Passenger 19

SEVENTEEN

At three minutes past noon on Wednesday, Davis called the number Sorensen had given him from a corner table at a restaurant. The establishment was one he hadn’t been to before, half a mile from his usual place. Three minutes past noon because it had taken that long to compose his fast-disintegrating thoughts.

His hard-won equilibrium lurched when a male voice answered, “Hello.”

“Uh… hello. I was trying to reach Anna Sorensen.”

“Oh, right. Here you go.”

Sorensen’s voice. “Hey, Jammer.”

“Was that your brother-in-law?”

“Yeah. We all met for lunch in Manassas.”

“Sounds like fun,” he replied, not knowing what else to say. From where he sat, lunch in Manassas was like lunch on the moon. “Do you think this line is okay?”

“Best I can do for now,” she said. “I’m stepping outside.”

He was no expert in communications security, but a brother-in-law’s cell phone from a sidewalk seemed marginal at best. Lacking any better plan, he said, “I hope you’ve got something for me. There’s no news about Jen, and I feel like I’m beating my head against a wall down here.”

“Too bad for the wall.”

Davis said nothing.

“How are you really?”

A sea of clichés came to mind. He settled for, “I’m treading water — but barely.”

“That’s good, I think. I do have some news for you. I got a bead on your man Mulligan. Are you sitting down?”

He assured her he was.

“The guy was United States Secret Service.”

Davis sank lower in his booth, staring at the empty plate in front of him that had fifteen minutes ago been piled with rice, beans, and chicken. He blew out a long breath. “Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Neither did I. Once I knew that much, I made some very discreet inquiries to find out what he was doing down there.”

“And?”

“It’s a little vague — I didn’t want to put my source on the spot. Mulligan was on mission status, personal protection duty.”

“What?”

“I know, I know. When I saw he was Secret Service, I figured he’d be part of some financial crimes task force — you know, chasing after laundered drug money or something. But that wasn’t the case. Mulligan was on that flight to act as a bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard for who?”

“That I couldn’t find out. The Secret Service keeps information on principals at a very high level. My source went through some back doors to even discover that Mulligan was on mission status.”

“Yeah, I get that part. But who could we be talking about?”

“Everybody knows these guys protect the president, but they also cover past presidents and certain family members. Then there’s the vice president and his family. I’ve been told others can be covered in special cases — senators, department secretaries, foreign dignitaries. It’s a bigger list than you might think. The problem is, only a handful of people know who’s on that list.”

“Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”

“One more thing. These guys always travel armed, but it takes special authorization to carry on a commercial flight. Clearance is particularly complicated when traveling abroad.”

Davis considered it. “Which means there would be people in Colombia who knew Mulligan was coming.”

“They’d have known the time and date of his flight, and where he was going. They probably even knew his seat assignment. Which leads to something else.” Sorensen paused to let him figure it out.

“They probably also knew who he was protecting.”

“I think there’s a good chance.”

The gears in Davis’ head ground to a stop, but he wasn’t sure why. He let it go for the moment. “It opens up a lot of possibilities.”

“What else I can do to help?” Sorensen asked.

“Let’s take a pass on Mulligan. It would only highlight us to keep chasing that, and you’ve stuck your neck out far enough as it is. I might ask for one more thing, but I’ve got some work to do on my end first. Thanks for your help.”

“She’s out there, Jammer. I feel it.”

“I hope to hell you’re right.”

Davis ended the call, but he didn’t move. He sat at the table with the phone in his hand, Sorensen’s last words ringing in his head.

She’s out there, Jammer. I feel it.

For the first time since arriving in Colombia, he felt it too.

Davis used the ten-minute walk back to headquarters to assess his options. He considered calling a meeting to confront Marquez and Echevarria with the information on Thomas Mulligan. He wondered if one, or even both of them, already knew the truth about Passenger 21. His internal scales weighed against the idea for the time being — he just couldn’t see how sharing that information would advance his cause.

