There was no woman on the jet. It had been men. All men.

“The Tholbergs, who lived in Coral Gables, had a vacation house in Puerto Rico that they were returning from. Officials said Mr. Tholberg, an account executive at Century Bank and Trust in Coral Gables, had been an experienced pilot, so it will take some time before the mysterious cause of this tragic crash is known. Back to you, Brian.”

Gannon kept blinking up at the screen even after it cut back to the studio.

“What’s up, Dad? Did you know them or something?” Declan said.

Something, Gannon thought, his mind reeling.

“You okay, Dad?”

Gannon finally pulled his eyes off the screen and looked around at the airport bar. It had a tiki theme. There was straw on the wall behind the bottles and surfboards everywhere.

“No,” Gannon finally said, mustering a smile. “I mean, yes. I’m fine. It’s the, um, woman. She looked just like this girl I knew in high school. This aggravating Indian girl who used to sit behind me in math class.”

He quickly gulped at his beer. He thought about Sergeant Jeremy. What he had said to him about the FBI poking around, asking questions.

He had one himself.

Why would the US government completely lie about a plane crash? he thought, glancing back up at the TV.

29

There was heavy evening traffic on the Beltway, so even with the lead car blooping the siren, it took them almost an hour from Dunning’s house to get to the base. The driver had radioed ahead, so the uniformed guards at the gate were at crisp attention as they came right through.

It turned out to be some pretty perfect timing. Through the tinted window, Reyland could see the lights of the AC-130 turning in the dark sky as they came alongside the hangar. As they slowed just beside the tarmac, Emerson, riding shotgun with the driver, turned to see if he should open the door, but Reyland shook his head.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Mr. Reyland,” Dunning’s very attractive black-haired daughter, Belinda, said as they stopped.

She was sitting opposite from him across the rear of the limo beside her devastated mother, Catherine.

Reyland folded his hands in the blue serge lap of his Brooks Brothers suit.

“Please, like I said, anything,” Reyland said.

“I know you’ve told Mother here, but I’d like to hear it from you. How was it that my father died exactly?”

Reyland blinked at the thirtysomething. She was tall and chic and stunning in her all-black and sunglasses. Like other rich women, she had been a ballerina once and still retained that thin, gracious, model-like comportment.

A flash of memory came to him. Stopping by Dunning’s villa once with some paperwork, he’d come upon Belinda soaking wet in a white one-piece with her other smoking-hot private high school BFFs by the pool.

Reyland swallowed.

“The doctors at the hospital in Rome said it was a massive stroke, Belinda,” he said quietly. “They assured me that he wouldn’t have felt anything. He just went to sleep and that was it.”