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– it was only ten in the morning.
    ‘How’s your father doing?’ Mahoney said.
    ‘Not well, sir. He’s in intensive care. It was his second heart attack. We’re not sure he’s going to make it.’
    ‘But they’re taking good care of him?’ Mahoney said.
    ‘Yes, the nurses at the hospital, they have souls. And at least, where he is, the press can’t bother him.’
    Mahoney didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘So,’ he finally said. ‘What can I do for you? When you called—’
    ‘Excuse me, Mr Mahoney, but is this gentleman,’ Hassan said, looking over at DeMarco, ‘one of your assistants?’
    DeMarco knew Hassan might have asked the question simply because he wanted to know who DeMarco was before he spoke. But DeMarco also suspected that the question may have had to do with the way he looked. DeMarco had dark hair that he combed straight back, a strong nose, and a big, square, dimpled chin. He was broad-chested and had thick shoulders and heavy, muscular arms. He was a good-looking man, but he looked tough and hard – he didn’t look like some congressman’s assistant.
    Most congressional staffers were eager young kids just a few years out of college. Or, if not kids, they looked like crafty old negotiators, wheeler-dealers who spend all their time in dimly lit bars making the trade-offs that pass the laws. DeMarco didn’t look like someone from either of those groups. He looked instead like the guy a casino boss might assign to have a word with a card counter or a man the Teamsters might deploy to talk to a trucker who was behind on his dues. He looked, in other words, a lot like his father – and DeMarco’s father had been a hit man for the Italian Mafia.
    In response to Hassan’s question, Mahoney made a motion with his head – a little bit of a shake, a little bit of a nod – a motion that could have meant anything, and said, ‘Sorta. When you called, I figured it might be good if Joe sat in on this meeting. He’s a guy who helps out with things around here.’
    That was sorta clear as mud, DeMarco thought, and Hassan seemed to think so too.
    ‘I only ask because—’
    ‘Joe’s okay, Hassan. Now tell me why you’re here. Is it because the FBI’s hassling your family?’
    ‘No. I mean we are being hassled – the FBI’s questioned me and my sister and searched our houses – but I don’t need your help with that.’
    ‘So what is it, son?’ Mahoney said.
    ‘I want some answers!’ Hassan said, his voice rising. ‘This thing is killing my father. I want to know what really happened.’
    ‘Answers?’ Mahoney said. Then he added, in a surprisingly gentle voice, ‘Reza was flying the plane, son. There’s no doubt about that.’
    ‘Sir, I know he flew the plane, but nothing makes any sense. The FBI claims they found links between Reza and al-Qaeda, but they won’t say what they are. The information’s classified, they say. At the same time they’re implying that Reza was working with al-Qaeda, they’re saying he just went crazy because of all the pressure he’d been under lately. And he was under pressure, but he wouldn’t have tried to crash a plane into the White House because money was tight or because he’d lost a few cases in court. And no matter what kind of pressure he was under, he wouldn’t have killed his family! You knew Reza, Mr Mahoney. Can you imagine my brother killing his own children?’
    ‘Not unless he went off the deep end like the Bureau’s saying,’ Mahoney said.
    But DeMarco was thinking, This guy’s the pilot’s brother!
    Hassan shook his head. ‘I talked to Reza three days before he … before he died. He was angry about everything going on – this bill of Broderick’s and what happened on Meet the Press – but he didn’t have some kind of nervous breakdown. I don’t care what the FBI says.’
    Mahoney just sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. ‘What do you want me to do, Hassie? You know how I feel about your dad, but I