"Most of it, yes."

"For example." Reardon pointed to the open page, turned it to read. "Here on page 807, it says, 'Leevers and Radon introduced a biaxiality parameter B that relates the magnitude of the T stress as in equation 5.' You see that?"

"Yes." Barker swallowed.

"What is a 'biaxiality parameter'?"

"Uh, well, it's rather difficult to explain briefly ..."

Marty jumped: "Who are Leevers and Radon?"

"They're researchers in the field."

"You know them?"

"Not personally."

"But you're familiar with their work."

"I've heard their names."

"Do you know anything about them at all?"

"Not personally, no."

"Are they important researchers in the field?"

"I've said I don't know." Barker tugged at his collar again.

Jennifer realized she had to put a stop to this. Marty was doing his attack-dog routine, snarling at the smell of fear. Jennifer couldn't use any of this stuff; the significant fact was that Barker had been on a crusade for years, he had a track record, he was committed to the fight. In any case she already had his slats explanation from the day before, and she had softball answers to the questions she had asked herself. She tapped Marty on the shoulder. "We're running late," she said.

Marty responded instantly; he was bored. He jumped up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Barker, we have to cut this short. We appreciate your time. You've been very helpful."

Barker appeared to be in shock. He mumbled something. The makeup girl came up to him with wipes in her hand and said, "I'll help you get the makeup off..."

Marty Reardon turned to Jennifer. In a low voice he said, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Marty," she said, answering him in the same low tones, "the CNN tape is dynamite. The story's dynamite. The public's scared to get on airplanes. We're fleshing out the controversy. Performing a public service."

"Not with this clown you're not," Reardon said. "He's a litigator's stooge. All he's good for is an out-of-court settlement. He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about."

"Marty. Whether you like this guy or not, the plane has a history of problems. And the tape is fabulous."

"Yes, and everybody's seen the tape," Reardon said. "But what's the story! You better show me something, Jennifer."

"I will, Marty."

"You better."

Left unstated was the rest of the sentence: Or I'm going to call Dick Shenk and pull the plug.

AVIATION HIGHWAY

11:15A.M.

For a different look, they shot the FAA guy on the street, with the airport as background. The FAA guy was skinny and wore glasses. He blinked rapidly in the sun. He looked weak and bland. He was such a non-entity, Jennifer couldn't even remember his name. She felt confident he wouldn't hold up well.

Unfortunately, he was devastating about Barker.

"The FAA handles a great deal of sensitive information. Some is proprietary. Some is technical. Some is industry sensitive, and some is company sensitive. Since the candor of all parties is critical to our function, we have very strict rules about the dissemination of this information. Mr. Barker violated those rules. He seemed to have a great desire to see himself on television, and his name in the newspapers."

"He says, not true," Marty replied. "He says, the FAA wasn't doing its job, and he had to speak out."

'To attorneys?"

Marty said, "Attorneys?"

"Yes," the FAA guy said. "Most of his leaks were to attorneys bringing cases against carriers. He released confidential information to attorneys, incomplete information about investigations in progress. And that's illegal."

"Did you prosecute?"

"We're not able to prosecute. We don't have that authority. But it was clear to us that he was being paid under the table by lawyers to give them information. We turned his case over to the Justice Department, which failed to pursue it. We were pretty upset about it. We thought he should go to jail, and the attorneys with him."

"Why didn't that happen?"

"You'd have to ask Justice. But the Justice Department is made up of attorneys. And attorneys don't like to send other attorneys to jail. Sort of professional courtesy. Barker worked for attorneys, and they got him off. Barker still works for attorneys. Everything he says is designed to support or incite a frivolous lawsuit. He has no real interest in aviation safety. If he did, he'd still be working for us. Trying to serve the public, instead of trying to make a lot of money."

Marty said, "As you know, the FAA is currently under fire..."

Jennifer thought she'd better stop Marty now. There wasn't any point in continuing. She already intended to drop most of this interview. She'd use just the early statement where the FAA guy said Barker wanted publicity. That was the least damaging comment, and it would constitute a balanced response in the segment.