Arriving at the El Centro he went straight to a computer, hoping to build on Sorensen’s revelation. He called up the video he’d seen two nights earlier, the closed-circuit recording of the TAC-Air boarding area. Cueing to the segment he wanted, he saw Jen and Kristin Stewart, and directly behind them Thomas Mulligan. Davis ran the video to its end, slightly short of the point where they all disappeared.

Mulligan was exactly as he remembered. Sport coat and pressed trousers. Busy eyes working the terminal and checking his phone. Davis had viewed the scene before, but his first interpretation was totally off the mark. If he’d been dropping a practice bomb on a training flight it would have rated unscorable — would have landed completely off the range. Davis had pegged Mulligan for a businessman here to sell some new line of products. When Kristin had turned and said something to the man, he’d taken it for a casual acquaintance.

He watched the video more closely. Not only did Kristin say something, but he saw Mulligan give a response. How had he missed that? Davis concentrated on a 1.2 second loop, and watched it over and over. In the end, he was reasonably sure he could lip read Mulligan’s three word reply. “No, Kristin, don’t.”

He stopped the video.

No, Kristin, don’t.

It was a response steeped in familiarity. And also a directive. Which was not at all how a thirty-something guy would address a college-aged girl he’d just met in an airline boarding area. With his elbows on the chair’s armrests and his hands steepled under his chin, Davis ran the video back and carefully studied the minutes before those words. He paid particular attention to Mulligan’s positioning, eye movement, and who seemed to hold his attention. By the third run-through there could be no doubt. Special Agent Mulligan was in the boarding area for one reason.

He was protecting Kristin Stewart.

Davis could have kicked himself. All along it had been right there in front of him. Two missing passengers. He’d been so fully focused on Jen that her seatmate seemed an afterthought. Now he realized it was quite the opposite. Jen was no more than an innocent bystander, swept into events beyond her control. Kristin Stewart was something else altogether. She was instrumental to everything that had happened on TAC-Air Flight 223.

Passenger 19 was the key.

“Seven million U.S.? Are they nuts?” asked the man named Evers. A characteristically dour man, his baggy eyes and creased jowls took on an unusually sour arrangement. In truth the number did not surprise him, but he thought it good form to make a show of displeasure.

“I don’t expect any negotiation on the point,” said the other man in the very private room on G Street. His name was Frederick Strand, and he was CEO of The Alamosa Group — the nicely indeterminate name of the company he’d founded six years ago, this after retiring from the Navy with twenty-four good years and the rank of vice admiral.

“That’s your professional opinion?” asked Evers, his tone laced in sarcasm.

“It is,” said an undeterred Strand.

“Where are we supposed to get that kind of money on short notice?”

“That’s not for me to say, Mr. Evers. One source comes to mind, but there are obvious complications, the likes of which you would understand better than I. The deadline for compliance is noon this Friday.”

“And if we fail to meet it?”

“You saw the message. If the transfer is not completed on schedule, they promise to — how was it worded? Make the truth known to all?”

“How would they make good on such a threat?”

The CEO cocked his head and pursed his lips, as he once might have done to consider which surface battle group to apply to an enemy’s exposed flank. “I would use DNA, send samples simultaneously to a number of media outlets. That would guarantee a race to publication, with limited time for you to plan a preemptive public relations strike. The facts would run their course, and put you immediately on the defensive.”

Evers closed his eyes, imagining that awful scenario. “What kind of samples?” he asked with clear discomfort. “They won’t harm her, will they?”

“Is this a question from you… or your employer?”

“Me.”

The admiral steepled his hands thoughtfully. “I doubt very much they would harm her. There’s no benefit… and safe to say, in time, the possible downside could be significant.”

“Do you see any chance of settling this by more direct means?”

Strand chuckled briefly, but held his bearing. “As in an armed intervention? Delta Force or SEAL Team Six? I don’t see anyone authorizing that. And if you’re thinking of a private venture — it would take a month to plan, and something in the neighborhood of the same seven million.”

Evers wilted in his seat. “We’re paying you a hell of a lot of money, and this is the best advice you can give?”

