Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [24]
“Any suspects?”
“No. I got from Colonel Barton in Counterterrorism that the missiles might be Russian-made, old Soviet SAMs.”
“SAMs? Surface-to-air?”
“Uh huh, but that’s not official. You’ll be at home?”
“I’m heading there now.”
After checking her mail, Jessica looked for a cab to take her to her apartment in Columbia Plaza, on Twenty-third Street, almost directly across from the State Department building. Mackensie Smith pulled up in his blue Chevy sedan and rolled down the window. “Jessica,” he called, “need a ride?”
“On my way home, Mac.”
“Get in.”
Mac Smith and his wife, Annabel Reed-Smith, had become Jessica’s friends two years ago after Mac delivered a guest lecture on international criminal law to her class. Smith had been a top-flight attorney in Washington until his wife and only child were killed in a head-on collision on the Beltway. He lost his passion for the rough-and-tumble world of the criminal courtroom after that, closed his practice, and joined the faculty of GW’s esteemed law school.
Annabel, a matrimonial attorney when she and Mac met, had been toying with the idea of giving up her own practice to open an art gallery specializing in pre-Columbian art, a subject she’d fervently studied since her undergraduate years. With her husband’s encouragement, she took down her shingle, found space in Georgetown, and successfully launched her dream.
Because their individual interests and circle of friends cut across many lines, the handsome couple’s names appeared frequently on invitation lists, which they carefully parsed to leave themselves enough private time alone to enjoy their new apartment in the Watergate— and to enjoy each other.
Smith had the radio tuned to all-news station WTOP as Jessica got into his car.
“The investigation into fatal crashes of three commercial airliners this morning, including one headed for Washington from New York and carrying an undetermined number of area residents, is continuing. Information from reliable anonymous sources at various agencies gives growing credibility to eyewitness reports of missiles hitting two of the planes shortly after they’d taken off. All three planes were smaller, commuter-type aircraft. The death toll in the three accidents is eighty-seven. The Washington-bound airplane carried thirty-six passengers and a crew of three. The FBI is scheduled to hold a press conference within the hour about this multiple, unprecedented tragedy. We’ll bring that to you live. Stay tuned!”
A jazzy recorded promo for the station caused Mac to turn off the radio. “They keep pounding away with what we already know.”
“They have all those hours to fill.”
“You hear anything new, Jess?”
She considered mentioning what her boss at State had said about the missiles possibly being Russian-made but knew she shouldn’t. “No facts,” she said. “How’s Annabel?”
“Fine. What’s your read on the accidents?”
A shrug from Jessica. “Without knowing who was on those planes, it’s impossible to conjure a motive. Maybe even knowing that won’t provide any answers.”
“Missiles,” Smith said more to himself than to her as he pulled up in front of the apartment complex. “Shades of TWA 800 and the missile theorists.”
“With a big difference, Mac,” said Jessica. “In the TWA case, most missile theorists speculated it was an accident, remember? A Navy exercise gone awry. If three missiles were used, that’s no accident.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Annabel and I are planning a dinner party a few weeks from now. Annie will call. Hope you’re free.”
“Depends how this crisis plays out, but I’d love to come.”
As she was about to get out of the car, a twin-engine commuter plane taking off from Reagan National Airport flew low over them and disappeared from view behind a building.
“I wonder what the passengers on that plane are thinking,” Smith said.
“Hopefully, more pleasant thoughts than I’m having,” she said. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Can I go home now?”
Al Lester sat at a folding table in an empty hangar at Westchester County airport. Dozens