Because she needed Barker.

"Marty, I'm sorry, we have to get across town."

Marty nodded, thanked the guy immediately - another indication he was bored - signed an autograph for the guy's kid, and climbed into the limo ahead of Jennifer.

"Jesus," Marty said, as the limo pulled away.

He waved good-bye to the FAA guy through the window, smiled to him. Then he flopped back in the seat. "I don't get it, Jennifer," he said ominously. "Correct me if I'm wrong. But you don't have a story. You got some bullshit allegations by lawyers and their paid stooges. But you've got nothing of substance."

"We've got a story," she said. "You'll see." She tried to sound confident.

Marty grunted unhappily.

The car pulled out, and headed north to the Valley, toward Norton Aircraft.

VIDEO IMAGING SYSTEMS

11:17 A.M.

'Tape's coming up now," Harmon said. He drummed his fingers on the console.

Casey shifted her body in the chair, feeling twinges of pain. She still had several hours before the interview. And she still couldn't decide how she would handle it.

The tape began to run.

Harmon had tripled the frames, the image moving in a jerky slow motion. The change made the sequence appear even more horrifying. She watched in silence as the bodies tumbled, the camera spun and fell, and finally came to rest at the cockpit door.

"Go back."

"How far?"

"As slow as you can."

"One frame at a time?"

"Yes."

The images ran backward. The gray carpet. The blur as the camera jumped away from the door. The glint of light off the open cockpit door. The hot glare from the cockpit windows, the shoulders of the two pilots on either side of the pedestal, captain on the left, first officer on the right

The captain reaching toward the pedestal.

"Stop."

She stared at the frame. The captain was reaching, no hat, the face of the first officer turned forward, away from him.

The captain reaching his hand out.

Casey rolled her chair toward the console, and peered at the monitor. Then she stood, moved very close to the screen, seeing the scan lines.

There it is, she thought. In living color.

But what was she going to do about it?

Nothing, she realized. There was nothing she could do. She had the information now, but she could not possibly release it, and hold on to her job. But she realized she was probably going to lose her job anyway. Marder and Edgarton had set her up to do the press. Whether she lied, as Marder wanted her to do, or whether she told the truth, she was in trouble. There was no way out.

The only possible solution that Casey could see was not to do the interview. But she had to do it. She was caught in the middle.

"Okay," she said, sighing. "I've seen enough."

"What do you want to do?'

"Run another copy."

Harmon pressed a button on the console. He shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. "Ms. Singleton," he said. "I feel I have to mention something. The people who work here have seen this tape, and frankly, they're pretty upset."

"I can imagine," Casey said.

"They've all seen that guy on television, the attorney, who says you're covering up the real cause of the accident..."

"Uh-huh..."

"And one person in particular, a woman in reception, dunks we should turn this tape over to the authorities, or to the television stations. I mean, it's like the Rodney King thing. We're sitting on a bomb here. People's lives are at risk."

Casey sighed. She was not really surprised. But it presented a new issue, and she would have to deal with it. "Has that already happened? Is that what you're telling me?'

"No," Harmon said. "Not yet"

"But people are concerned"

"Yes."

"And what about you? What do you think?"

"Well. To tell you the truth, I'm bothered, as well," Harmon said. "I mean, you work for the company, you have your loyalties. I understand that. But if there really is something wrong with this airplane and people died because of it..."

Casey's mind was working fast again, thinking through the situation. There was no way to know how many copies of the tape had already been made. There was no way to contain or control events, now. And she was tired of the intrigue - with the carrier, with the engineers, with the union, with Marder, with Richman. All these conflicting agendas, while she was caught in the middle, trying to hold it together.

And now the damn tape company!

She said, "What's the name of the woman in reception?"

"Christine Barron."

"Does she know your company has signed a non-disclosure agreement with us?'

"Yeah, but ... I guess she thinks her conscience takes precedence."

