Passenger 19

THIRTY-ONE

“The democratic nominee for president has a love child?”

“Apparently so,” said Sorensen. “Jean Stewart worked on his first congressional campaign twenty years ago.”

“Sounds like she worked more than the phones,” said Davis.

“Do you realize how sexist that sounds?”

“Sorry. Look, I know Stuyvesant is married now, but was he at the time?”

“He was, but according to Stewart his wife never learned about the affair. They kept it very discreet until the inevitable hard landing.”

“Thanks for putting that in language I can understand.”

“I always try to keep things simple for pilots. Back then, Stuyvesant was a rising star politically. He knew the affair would blow him out of the water, so he ended the relationship in no uncertain terms.”

“He was a jerk. That’s not sexist to say, is it?” He heard Sorensen sigh.

“Then the complication came,” she continued. “Stewart found out she was pregnant, but she never told Stuyvesant. Until last year he never knew he had a daughter.”

“Last year? That’s pretty awkward for a guy in the middle of a heated presidential primary. How did Stewart break this news to him?”

“She didn’t have time to tell me that part, but I did notice she seems to be doing well. Nice house, furniture, clothes. I saw a few pictures on the wall of a different place, much smaller, a very different neighborhood.”

“You think she hit him up? Demanded hush money?”

“Could be,” said Sorensen.

“And maybe somebody else found out about Kristin — somebody in Colombia.”

“That was my first thought. It could be even worse, though. What if somebody learned not only about Kristin, but about the payoff to Jean Stewart? It’s one thing for a politician to find out he has a long-lost daughter from an affair that ended twenty years ago. That’s awkward, but it’s manageable. Throw in a hush-money scandal, maybe a kidnapping between now and the first Tuesday of November — it would be catastrophic for the campaign.”

Davis thought it all through. “Okay, but how does this help me find Jen? Both girls have been kidnapped — that fits everything we know.” He told her about the audio recording he’d discovered on the iPod. “The problem is, we still don’t know who’s taken them or where they are.”

“I can tell you that Jean Stewart is as much in the dark as we are. As for the Secret Service, don’t expect much help — we’re not exactly on the same page right now.”

“Which means any answers will have to come from my end.”

“That’s a wide net to cast. There are no end of suspects in Colombia — it’s a haven for organized crime and extortion schemes. We have to narrow things down.”

“If it is a kidnapping, there’ll be a ransom demand,” he said. “Who would they contact?”

“Stuyvesant, I suppose. Or maybe his campaign.”

He heaved a long breath. “That’s no help either.” He saw the proprietor in a back room talking on a cell phone. When the man locked eyes with Davis he abruptly ended his call. Was there awkwardness in his gaze? Probably not, he decided. Even so, the readiness of his suspicion drove one thing home to Davis — he was becoming increasingly isolated.

“I need help,” he finally said.

“I agree. Unfortunately, I can’t just run this up the flagpole at CIA. Think about it — our next president getting blackmailed by Colombian drug lords right before the election? That’s not a grenade I want to toss.”

“Even worse,” Davis added, “it might endanger the girls. Right now I’m the only one in a position to do anything.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to be discreet.”

“You? Discreet?”

Davis ignored this as an idea surfaced, and he ran it past Sorensen. She agreed it was the best course. “Thanks, Anna. I really appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Just bring Jen back safe and sound. Oh, and by the way,” she added, “you owe the guy at the hotel desk two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Two-fifty? Are we married?”

“The way I spend your money — we might as well be.”

Larry Green left his eleven-thirty meeting with a grim expression, one that anyone who’d spent time with him in the last few days would recognize. His wife certainly had, but generals’ wives knew better than to ask.

The daily briefing had not gone well. His boss, Janet Cirrillo, had asked pointedly for updates on the crash of TAC-Air Flight 223, and for the third day in a row Green had given her nothing. The managing director was not an unreasonable woman, and she took in stride his explanation that contact with Davis had been intermittent. All the same, Cirrillo was feeling heat from above, and having spent twenty-eight years in the Air Force, Green knew the direction in which foul things flowed.

He rode the elevator to the first floor looking forward to his afternoon run. He was ready to blow off a little steam. In the name of hydration, Green purchased a water bottle at the lobby coffee shop. He was getting his change when he heard, “Hello, General.”

He turned and instantly recognized Anna Sorensen.

“Miss Sorensen… hello. What a surprise to see you.”

“Is it?”

He instantly understood her meaning, and Green scanned all around the busy lobby. “There’s a courtyard outside — can I get you something?”

“That water looks pretty good.”

The day was warm, and they found a bench in the shade of a maple tree. In front of them a fountain spewed water to the four cardinal points of the compass, gurgles echoing against the courtyard walls. One of the spouts was misaligned and water splattered over the southern edge.

“Jammer’s been in touch?” he surmised.

“He called today. He needs help.”

Green looked at her curiously. “Why did he ask you and not me?”

Sorensen held his level gaze but said nothing.

Green was fully aware that she worked for the CIA. Jammer had introduced them once, after he’d met Sorensen on an assignment in France. Although “met” was perhaps not a strong enough word. Collided was more like it. Sorensen had saved Jammer’s life in France, and Green knew that he trusted her without reservation. So there was his answer.

“He thinks there’s a problem on my end,” said Green, staring at a skewed footprint of dampness aside the fountain’s blue-tiled base. “He implied something like that the last time I talked to him.”

“Jammer got suspicious a couple of days ago. That business jet he hitched a ride on — it wasn’t any kind of scheduled run, in spite of what you were told. Somebody arranged the flight just for him. Later that night, you relayed a request for satellite information, and Jammer was buried within an hour. Then there was the high-end sat-phone he was issued. It was right there waiting for him when he arrived in Colombia, delivered by some unknown courier from the U.S. Embassy.”

Green nodded. “I should have seen it myself.”

“The sat-phone is compromised, so he and I have been using alternate means.”

“I’ve been getting a lot of pressure for updates. Somebody near the top wants results.”

“I know who it is.”

Green studied her, took a long swallow of water. “Do I want to know?” he asked.

“Probably not.”

He let it go at that. “How can I help?”

“First of all, Jammer wanted you to know why he’s been unresponsive. He’s making headway — maybe too much. He thinks Jen is alive.”

“Thank God for that. But how?”

“Jammer is pretty sure we’re looking at a kidnapping. He thinks the jet landed at a remote airfield in the jungle where the two girls were removed. Then it took off again, and the crash was somehow manufactured.”

“Two girls,” he remarked.

“Yeah — that’s the part you don’t want to know.”

Green took a moment to consider it. “If this is true… it’s a damned ruthless scheme. But I suppose the crash removed a lot of evidence.”

“Neat and clean if you can make it all work. Jammer has been sorting through the details, but he’s at a point where he needs help.”

Green had been trailing Sorensen for most of the conversation, but all at once he went out ahead. “Actually, I suspected something like this… at least in a general way. I made a few phone calls yesterday that might give Jammer just what he needs.”

Sorensen was studying the fountain too, in all its tranquil inefficiency. “I really hope you’re right.”