Murder in Foggy Bottom Read Online Free Page A

airport up in the boondocks. Westchester or somethin’ like that.”
    “That’s hardly the boondocks, Juan. How bad?”
    Juan shrugged. “They didn’t say. I was listening to music when the announcer came on with a news bulletin.”
    “Sorry to hear it. Thanks for replacing that mag for me.”
    “Hey, happy to do it, Mr. Pauling. See you next time. Safe flight.”
    Juan watched Pauling climb up into the left-hand seat of the Cessna. Of all the private pilots who flew in and out of the small airport, Max Pauling was, as far as Juan was concerned, the most professional. Other pilots looked like what they were, average citizens enjoying the hobby of flying. Pauling had the look of a pro, a military pilot about to take off from a carrier deck, or a veteran commercial captain getting ready for a transatlantic flight in a jumbo jet. He dressed differently from average private pilots, who flew in and out of the airport wearing sports jackets, Bermuda shorts and T-shirts, or suits, even occasional tuxedos when they were coming in to attend fancy parties. Not Pauling. Although he was a civilian pilot in a small, single-engine aircraft, he always wore a green jumpsuit from his military days, and his favorite item of clothing, a tan Banana Republic photo-journalist vest with twenty-six pockets—“My answer to a woman’s purse,” he was fond of saying when asked about the vest. He approached his preflight check with precision and purpose. He even
looked
like a professional or military pilot: square face and close-cropped hair, lots of wrinkle lines from peering into the sun, obviously a sturdy guy, fit beneath the jumpsuit.
    Pauling’s demeanor, too, impressed the impressionable Juan. He was easygoing and always courteous, something Juan couldn’t say about some of the demanding, unreasonable amateurs he met on the tie-down line.
    Strapped in the left-hand seat, Pauling set the throttle at half power and leaned out the open window to shout “Clear!” to alert anyone in the vicinity that he was about to start the engine. He turned the key; the engine and prop cranked over easily. Pauling waved to Juan, who threw him a smart salute—good kid, Pauling thought— and squeezed the throttle forward just enough to break inertia and to begin his taxi to the end of the thousand-foot macadam strip, the airport’s only runway. He tuned his radio to the ground control frequency and announced into the handheld mike, “Cessna three-three-nine Alpha rolling.”
    “Okay,” the airport owner rasped from the yellow shack.
    Pauling held his toes on the brake pedals as he advanced the throttle all the way to the instrument panel, then released it. The Cessna jerked forward, gaining speed, until the natural lift created under the curved wings was sufficient for Pauling to pull back gently on the yoke.
    Procedures at the airport called for a right turn as soon as it was safe to avoid flying over a housing development. He banked right, leaned out the fuel mixture once he’d reached his announced cruise altitude, set the throttle to 75 percent power, and settled back for the two-hour flight to Washington.
    He flew most of the trip on autopilot, adjusting the Cessna’s heading and altitude when instructed to do so by ground controllers. This was prime time for Pauling, alone in his little plane, his pride and joy, above the stresses of daily life on the ground, at work, and in his personal life. It was what fishing was for some men. He did his best thinking when in the air, indulged in his most fertile and useful reflections.
    This most recent visit with his ex-wife and sons had been like most visits since their separation and subsequent divorce four years ago—practiced civility by the adults, guarded behavior by the sons to avoid the appearance of taking sides. The only potential for a fissure in their adult politesse was when his older son, Rob, asked when he and his brother could go flying with Dad.
    “Don’t even ask,” Doris