"I need to make a call," Casey said. "On a private line."

He took her to an office that wasn't being used. She made two telephone calls. When she came back, she said to Harmon, "The tape is Norton property. It is not to be released to anyone without our authorization. And you have signed a nondisclosure agreement with us."

"Doesn't your conscience bother you?' Harmon said.

"No," Casey said. "It doesn't. We're investigating this, and we'll get to the bottom of it. All you're doing is talking about things you don't understand. If you release this tape, you'll help a bottom-feeder lawyer sue us for damages. You signed an NDA with us. You violate it, and you're out of business. Keep it in mind."

She took her copy of the tape, and walked out of the room.

NORTON QA

11:50 A.M.

Frustrated and angry, Casey stormed into her office at QA. An elderly woman was waiting for her. She introduced herself as Martha Gershon, in "media training." In person, she looked like a kindly grandmother: gray hair, tied up in a bun, and a beige, high-necked dress.

Casey said, "I'm sorry, I'm very busy. I know Marder asked you to see me, but I'm afraid that - "

"Oh, I realize how busy you are," Martha Gershon said. Her voice was calm, reassuring. "You don't have time for me, especially today. And you don't really want to see me, do you? Because you don't much care for John Marder."

Casey paused.

She looked again at this pleasant lady, standing there in her office, smiling.

"You must feel you've been manipulated by Mr. Marder. I understand. Now that I've met him, I must say I don't get a strong feeling of integrity from him. Do you?"

"No," Casey said.

"And I don't think he likes women much," Gershon continued. "And I suspect he's arranged for you to speak to the television cameras, in the hope that you would fail. Gosh, I'd hate to see that happen."

Casey stared at her. "Please sit down," she said.

"Thank you, dear." The woman sat on the couch, her beige dress billowing around her. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. She remained utterly calm. "I won't take long," she said.

"But perhaps you'd be more comfortable if you sat down, too."

Casey sat down.

"There's just a few things I'd like to remind you of," Gershon said, "before your interview. You know you'll be speaking to Martin Reardon."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes," she said, "which means you'll be dealing with his distinctive interviewing style. That will make it easier."

"I hope you're right."

"I am, dear," she said. "Are you comfortable now?"

"I think so."

"I'd like to see you sit back in your chair. There you go. Sit back. When you lean forward you appear too eager, and your body gets tense. Sit back, so you can take in what is said to you, and be relaxed. You might want to do that in the interview. Sit back, I mean. And be relaxed."

"All right," Casey said, sitting back.

"Relaxed now?"

"I think so," Casey said.

"Do you clasp your hands together like that on the desk, usually? I'd like to see what happens if you place your hands apart. Yes. Rest them on the desk, just like you're doing. If you close your hands, it makes you tense. It's so much better when you just stay open. Good. Does that feel natural?"

"I guess so."

"You must be under great strain now," Gershon said, clucking sympathetically. "But I've known Martin Reardon since he was a young reporter. Cronkite disliked him. Thought Martin was cocky and insubstantial. I fear that assessment has proved accurate. Martin is all tricks and no substance. He's not going to give you any trouble, Katharine. Not a woman of your intelligence. You'll have no trouble at all."

Casey said, "You're making me feel wonderful."

"I'm just telling you how it is," Gershon said lightly. "The most important thing to remember with Reardon is that you know more than he does. You've worked in this business for years. Reardon has literally just arrived. He probably flew in this morning, and he will fly out again tonight. He's bright, facile, and a quick study, but he does not have your depth of knowledge. Remember that: you know more than he does."

"Okay," Casey said.

"Now, because Reardon has almost no information at his disposal, his chief skill is manipulating the information you give him. Reardon has a reputation as a hatchet man, but if you watch how he behaves, he's actually a one-trick performer. And this is his trick. He gets you to agree with a series of statements, so you are nodding, yes, yes - and then he hits you with something out of left field. Reardon's done that his whole life. It's amazing people haven't caught on.

