Passenger 19

TWENTY

As Davis downed a second bottle of water in the shade of the tent, he found himself watching the luggage truck in the distance. The two men who’d helped him lift the wing were still there, levering the truck’s tailgate into place. They had finished emptying the cargo bay, which meant the truck would soon be clattering back to civilization. He walked over and the men saw him coming. Davis stopped a few steps away and checked their boots. Satisfied, he said, “You guys heading back to the city?”

“Si, con los equipajes,” the orthodontia candidate answered. His English seemed suddenly less fluent, and Davis guessed they were trying to get away before he put them to work again. Fortunately, he recognized the relevant word in the man’s reply, having seen it before in airport terminals.

“Okay, you’re leaving with the luggage. How long does it take to drive back?”

“Two hours, three. It depends.”

It always does here, Davis thought. “Do you mind if I ride with you? The helicopter is delayed and I need to get back.”

The two Colombians had a rapid-fire exchange that was completely lost on Davis. Then the English speaker said, “Yes, okay. But you must ride in back.”

Davis thought the cab looked big enough for four, but a ride was a ride. “I’ll take it.”

The two men moved toward the cab, and Davis had one foot on the rear bumper when he paused. “Tell me one thing—”

The soldiers paused.

He thumbed toward the luggage. “Has this stuff been searched yet?”

“I don’t think, señor. They bring dogs yesterday to smell for drugs, but find nothing.”

Before Davis could ask anything else, the two disappeared into the cab.

He vaulted over the tailgate, landing in the cargo bed. A green canvas tarp was strung over the top on a steel-pole frame, a feeble effort to keep the sun and rain off whatever was being carried. The truck began to move, and after ten seconds, Davis wished he’d argued for a seat up front. The road was awful, the old truck’s suspension seeming to amplify every rut, and the engine’s rumble translated straight to his bones. Sunlight came and went as the road meandered through jungle, bordered on each side by dense walls of green.

The forward half of the cargo bed was taken up by two jagged pieces of metal — if he wasn’t mistaken, the partial remains of the tail and aft fuselage spine. Behind that the floorboards were covered with luggage. Davis situated himself centrally in the knee-deep pile of suitcases. The truck swayed and bounced, but he got a rhythm and balanced himself with a hand on the side rail. He’d never before examined evidence in the back of a moving vehicle. It would not, however, be the first time he’d stood in a sea of brightly colored bags that would never be claimed — at least not by those who had checked them.

Davis was looking at roughly eighteen bags of various shapes and sizes. He started at the back and began checking claim tags. TAC-Air’s luggage tracking system printed the name of each traveler on a fold-over adhesive printout, a common industry format. Davis correlated the name on each routing tag to the passenger list he’d memorized. He also cross-checked the TAC-Air generated wrap-arounds to the personal name and address tags he found on most of the bags. All matched except for one, and that had a common surname to one of the female passengers, suggesting a suitcase borrowed from a family member.

He found Thomas Mulligan’s bag in the center of the pile. Davis set it aside and kept going. His gut wrenched when he reached Jen’s bag — it was barely recognizable, covered in mud and the zipper torn. He bypassed it because his daughter’s belongings would have little investigative significance. At least that was what Davis told himself.

He reached the front of the pile, and was satisfied that Mulligan had checked only one bag. He also did not find a bag for Kristin Stewart, which seemed curious. He went back and lifted Mulligan’s suitcase, which was reasonably light, to the top of the stack and set it on its back. He pulled the zipper and threw back the flap, and on first glance saw little of interest. A few clean shirts, fresh pants, a spare pair of shoes. Reaching deeper with his hand, however, Davis felt a very distinctive shape. Beneath the tail of a button-down Oxford, cradled in the center of the bag, was a neatly folded shoulder holster and weapon. Davis had no doubt it was Mulligan’s service-issued handgun, a Sig Sauer semiautomatic. There were also two spare magazines in a leather pouch, both fully loaded.

