Passenger 19

CHAPTER THIRTY

It was a stage in every sense of the word. Rows of newly installed footlights were angled carefully upward, sure to cast the speaker in a glorious hue. A high-quality sound system had been tuned to match the venue’s acoustic profile, allowing sage words to travel with pitch-perfect clarity. The chairs behind the podium were carefully placed, a squadron of congressman, party hacks, and local politicians arranged in rightful pecking order — the most important sat front and center, with certain deviations allowed in the name of social, ethnic, and gender balance. The rest — the hangers-on of the Cleveland establishment — were roundly relegated to the rear echelons.

The vice president began his speech in the middle of the luncheon’s main course, preaching his stock spiel on foreign policy until everyone’s genetically unmodified ducks were down to the bone. With the tiramisu and coffee delivered, it was time to come in for a landing.

“I say to you today that education and compassion will be the hallmarks of my administration. I have traveled this country and seen great need. I have traveled this country and seen even greater kindness. It comes by way of churches and non-profit organizations. It comes from well-structured government programs. Most of all, it comes from people like you. People who give time and money, and a helping hand to those facing hardships.”

A polite round of applause broke the vice president’s rhythm, and of course he allowed it. Happily, he saw the teleprompter pause as well. He’d stumbled there earlier, during the party convention. Rapturous applause had intervened once too often that night and the text ran ahead, mismatching his speech. He’d covered reasonably well, although on leaving the stage he had fired the media tech on sight. Today there were no such troubles.

He picked up again on a cadence that was almost musical. “My campaign for president is nearing the finish line. For almost four years now I have served as vice president of this great country, and I have fought the fights worth fighting. That record will serve as the foundation for the worthy programs I’ve outlined.” A thoughtful pause to build anticipation. “In the course of my campaign, I’ve met a great many Americans, men and women, even children, who ask that most noble of questions—How can I help? By attending this fundraiser, each of you has already begun to do so. But I’d like to tell you about one man in particular whom I recently had the pleasure of meeting. It was in the Midwest, and his name was Thomas — not Tom, he was very insistent about that — and he was down on his luck. Thomas had lost his job in a company that manufactured American flags. That’s right… American flags. His job had been outsourced overseas. We met in a soup kitchen, yet Thomas took no shame in that. He stood tall and proud, and he asked what he could do to help my campaign.”

Another heavy pause.

“That’s right — what he could do to help me. Thomas said he was homeless, and he jested that I was too — as you may know, the United States Naval Observatory, the traditional home of the vice president, has been undergoing extensive renovations. We had a good laugh about that before Thomas turned serious. He reached into his tattered jacket and pulled out one of his few possessions in the world, something he thought might help get my message across. He said he hoped it would raise money for my campaign, because if I was elected he knew I’d keep my promise to help others who found themselves in his situation.”

The vice president reached under his lapel and extracted a large piece of folded cardboard. “So, for one night, ladies and gentlemen, I have a new fundraising director, and his name is Thomas.”

He unfolded the cardboard sheet, and showed the audience a message drawn in bold block letters.

Cameras flashed and the crowd went wild, normally sedate lawyers and bankers and businessmen cheering as if they were at a high school football game. It was a moment. It was the moment. Martin Stuyvesant, Democratic Party nominee for president, clasped his hands over his head and smiled like a candidate with a ten-point lead in the polls.

Which was exactly what he was.

He milked the moment for all it was worth, shaking hands with the mayor of Cleveland, two congressman who were sweating reelection, and a man in uniform who was a something-or-other in the Ohio National Guard. Stuyvesant kept smiling all the way off stage, waving and slapping shoulders, pointing his finger occasionally as if recognizing someone special in the sea of strangers. As soon as he was backstage and clear of the cameras, his smile transformed — less broad and fewer teeth on display, but still in place. A more inward pleasure.

Roger Gordon, his campaign manager, sidled up and the two began walking. “We need to talk,” Gordon said through the side of his mouth.

Stuyvesant said, “Did you hear that? They loved it!”

