"Sorry, I didn't think about that. Nine o'clock." I looked at the clock on the dash. "You might still make it if you left now."

"Too late." She sounded perturbed. "Look, I was talking to Richard in London, and he said he's glad you're aboard, but he may bring on some help."

Richard was the CEO of Aviation Insurers International, based in London. He was Kathryn's boss. I saw the car in front of me suddenly slow as the nose of the car dipped-he was braking hard. I hit the brakes and could feel the antilock brakes take effect as I tried to slow without hitting him. I tried not to fire off an expletive.

"What kind of help?"

"A couple of people, really. He mentioned Mark Brightman, on the civil side."

Everybody knew who Brightman was. The aggressive defense lawyer from New York City carried his New York attitude with him everywhere he went. "Seriously?"

"Yes, we're thinking about it."

"You said a couple."

"He was thinking of getting someone who has experience in Washington with these political witch hunts."

"Who?"

"Not sure yet. Some big names. I'm not sure what's going to happen."

I was annoyed but said nothing. "Just let me know."

I drove into downtown Washington with the familiar monuments pointing to the sky, which was beginning to clear from the lingering storm. The city now had a new president. Vice President Donald Cunningham had been sworn in as president of the United States the day before, while Rachel and I were out in the mud. All the news reports mentioned how his hand visibly shook on the Bible. Reporters were surprised by his nervousness. They took it as a reaction to the rumors that they had started and were now rampant that the vice president felt that he was in danger; he believed the president had been murdered. That was really helpful to us. Most of the talk was about "murder" by WorldCopter through their incompetence, their "uncleared" workers who undoubtedly sabotaged the helicopter, the dead rotor blade lying in the dirt, and the evil foreign corporations who had stolen this major contract from its rightful owner, the American manufacturer who had been making the presidential helicopters for the last fifty years. It was a classic example of what the press was so good at-taking a small piece of information, breaking it up into even smaller threads, and weaving a conspiracy. Really helpful.

We drove to NTSB headquarters and parked a couple of blocks away. We put on our suit coats and walked toward the building. The whole city felt different. It was hard to describe. It was as if the entire city were in a faint shadow of a massive object high above that was about to fall on it. The shadow would be there until the city knew what had happened to their president, or until the object landed on them.

The lobby was jammed with reporters and cameras. I said to Rachel, "Don't say anything."

The reporters looked at us, wondered who we were, and finally decided to ask. One reporter with a local Washington television station ran up to me and stuck a microphone in my face. Her cameraman had his Sony television camera on his shoulder with its red recording light illuminated. She asked me, "Are you here to listen to the cockpit voice recorder?"

"Yes, I am."

"And who are you?"

"I'm Mike Nolan."

"Who are you with?"

"I'm with her," I said, indicating. "Excuse us."

"Are you an attorney?" she asked to my back.

I didn't respond as I walked to the receptionist and gave her my driver's license. She looked at the list and checked my name off and handed me a visitor's badge. I passed through the turnstiles and took the elevator to the fourth floor, where I knew the large hearing room was. It was eight thirty and only ten other people were there, several from the NTSB, and several men who looked to me to be with the Secret Service. The room was government-stark. The paintings on the wall looked like photocopies of bad art in cheap metal frames. Two long metal tables were up front with fifty or so metal chairs placed like audience seats throughout the rest of the room with a narrow aisle in the middle. The only thing in the room that looked modern or new was a sophisticated PA system that had large speakers on stands at the ends of the two metal tables and a large amplifier in the middle of the table hooked up to the speakers. The charred CVR sat next to the amplifier. A technician was connecting its wires to the amp in preparation for playing the tape.

It wasn't actually a tape at all, of course, but a hard drive. The sound was recorded digitally. Tapes are too vulnerable to heat and pressure. The orange box that contained the cockpit voice recorder was designed to withstand one thousand G's-one thousand times the force of gravity-for at least five milliseconds, and eleven hundred degrees for thirty minutes. It had probably come close to reaching both of those in this crash. It was dented in one corner in particular and was more charred-black than orange.

Well before the clock actually reached nine, the room was full of parties to the investigation, from the engine manufacturer, to Marcel and his group, to numerous other component-part manufacturers who had been invited to participate. Rose came into the room with quite a flourish. Her braid was taut and long. Her face was humorless and full of determination. She waited until the crowd gave her their full attention, and the room finally grew silent.

She spoke to the group. "Good morning. For those of you I haven't met, my name is Rose Lisenko. I am the investigator in charge. Couple of ground rules. First, this investigation is ongoing. The press has not been invited because we don't know what's on the recording. We have checked to make sure that it is intact and will play. We have not listened to it. You will hear it at the same time we do. Because of that, we don't want the press taking this raw information and giving it to the general public, especially in a case as sensitive as this one. If we believe the recording should be released to the public, we will do so when that is appropriate. We therefore ask that everyone confirm to us that there are no recording devices in the room. Does anyone have a digital recorder or video recorder of any kind on their person?" She looked around the room and waited.

"Good. Second, after this recording is played, it will be transcribed later today, and each chairman of each working group will be given a copy of the transcript. If you are in a working group, you will also receive a copy of the recording. If you are not in a working group but believe you need a copy of the transcript or the recording, please let me know and I will determine whether you are entitled to a copy. We will also of course be playing the tape again later, and you can hear it at those later times. You will be given notice before the playing occurs. If you want to have the tape played after today, please let me know and we will determine whether we need to conduct a special playing of the tape."

She looked at one of the NTSB employees in the back and said in a fairly loud and commanding voice, "Secure the doors." He stood in front of the door as another NTSB employee exited the room. They took up posts on either side of the closed doors.

Rose continued, "I would ask everyone to refrain from making any noise whatsoever during the playing of this tape. Every little sound can be significant. We've cranked up the volume quite a lot, so that it may sound too loud to you in this room, but we, like you, are listening for background noises as well as the obvious information from the voices." She paused, looked around, and then said, "Play it."