Davis left the gun where it was and rooted to the bottom of the suitcase. He found shaving gear, a travel iron, and deodorant — all the things any business traveler would carry. The truck suddenly bottomed on a massive pothole, sending Davis to the floor. He worked himself back onto a knee and considered his options. There was a fleeting urge to take the Sig and slip it into his waistband. He was quite sure there had been no previous search of the bag. If so, Marquez’ crew would have found the gun, logged it into evidence, and put it in a secure place. Reluctantly, Davis jettisoned the thought of keeping the Sig. With the investigation going to hell at flank speed, arming himself with stolen evidence could do nothing but create complications.

The finding did answer one question. If Mulligan was on board to protect Kristin Stewart, why hadn’t he done it? Now Davis knew. Mulligan had transported his weapon in a checked bag, probably because the Colombian authorities hadn’t cleared him to carry it. This highlighted a more relevant issue — who had known Thomas Mulligan would be on board the flight? It was no coincidence that the only passenger shot was an unarmed Secret Service agent.

He zipped up Mulligan’s bag and tossed it onto the pile. Davis leaned back and tried to get comfortable, but it was an exercise in futility as the truck battered over every rut. He forced his eyes shut and thought about Jen. He thought about mud and grass on a landing gear assembly, and a gun in a suitcase. He thought about a missing pilot and three dead people on a flight deck, one of whom remained unidentified. Yet most of all, as he bounced along in a two-ton troop carrier at the head of the Amazon basin, Davis found his mind circling back to one increasingly tall obstacle.

Who the hell was Kristin Stewart?

Davis arrived at El Centro shortly before six that evening. The driver parked the truck across the street, in front of a small warehouse that had been requisitioned to house wreckage. He thanked the two men for the ride and walked to the main building.

He found Marquez behind the desk in his office. Davis hesitated, then continued past the door and into the computer room. The only person there was a young woman in jungle fatigues who pretended not to notice him. Davis went to the copy machine, a big Xerox office model whose control panel shone a resolute green light, almost like an invitation. I’m ready to go. Davis ignored it. He instead took a firm grip on the trash can next to the copier and lifted it high.

The young woman got up and left in a rush.

For all its efforts to modernize, Colombia, or at least the city of Bogotá, had apparently not crossed the threshold of recycling. Davis turned the trash can upside down, and all manner of refuse cascaded onto a scuffed linoleum floor. Soft drink cans, food wrappers, Styrofoam packing peanuts — and most of all, paper. It was a big receptacle, and Davis suspected it hadn’t been emptied since the beginning of the crisis. It didn’t take a Holmesian deduction to know which documents would be on top of the inverted pile.

Davis began wrist-flicking pages aside, one by one. Inspecting the seventh, he found what he wanted. He went to Marquez’ office.

“We need to talk,” Davis said without knocking.

A visibly strained Marquez motioned for him to sit. “Did you find something useful at the crash site?”

“Actually, I need something from you. I want to see the flight data recorder information. Is it available yet?”

Marquez’ expression clouded over. He stood, walked to the door, and pulled it gently shut. He looked different from when Davis had met him days earlier. He seemed frail, the countenance of a man who’d survived some kind of wasting disease, but who expected a relapse at any moment. A man living on borrowed time. “There is a problem with the recorders.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I only found out this afternoon. Our technicians tell me the downloads are completely useless, both the flight data and cockpit audio.”

Davis fell very still. “That is a problem.” It had been in the back of his mind — they’d found the recorders early Monday, almost three days ago, yet no information had been forthcoming. An initial read usually didn’t take that long. “Were they damaged in the crash?”

“No, both were recovered in perfect condition.”

“Then how could you not have data?”

A sigh. “Apparently TAC-Air maintenance removed both boxes two days before the crash for a mandatory bench inspection. When the mechanics reinstalled them, they apparently did not reconnect the umbilical to either unit.”