“You need to tell me before you do something like that. It could easily have backfired if—”

“If I hadn’t set it up so well? Give me a little credit, Rog.”

“Is there really a guy named Thomas?”

“Of course. Only he made me promise not to send any attention his way.”

Gordon took his candidate by the elbow. He leaned in close as they steered through the exit and back to the campaign bus. “Marty, we are ten weeks away from the goddamn White House. A nine-point lead is good, but you can still screw this up.”

“Ten points — CNN and Gallup both.”

Gordon’s voice broke to a whisper, “What’s happening down in Colombia could flip that overnight.”

Stuyvesant stopped short of the bus’s stairs. “Is there something new?”

Gordon’s gaze drifted to a group of reporters behind a barricade fifty feet away. They were shouting questions across the divide. “Wave and smile, then get on the damned bus. There’s someone inside you need to meet.”

Stuyvesant did exactly that, and soon the door shut behind them. The interior of the bus was plush, configured as an executive suite with meeting tables and couches arrayed in the forward salon, a small bed and study in the back. Stuyvesant saw three others at the main conference table: his chief of staff, Bill Evers, his top strategist, Maggie Donovan, and a coarse-looking, wiry man he’d never met.

Everyone rose as Stuyvesant approached, and Evers said, “Martin, I’d like you to meet Vincent Kehoe.”

It did not escape Stuyvesant that Evers had ignored his title of vice president — it meant that whatever Kehoe was, he wasn’t a wealthy donor. The man had snapped to his feet and stood practically at attention, the way the Marine guards did around the White House when the one-term outgoing commander-in-chief, Truett Townsend, ambled up the corridors. Yes, he thought, Kehoe was unquestionably ex-military — Stuyvesant himself had never served, but he’d seen plenty of the sort. The man looked like he was built from a series of coiled springs. Sinew and muscle, not an ounce of fat anywhere. Stuyvesant guessed him to be on the near side of thirty. He was clean-shaven with a receding hairline, what was left on top he cropped in a way that said he really didn’t give a damn. The two shook hands, and Stuyvesant felt a firm grip, although one he suspected was being kept in check.

When everyone sat, Evers said, “We were able to arrange funding for the ransom to be paid—”

Stuyvesant cranked his eyes sharply to his chief of staff, who caught his look.

“Sorry. Mr. Kehoe is directly involved. He’ll be the one going to Colombia to retrieve the girl. He works for a very discreet private company and has been thoroughly vetted. I won’t bore you with his resume — suffice to say, he’s done this kind of thing before.”

“Does he know…” Stuyvesant searched for the words, “why we are so concerned about this abduction?”

Kehoe answered. “No, sir. I know we are dealing with the kidnapping of a young girl, and that I am to make a ransom payment and extract the victim with the greatest possible discretion. Those are my orders and it’s all I need to know.”

Stuyvesant grinned. “Good answer. What are the arrangements?”

Evers said, “Mr. Kehoe will be flying south later today, a private jet arranged by his employer.”

“Is the Secret Service still involved?”

“We’ve come to an agreement with the director on that. They prefer to have no further involvement in this affair.”

Stuyvesant wished he’d been in on that decision. “All right, we’ll let the director back off. But I’ll have his nuts in a vise come January.”

Dutiful nods around the table, the usual reaction from staff watching a firing squad assembled for a colleague.

“What is the time frame for this mission?” Stuyvesant asked, liking the military sound of it.

Maggie Donovan, who in spite of her title as strategist was in fact more of a logistician, answered, “Mr. Kehoe will receive the funds directly after this meeting. If all goes as planned, Kristin Stewart will be back in North Carolina tomorrow evening.”

“That will make her mother happy. How has she been handling it?”

“Well enough,” said Evers. “We conveyed your message: we told her everything that can be done is being done.”

“And it is,” Stuyvesant said.

Everyone nodded. A few more administrative matters were discussed before they all wished Kehoe good luck and launched him to undertake his final preparations. When he was gone, Evers cornered Stuyvesant as the bus began to roll. “There is one complication. Someone’s been asking questions.”