"He'll say, You're a woman. Yes. You live in California. Yes. You have a good job. Yes. You enjoy life. Yes. So why did you steal the money? And you've been nodding along, and suddenly you're flustered, you're off-balance - and he's got a reaction he can use.

"Remember, all he wants is that one-sentence reaction. If he doesn't get it, he'll double back, and ask the question another way. He may return to a subject again and again. If he keeps raising a particular topic, you'll know he hasn't gotten what he wants."

"Okay."

"Martin has another trick. He will make a provocative statement, and then pause, waiting for you to fill the vacuum. He'll say, Casey, you make airplanes, so you must know the planes are unsafe ... And wait for you to answer. But notice he hasn't actually asked a question."

Casey nodded.

"Or he will repeat what you say, in a tone of disbelief."

"I understand," Casey said.

"You understand!" Gershon said, surprised, raising her eyebrows. It was a pretty good imitation of Reardon. "You see what I mean. You will be goaded to defend yourself. But you don't have to. If Martin doesn't ask a question, you needn't say anything."

Casey nodded. Not saying anything.

"Very good." Gershon smiled. "You'll do just fine. Just remember to take all the time you want. The interview is taped, so they'll cut out any pauses. If you don't understand a question, ask him to clarify it. Martin is extremely good at asking vague questions that provoke specific answers. Remember: he doesn't really know what he's talking about. He's just here for the day."

"I understand," Casey said.

"Now. If you're comfortable looking at him, do that. If you're not, you might choose a point somewhere near his head, like the corner of a chair, or a picture on the wall behind him. And focus on that instead. The camera won't be able to tell you're not really looking at him. Just do whatever you need to do to keep your concentration."

Casey tried it, looking just past Gershon's ear.

"That's good," Gershon said. "You'll do fine. There's only one more thing I can tell you, Katherine. You work in a complex business. If you try to explain that complexity to Martin, you'll be frustrated. You'll feel he isn't interested. He'll probably cut you off. Because he isn't interested. A lot of people complain that television lacks focus. But that's the nature of the medium. Television's not about information at all. Information is active, engaging. Television is passive. Information is disinterested, objective. Television is emotional. It's entertainment. Whatever he says, however he acts, in truth Martin has absolutely no interest in you, or your company, or your airplanes. He's paid to exercise his one reliable talent: provoking people, getting them to make an emotional outburst, to lose their temper, to say something outrageous. He doesn't really want to know about airplanes. He wants a media moment. If you understand that, you can deal with him."

And she smiled, her grandmotherly smile. "I know you'll do just fine, Casey."

Casey said, "Will you be there? At the interview?' "Oh no," Gershon said, smiling. "Martin and I have a long history. We don't much care for each other. On the rare occasions we find ourselves in the same location, I'm afraid we tend to spit."

ADMINISTRATION

1:00 P.M.

John Marder was sitting at his desk, arranging the documents - props - for Casey to use in her interview. He wanted them complete, and he wanted them in order. First, the parts record for the counterfeit thruster cowl on the number-two engine. Finding that part had been a stroke of luck. Kenny Burne, for all his bluster, had done something right. A thruster cowl was a big-bone part, something everybody could relate to. And it was definitely counterfeit. Pratt and Whitney would scream when they saw it: the famous eagle on their logo had been printed backward. More important, the presence of a counterfeit part could throw the entire story in that direction, and it would take the heat off -

His private phone rang.

He picked it up. "Marder."

He heard the hissing crackle of a satellite phone. Hal Edgarton, calling from the company jet on his way to Hong Kong. Edgarton said, "Has it happened yet?"

"Not yet, Hal. Another hour."

"Call me, as soon as it's over."

"I will, Hal."

"And it better be good news," Edgarton said, and he hung up.

BURBANK

1:15P.M.