Davis thought this through, and ventured a guess. “So you’ve got perfect data for a flight that happened three days before our crash.”

“Exactly.”

“Aren’t the pilots supposed to check for operability before a flight?”

“There is a self-test feature, yes. The pilots are required to perform it before the first flight of each day, according to TAC-Air’s operating procedures. The test itself has no bearing on day-to-day operations… I have heard that some pilots ignore it.”

Davis wasn’t surprised. He knew pilots became rushed at times, and didn’t always check every bell and whistle in the cockpit. When it came to black boxes, there was only one group of people who cared about operability — investigators like him and Marquez.

“That ties both hands behind our backs,” Davis said in frustration.

“Yes,” agreed Marquez. “The voice recorder would almost certainly have explained what happened on the flight deck.”

Davis wasn’t so sure. He was more interested in the flight data recorder, which would have shown the course the jet had taken to its final resting place. “Did you ever figure out why we didn’t get pings? The emergency locator beacons should have gone off in this crash.”

“That’s something else I learned today. We inspected the ELTs, and apparently one had a bad battery. The other malfunctioned, although we are not sure why. In time the cause will be discovered.”

Davis shifted in his seat. “Does this not strike you as extraordinary? Here we are, you and I, floundering around to explain missing passengers and pilots. Three people on that flight were executed, for Christ’s sake. I’ve never seen an accident with such clear criminal involvement. And now you’re telling me that right before the crash a mechanic inadvertently disabled our two best sources of information? On top of that, both ELTs malfunctioned simultaneously, making the crash more difficult to locate? What are the odds of all that?”

Marquez didn’t reply.

“You know, I just took a long truck ride back from the field. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it gave me time to think. And I wasn’t dwelling on airplane wreckage or pilot profiles. I was thinking about you, Colonel.”

Marquez remained motionless, his face a blank.

“I was thinking about how well organized this investigation is. Twenty-four hours after the crash you had a building arranged, equipment in place, computers up and running. That’s very efficient. No, it’s incredibly efficient. I could never have done that well.” Davis leaned forward and put the page he’d retrieved from the copier room on the desk.

“What is that?” Marquez asked.

“I don’t know. Some kind of procedure for troubleshooting a Windows network backup. It was probably downloaded and printed out because a technician was having trouble installing things on the first day.”

“And that is important to our investigation?”

“Not at all. What’s important is at the bottom… in little tiny letters and numbers. This was printed in that room last Friday night. The day before the crash.”

Marquez stared silently at the paper.

“I’ve also been thinking about the army patrol that just happened to be training in the area when our jet went down. How lucky was that? They were looking for survivors and had the accident site cordoned off before a chopper could even get there.”

“What are you suggesting?” Marquez said, his voice flat and expressionless.

“I talked to a few of the soldiers from that unit. They said they hadn’t been training at all. There were also two other squads in the area, but nobody seemed to be on maneuvers. No tactical exercises or navigation drills. They’d simply been sent out into the jungle, like a camping trip… until an airplane crashed right in their lap.”

“You are saying what — that I planned this crash?”

Davis shook his head. “I don’t think you’re that clever.”

“Get out!” Marquez snapped, his words laced in venom.

Davis stood, but he didn’t move toward the door. He hovered ominously over the colonel’s desk, their bodies separated, in Davis’ view, by the precise distance of one extended fist. “My daughter is out there, and I’m going to find her. Do not get in my way.”

Marquez rose from his chair, the colonel’s three stars prominent on his shoulders. “Pack your bags and go home!” he bellowed. “You are no longer part of this inquiry!”

“I don’t answer to you, Colonel, so I’m not going anywhere. You can put in a request to dismiss me through official channels, but that will take time.”

Marquez almost said something, his eyes going to slits. In the end he remained silent.

Minutes later Davis was walking through a sultry evening, his eyes level and his center of gravity forward. At one point a bystander backed out of his way, shouldering against a wall. So lost in thought was Davis, he never even noticed.