Passenger 19

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sorensen drove briskly and stopped at the first ATM she came across. She withdrew three hundred dollars in cash, and asked a middle-aged man waiting behind her if there was a Walmart nearby. Yes, he told her, adding directions and a smile. Five minutes later she pulled into the parking lot. She went to the back of the store, and in the electronics department purchased an unlocked no-contract phone, along with a sim card that included data. She paid cash, and ten minutes later was online in the Acura’s driver’s seat. It took thirty seconds to find what she needed.

Miguel Hernandez was sleepy as he sat behind the front desk of the Hotel de Aeropuerto in Bogotá. His wife normally worked the night shift, but she had taken ill the previous evening, which meant he’d been sitting in the same seat for nearly fifteen hours. So when the phone in front of him rang he was slow to react, not picking up until the fifth ring.

“Buenos días, Hotel de Aeropuerto.”

“Yes, hello. I am calling on an emergency. I must get in touch with one of your guests.”

“Una emergencia?”

“Do you speak English?”

“A little. Who you want talk to?”

“Jam — Frank Davis. He’s been staying with you for the last few days.”

“Señor Davis — un hombre muy grande, no?”

“Yeah, that’s him, muy grande.”

“Two zero four. I will connect you to his room.”

“No, no! It’s hard to explain, but I don’t want a connection to his room. Could you just go knock on the door, and if he’s there have him come to the office?”

“Señora, I am the only one aquí. Is not so easy for me to—”

“One hundred U.S. dollars if you can find him and bring him to this phone. He’ll pay you, I promise.”

Hernandez’ weary eyes edged open a bit wider. “Okay, maybe I find him. Tres minutos.”

The proprietor set down the phone and walked outside. He climbed the steps to the second floor and rapped his knuckles on the fourth door. No answer. He rapped louder, and with the image of a winged hundred dollar bill in his head, he shouted, “Señor Davis! You are there?”

Nothing. As a last resort, Miguel took the master key from his pocket and ventured a quick look inside.

Back in the office he relayed the bad news.

“All right,” said the voice from afar, “that brings us to two hundred and fifty dollars…”

Davis was studying the seventy-two hour dispatch on the crash of TAC-Air Flight 223, probably the final official act of investigator-in-charge Marquez, when someone called, “Señor Davis! A person here to see you!”

He walked to the entrance and saw a young boy of no more than ten. He was barefoot and smiling, and when he saw Davis he waved a piece of paper. Davis walked over and said in hesitant Spanish, “Es para mí?”

The kid smiled even more broadly. “Yeah, it’s for you, dawg.”

Davis sighed. Hollywood had indeed made the world a smaller place. He took the note, read it, and moved immediately toward the door.

“Hey, homie!”

Davis turned and saw the kid with an outstretched hand. He pulled out his wallet and put a ten in the kid’s hand.

“That’s it? I ran all the way here!”

“Yeah? Well take my advice — when you run back, make a stop at school and sign up.”

Davis was breathless when he reached the hotel office. The proprietor handed over the phone saying there would be a charge to his account. Davis said that was fine, figuring he’d find a way to expense it to Larry Green.

Sorensen greeted him with, “The phone I was using got compromised.”

“Compromised?”

“An hour ago the Secret Service had me cuffed in the back of a car.”

“Damn… you okay?”

“Yeah, I talked my way out of it, but they’ll be watching me now. The good news is I made some headway. I tracked down Kristin Stewart’s mother. She lives in Raleigh, and I drove down last night.”

“That’s good. Did you talk to her?”

“It wasn’t easy. I told her I was Secret Service just to get in the door.”

“So there is a connection.”

“A big one. She knew the basics of the crash, that the plane had gone down and her daughter was missing.”

“She’s been living with that for the last four days?”

“Just like you. She was definitely distraught, but then it turned weird. When she figured out I wasn’t Secret Service, Stewart immediately assumed I was a reporter.”

“A reporter?”

“Yep.” Sorensen explained how the rest of the meeting had gone, and how she’d gained Stewart’s confidence. “I think what won her over was when I told her you were down there searching for your own daughter. The agents were banging on the door when she decided to open up to me. Kristin Stewart has had Secret Service protection for over a year now.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s the illegitimate daughter of the vice president of the United States. The man who will likely be elected president two months from now.”