“Questions?” Stuyvesant said. “About what?”

“About Kristin.”

The vice president took a handhold as the bus rounded a corner. Outside, through a cracked window shade, he saw throngs of well wishers. He ignored them as Evers continued.

“A CIA officer made inquiries through official channels last night, a search on Kristin’s name and passport information.”

“The CIA? How the hell did they get wind of this?”

“We don’t think it’s anything official,” said Evers, “and of course she got nowhere. All information relating to Kristin has been scrubbed from the official servers. We sent a man to speak with this officer last night in D.C. Apparently she’s an acquaintance of the investigator, the man the NTSB sent to Colombia.”

“Wasn’t that supposed to be to our advantage? Having an insider on this crash investigation?”

“That was our intent. We’ve been monitoring him very closely, but for some reason our NTSB man — his name is Jammer Davis — sidestepped his normal means of communication and asked this friend at CIA for help. Davis has uncovered Special Agent Mulligan’s identity, and we think he knows there’s something special about Kristin.”

For the first time Stuyvesant felt uneasy. “These two people know the Secret Service was protecting her?”

“They know there’s a connection of some kind, yes.”

“This whole damned protection scheme was a mistake from the beginning! We should have kept our distance like we always have.”

“Once you got the nomination, Martin, we had no choice. Kristin was at risk of—”

“Of exactly what’s happened! The Secret Service dropped the ball on this!”

“You know we tied a hand behind their back. They wanted a full protection detail, but we said no. We insisted they keep it small and discreet. They also warned us against letting her travel.”

An agitated Stuyvesant banged his fist on a cabinet over the bed. “That was her mother’s damned fault! The woman simply will not listen, despite everything I’ve given her. All right… this NTSB man, Davis. Does it do us any good to keep him in Colombia?”

“Not that I can see. The ransom is on its way, and Kristin will be on a plane home tomorrow.”

“So pull him out. He’s asking too many questions. We need to tie this up once and for all. Then we need to bury it for good.”

Evers said hesitantly, “I agree, however… there might be one problem. Getting Davis out of Colombia could prove difficult.”

“Why?”

“It’s something that came out of the blue — a one-in-a-million coincidence. When the NTSB went to assign an investigator, the guy in charge — I think his name is Green — looked over the passenger list and saw a familiar name. Davis has a daughter, and it turns out she was also on that flight.”

“What?”

“Apparently she and Kristin were headed to the same semester abroad program. Davis’ daughter is the other hostage that was referred to in the ransom request.”

“The one we ignored?”

Evers said, “I think ‘secondary concern’ was the phrase you used. My point is that getting Davis to leave might prove difficult. By all accounts he’s a bull, and I don’t see him leaving without his daughter.”

The bus was gaining speed, heading for a barbecue to benefit wounded veterans. Stuyvesant sat on the mussed bed. “Is there any chance Davis can find her?”

“His daughter? Working on his own? Not a prayer. I’ve had the full briefing from Strand. We’ve put a lot of effort into this, a lot of resources, and we still don’t know who we’re dealing with. It’s not FARC, but probably someone like them, a splinter paramilitary group. There are dozens in the jungles down there, and they’re all ruthless. Drugs and extortion are their bread and butter. They move constantly and are armed to the teeth. FARC lasted twenty years against the Colombian Army, and the others are just as persistent. I can’t imagine one angry American dad is going to bother them. Honestly, if Davis pushes too hard — I wouldn’t be surprised if he disappeared too.”

Stuyvesant met Evers’ gaze and saw discomfort. They were both thinking the same thing. If Davis didn’t come back, their cleanup efforts would be greatly simplified. Evers was about to say something when Donovan poked her head around the corner. She handed Stuyvesant talking points for the veterans affair, and said, “Ten minutes.”

As soon as she was gone, Stuyvesant took the lead. “All right — just get my daughter out of harm’s way.”

“And Davis?” asked Evers.

The vice president turned away and began to study his notes.