, Tom. The book is good. The book is what we do around here. The book is why you’re on the outside looking in right now and why I have to watch my best investigator crawling around in sludge-pits in Buttkiss, Arkansas!’ He calmed down and spread his palms. ‘Munro’s report adds up. There’s no reason for me to question his work here, Tom. And sure as hell no reason for you to question it.’

Tom nodded slowly. He knew Pete was right. He’d known it before he got to LAX this morning. He’d just hoped that coming all the way to DC – looking his boss in the eye – would make him seem more convincing. But now he realized that if he’d had a convincing argument he wouldn’t have needed to come to DC: Pete would have believed him over the phone.

He looked at him apprehensively. Pete felt warily that he was about to be put on the spot.

‘So you won’t sanction a second investigation?’

‘Are you fucking joking?’

Tom got to his feet, unwilling to leave and let it go, even though Pete’s chin was set stonily. ‘How about on my own time?’

Pete was surprised. ‘What’s the deal, Tom? What’s making it personal?’

Tom flushed. ‘Nothing. It’s just bugging me. That’s all.’ He tugged the door open.

Pete sighed. ‘Tom. Don’t do this. You’re on your way back in. If you get sidetracked now you may never make it. Let it go.’

‘I can’t.’

Tom strode past Kitty. He ignored her smile, as he ignored the sound of his boss yelling at him to come right back here.

8

TOM SPENT THREE hours on the phone to the South African Civil Aviation Authority before being put through to an investigating officer on the 737 crash. During that time he’d been cut off three times, listened to around an hour’s worth of hits from the 1970s played on what sounded like a glockenspiel, and introduced himself twice to the same person – who’d turned out to work in the staff canteen.

The line was variable, and punctuated by clicks and weird whirring noises. All Tom could do was sit and suffer, and try to tune out the vagaries of a phone system ten thousand miles away.

So he was sprawled on his bed, watching The Hunt for Red October with the sound down, eating a cheese and bacon sub, and tapping his fingers idly against his chest to the infuriating rhythm of ‘Me And You And A Dog Named Boo’, when a woman’s voice said, ‘Pamela Mashamaete.’

Tom swallowed his mouthful fast and almost choked as he introduced himself.

With only the evidence of their switchboard operator to go on, Tom was wary of the level of efficiency he’d find at the SACAA, but Pamela Mashamaete quickly allayed his fears. She was the lead investigator and sounded young but smart and – more importantly – she had no qualms about sharing information with him once he’d explained the purpose of his call. There was no hesitation, no need to refer to a higher authority for clearance, no reluctance to speculate on initial findings. It was refreshingly, if haphazardly, useful and they were quickly on first-name terms. At least, they were after Tom’s initial manful attempts to call her Miss Mashamaete.

‘I think you’d better call me Pam.’

‘Thank God for that. I’m Tom.’

‘Well, thank God for that!’