Arthur lived up to his claim. Much smaller than the police helicopter, he climbed the drug grower's aircraft to 500 feet and headed north-east. A check on the fuel gauge indicated a three quarter filled tank. Washington was within reach and less than ninety minutes away.

The voice of an Air Traffic Controller snapped them back to alert. The man demanded an immediate identification. "I'm open to all ideas," said Arthur on hearing the call a second time.

"As I see it," he continued, "we have three options. We can ignore it and have military aircraft surrounding us within minutes, respond and try and bluff our way through or ditch it and run like hell." Jess offered the only suggestion.

"Tell them you're from a farm in West Virginia and you're ferrying an injured farm hand to hospital. Advise them the patient's leg is broken and he's in considerable pain. Will that work?"

"I'm about to find out," he replied. He then relayed the message.

"What hospital?"

"Walter Reed." It was the only hospital he knew.

"I'll advise them to expect you," said the controller. "I'll arrange authority for a roof top landing."

"Jess, you're a genius," said Arthur in sharp contrast to his earlier assessment.

Fifteen minutes from his estimated time of arrival, Arthur again contacted Air Traffic Control to notify of engine difficulties. He wouldn't make Walter Reed. He was attempting a forced landing. He provided the co-ordinates.

Twenty two minutes later the ambulance arrived. Instead of facing a patient requiring attention the two paramedics found themselves confronted by armed gunmen. They obeyed the demands of their captors, surrendered their phones and their uniforms. The medics were then tied to the controls of the recently landed helicopter.

Dressed as paramedics, Tyler and Arthur strolled into the emergency admission foyer. Tyler approached the desk, a young assistant greeted him.

"Hi there, about five weeks ago," he commenced. "I brought an old guy in, I think his name was Paslow, or something like that. I promised I'd pop in and visit next time I was in. I was hoping you might be able to tell me where I might find him."

The girl, any woman less than thirty in the eyes of Tyler qualified as girl, came back with a look of sadness. "I'm sorry, Mr Paslow passed away two days ago."

"My memory's not what it once was," said Tyler. "How long ago was it that he was admitted?"

"You were close; it was five weeks and three days."

"Thank you, Miss." Tyler walked away wondering if that had been the day he had been apprehended. He stopped. Another thought came to mind. He turned back and asked. "Did his son ever call by?" Tyler knew no son existed, but he could come up with no better way of enquiring about Meredith's visiting habits.

"He only had a daughter, and God bless her. She was with him when he passed away."


*


Kate Brereton had vanished. Her cell neither answered nor went to voice mail. Her distraught parents provided no help. They'd not heard from Kate since her dismissal, they feared the worst. The disappearance was out of character. Police had been notified, they remained tight lipped. They'd found no evidence of foul play, in fact they'd found no evidence at all.

So many thoughts ran through the mind of Meredith? Was she partly responsible for Kate's disappearance? Had the humiliation of dismissal sent the young woman spiralling over the edge? Had she done the unthinkable and taken her own life? Was she the victim of crime? Had she been silenced? The final thought induced a chill. Would the Pentagon power brokers resort to such depths? She remembered her father, and what she'd just learned about Calin Roberts and the truth became obvious. Death was a tool, an effective method of ensuring silence. And the Pentagon craved silence. The less people knew; the better. Meredith's determination intensified.

She recalled her last meeting with Kate, it hadn't been pleasant. Meetings of termination seldom were. There was anger and argument along with the inevitable questions. Moreover, she now realised, she'd been the executioner, not the jury. She'd played no part in the determining of guilt, she had just delivered the punishment.


"Allow me to resign," pleaded Kate.

"Kate, I'm sorry. The circumstances don't permit negotiation. And in some ways that's to your advantage, former employees can't be compelled to front a corruption investigation." The answer didn't sit well with Meredith, but the decision wasn't hers.

"Am I being accused of corruption?"

"Corruption or incompetence, does it really matter. Your report was flawed. Do you want to be subjected to days of intense allegations? Your career will be destroyed."

"Damn it, yes I do. I want the chance to clear my name." Kate made no attempt to hide her disgust.

"Kate, I truly am sorry, but it's not my decision."

"Don't fob me off. You're the Director, the buck stops with you."

"If only it did." Meredith empathised with the young woman, a mistake had been made; someone had to pay. As Kate had signed the document, therefore responsibility sat with her.

"Kate, I'm just the mouth that delivers the lines fed to me from above."

"But my findings were correct," Kate insisted. "I want the samples reanalysed."

"We can't reanalyse what we no longer possess?" countered Meredith. "All the files and evidence pertaining to this investigation have vanished."

"How convenient, Director. How very fucking convenient." Kate rose from her chair and stormed from Meredith's office. Prior to exit she turned; her face crimson with rage.

"Hope you can live with this."

"Kate, I'm sorry." Meredith's words were lost in the sound of the door slamming.

*