Jennifer was fretting. She had had to leave Marty alone for a while. And it was never a good idea to leave Marty alone during a shoot: he was a restless, high-energy guy, and he needed constant attention. Someone had to hold his hand and fuss over him. Marty was like all the on-camera talent at Newsline - they might once have been reporters, but now they were actors, and they had all the traits of actors. Self-centered, vain, demanding. They were a pain in the ass, is what they were.

She also knew that Marty, for all his bitching about the Norton story, was at bottom just worried about appearances. He knew the segment had been put together fast. He knew it was down and dirty. And he was afraid that when the segment was cut, he'd be fronting a lame story. He was afraid his friends would make snide comments about the story over lunch at the Four Seasons. He didn't care about journalistic responsibility. He just cared about appearances.

And the proof, Jennifer knew, was in her hands. She had only been gone twenty minutes, but as her Town Car rolled up to the location, she saw Marty pacing, head down. Troubled and unhappy.

Typical Marty.

She got out of the car. He came right over to her, started to make his complaint, started to say he thought they should bail on the segment, call Dick, tell him it wasn't working ... She cut him off.

"Marty. Look at this."

She took the videotape she was carrying, gave it to the cameraman, and told him to play it back. The cameraman popped it into the camera while she went over to the small playback monitor that sat on the grass.

"What is it?" Marty said, standing over the monitor.

"Watch."

The tape began to play. It started with a baby on the mother's lap. Goo-goo. Ga-ga. Baby sucking her toes.

Marty looked at Jennifer. His dark eyebrows went up.

She said nothing.

The tape continued.

With the glare of the sun on the monitor, it was hard to see in detail, but it was clear enough. Bodies suddenly tumbling through the air. Marty sucked in his breath as he watched, excited.

"Where did you get this?"

"Disgruntled employee."

"An employee of?"

"A video shop that does work for Norton Aircraft. A solid citizen who thought it should be released. She called me."

"This is a Norton tape?"

"They found it on the plane."

"Unbelievable," Marty said, watching the tape. "Unbelievable." Bodies tumbling, the camera moving. "This is shocking."

"Isn't it fabulous?"

The tape continued. It was good. It was all good - even better than the CNN tape, more kinetic, more radical. Because the camera broke free and bounced around, this tape conveyed a better sense of what must have happened on the flight.

"Who else has this?" Marty said.

"Nobody."

"But your disgruntled employee may ..."

"No," Jennifer said. "I promised we'd pay her legal bills, as long as she didn't give it to anybody else. She'll sit tight."

"So this is our exclusive."

"Right."

"An actual tape from inside Norton Aircraft."

"Right."

"Then we've got a fabulous segment here," Marty said.

Back from the dead! Jennifer thought, as she watched Marty go over to the fence, and start to prepare for his stand-up. The segment was saved!

She knew she could count on Marty to cut the crap. Because, of course, this new tape added nothing to the information already in the can. But Marty was a pro. He knew their segments lived and died on the visuals. If the visuals worked, nothing else mattered.

And this tape was a grabber.

So Marty was cheerful now, pacing back and forth, glancing at Norton Aircraft through the fence. The whole situation was perfect for Marty, a tape obtained from inside the company, with all the innuendo of stonewall and cover-up. Marty could milk that for all it was worth.

While the makeup girl retouched his neck, Marty said, "We should probably send that tape to Dick. So he can tease it."

"Done," Jennifer said, pointing to one of the cars heading down the road.

Dick would have it within an hour. And he would cream when he saw it.

Of course he would tease it He'd use bits of it to promote Saturday's show. "Shocking new film of the Norton disaster! Terrifying footage of death in the skies! Only on Newsline, Saturday at ten!"

They'd run that sucker every half hour until showtime. By Saturday night, the whole country would be watching.

Marty ad-libbed his stand-up, and he did it well. Now they were back in the car, heading toward the Norton gate. They were even a few minutes ahead of schedule.

"Who's the company contact?" he said.

"Woman named Singleton."

"A woman?" Dark eyebrows up again. "What's the deal?"

"She's a vice-president. Late thirties. And she's on the investigation team."