The Julian Secret (Lang Reilly Thrillers) by Gregg Loomis

false back and groped around until he found what he was looking for. He put it on the desk, a disk made to screw into the speaker part of most pay phone receivers. It was one of the few toys he had taken from the Agency, a random modulator that made a voice over a telephone impossible to identify, either by a listener or a voice-wave measuring device. He put it in his pocket and walked out of the office for the elevators.
    There were three pay phones in the building’s lobby.
    Slightly less than a half hour later, Sara stood in the doorway, clearly perplexed. “Lang, there’s a man on the phone wants to speak with you, an emergency. Says he’s with the Transport Safety Administration. We have any business with . . . ?”
    Lang put down the file he had been reading and suppressed a grin. “I’ll take it.”
    The Transport Safety Administration, another of the alphabet-soup bureaus that had sprouted like weeds after 9/11. This one’s principal purpose seemed to be to harass commercial air travelers while refusing to conduct politically incorrect searches of profiled persons from places that spawned terrorism. Better to let a bearded, wild-eyed mullah in flowing robes through security and frisk an eighty-year-old grandmother than risk the ire of the liberal media.
    The TSA had taken heat lately from the number of fake bombs journalists had slipped by it, incursions into “restricted” areas, and items stolen from baggage.
    Like any government entity, Lang figured, this one would catapult itself into an opportunity for favorable publicity.
    “Lang Reilly,” he said as he picked up the phone. “What might I do for my government today?”
    Lang was at the hangar in twenty minutes, watching a swarm of uniformed agents buzz like bees protecting a hive. Each inspection plate was carefully removed by FAA-certified airframe and power-plant mechanics, and the cowling was being removed from both engines. Several ladders rested against various parts of the fuselage.
    The chief pilot, Burt Sanders, saw Lang and came over, a worried expression on his face. “I hope they can get the plane back together in time for the next flight.”
    Lang turned to watch two German shepherd dogssniff the landing gear as a uniformed agent stood on tiptoe to peer into a wheel well. “Better to be a little late than take a chance.”
    Burt was wide-eyed. “I don’t understand, Mr. Reilly. If somebody put a bomb on the plane, why would they turn around and make an anonymous call to report it?”
    Lang shifted his weight, his hands behind his back. “Oh, I’d guess some organization we turned down for a grant got pissed, and somebody decided a bomb hoax would be a way of getting even.”
    “But what about the guy who was in the hangar?” Burt was nervous, afraid he’d somehow get blamed for whatever bad might happen. “I mean, I’m careful to lock up every time I leave—honest.”
    Lang put a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m surprised you don’t guard it twenty-four/seven, careful as you are. No doubt in my mind you locked up.”
    “But how . . .”
    A large uniformed black man wearing a TSA windbreaker approached. “Mr. Reilly? Step over here, please.”
    Lang and Burt followed to the base of a ladder resting against the rear of the aircraft.
    The man pointed, looking at Burt. “You might want to take a look.”
    Lang watched Burt climb the ladder and peer into the small hole created by the removal of an inspection plate. Even from the floor, Lang could see the pilot’s face go white. “Oh, shit!”
    Lang arched a questioning eyebrow at Burt. The pilot’s legs were less than steady as he climbed back down.
    “Main control cable, one to the horizontal stabilizer,” Burt managed with difficulty. “It’s all corroded.”
    “Logbook shows the aircraft had a hundred-hour inspection less than two months ago,” the TSA man said. “That cable couldn’t corrode that fast.”
    Lang was becoming as uncomfortable