“We both face limitations, Mr. Evers, you know that. We have one asset presently in theater, the man the NTSB sent. It initially seemed like a good idea, to have someone in country and watching this investigation, but he hasn’t gotten anywhere. The man might be capable in his field, but there can’t be any thought about him getting the girl back. That would be way out of his league. For what it’s worth, we were able to track down the old beggar who delivered the message to Stuyvesant in the soup kitchen. He’s no one, a cul-de-sac. I’m sure there are at least three cutouts. These people are not beginners — they know what they’re doing.”

Evers fumed. “All right, I’ll look into the funds. Assuming I can arrange it, what happens next?”

“If the message is accurate, the rest is simple. We send a man to Colombia to complete the transaction.”

“Who?”

“I have someone in mind.”

Evers stared, unsatisfied.

“His name is Kehoe, if you must know. He’s my best man.”

“All right, I’ll be in touch. Please tell Mr. Kehoe to pack his bags.”

The admiral smiled as the two shook hands. “Chief Petty Officer Kehoe has had a bag packed for twenty years. He uses it often.”

Reinvigorated by his video session, Davis decided the next thing to attack was the whereabouts of Captain Reyna. He got up and found Marquez still in his office.

“Do we have a TAC-Air flight procedures manual?” Davis asked, his shoulders filling the door’s frame. The room was utilitarian, one desk in the middle, a pair of wooden chairs, and a beaten couch against the wall. A file cabinet anchored one corner, and the walls displayed nothing more than puncture wounds from old nails.

Marquez looked up from his paperwork, none too happy. His uniform was wrinkled and he needed a shave. It was never a good sign in a unit when full colonels started letting themselves go. “Yes, somewhere.” He scanned his office, and finally pointed to a binder on the couch. It was in pile that included an ARJ-35 maintenance manual and a copy of Colombia’s aviation regulations.

Davis took the binder and began leafing through.

“What are you looking for?” asked Marquez.

“A little guidance.”

Marquez frowned and went back to his work.

Davis guessed what he wanted would be in a chapter labeled Regulaciones Piloto. Pilot Regulations. He scanned over twenty pages of rules and company policies, all written in Spanish, before finding what he wanted.

He interrupted Marquez again. “Would you translate one part, right here—” Davis pointed to the section.

Marquez heaved a great sigh, and put on a pair of reading glasses. “All pilots will report to the aircraft at least one hour prior to the scheduled takeoff time. If conditions—”

“Great,” Davis interrupted. “That’s all I needed.”

He tossed the manual back on the couch and returned to the computer where the boarding area video remained cued. Previously he’d viewed the recording as far back as fifty minutes before departure, reasoning that few passengers would arrive before that. But he was no longer looking for passengers. He took the video back one hour and ten minutes, and then let it run in real time. Twelve minutes forward — two minutes late by TAC-Air standards — Captain Blas Reyna and First Officer Hugo Moreno arrived at the gate.

Both pilots were pulling wheeled suitcases with their brain bags — thick leather cases packed with charts and manuals — hooked on back. The man in the captain’s uniform matched the photo of the real Reyna. Using Moreno as a measuring stick, Davis decided the height was also dead on — six foot one. Definitely their missing captain. Not an impostor, and not another pilot who’d traded into the trip. Reyna had been right there at the gate, ready to fly.

“Yes, that is Reyna,” said a voice from behind. Curiosity had gotten the better of Marquez.

Without turning, Davis said, “This puts him at the airplane one hour before departure. From that point, I can’t see any way the flight pushes back from the gate without him. And we know it departed right on time.”

“Which tells us what? That he is a ghost?”

Davis nodded, because Marquez had a point. “Maybe so. If Reyna began the flight, how could he not have been there at the end?” He could think of only one plausible answer. And one way to prove it.

He checked the time, and said, “I’m going back out to the crash site.”

“We are to meet Echevarria soon.”

“Give the major my regrets.”

He had one foot out the door when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Marquez making a phone call.