Passenger 19

THIRTY-FOUR

Prison cells, Davis had once mused, were rather like fine wine. Each has its distinctive bouquet, subtle flavorings and nuances that present a unique signature. As a full-bodied Merlot might have hints of red currant or blackberry, a robust drunk tank could allude to the bodily functions of the previous night’s lodgers. If a Chardonnay reflected the essence of an oak barrel, the walls of a Third-World immigration lockup might offer scratchings and cranial imprints from vintage years past. The understated signatures were always there. All you had to do was look for them.

This particular hundred square feet was not the worst he’d seen. Three cement walls, and at the front a standard-issue iron grate with a hinged door. It wasn’t old, wasn’t new, and Davis could see three similar cells down the hall. Beyond these was a brightly lit office where uniformed policemen came and went. Though Davis had seen his share of holding cells, two in one week was a personal best. His other visits had been the result of minor transgressions, most fueled by alcohol. Rugby celebrations gone too far. The odd bar fight as a young enlisted Marine, the service in which he’d done a tour before gaining his appointment to the Air Force Academy. For all his proficiency, however, he had never spent two nights in the same week on ice. That was a record he desperately wanted to keep intact.

He sat on a stained cot as he contemplated his misfortune, and like suspects everywhere, tried to get his story straight. How was he to know they were cops? His daughter had been kidnapped, Colonel Marquez murdered, so he was understandably on edge. He’d witnessed two men breaking into his room and assumed the worst, that they were tied to Jen’s disappearance. It never crossed his mind that they might be police. Not one of the four had identified themselves as such. He thought it best not to address the question of who followed who away from the hotel. He could rightfully claim that one man had tried to shoot him, and another took a swing with a club. Altogether, not a bad story, and one that would make a strong case for self-defense in most of the fifty States. But here in Colombia?

Not so much.

Davis knew he’d screwed up again, acted without reason. No, that wasn’t right. His reasons were damned good. It was foresight he’d lacked. Given what transpired, he could easily have ended up in a hospital, or even on a metal table under Dr. Guzman’s bright examining light. And if any of that happened, who was going to find Jen?

He stirred and began pacing his cell, feeling a host of new aches. He rattled the bars to get the attention of a uniformed guard down the hall. He asked for a phone call, and the guard yelled, “Silencio!” He demanded to contact the U.S. embassy, and two men in the adjoining cells heckled him in Spanish. Davis kept at it for the best part of an hour, making noise, trying to get a rise out of someone. It was well after dark, after floodlights snapped to life outside the window down the hall, and after a shift change at the guard podium, that the man he wanted to talk to arrived.

Major Raul Echevarria, Region One Police, Special Investigations Unit, walked up and stood in front of his door.

“I didn’t know they were cops,” Davis said, hours of preplanned story crafting yielding to impatience.

Echevarria only stared at him, the oft-smiling mouth set straight under his bushy mustache. He looked tired, as if he’d been working all day. Even so, there were no wrinkles in his shirt, and his uniform trousers were sharply creased. Maybe a man who’d gone home after a long day, but who’d been called back to work overtime.

“Did I hurt anybody?” Davis asked.

“Most will recover. Officer Nunez has a concussion and is still seeing double.”

“They should have identified themselves. And they definitely shouldn’t have started shooting. What would you have done?” Davis knew any lawyer would tell him to shut up at this point. Except, perhaps, a lawyer whose daughter was being held hostage in a hostile jungle. “What were they doing in my room?”

“They were investigating.”

Davis stiffened ever so slightly, remembering when he’d given a similar answer. I’m investigating. He looked again at Echevarria’s shoes. Spit-shined black Oxfords, not a mark on them.

“Since when am I the subject of an investigation?”

“This crash is a criminal matter, Mr. Davis, there can be no doubt. And you withheld evidence.” Echevarria reached into his pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag containing Jen’s iPod.

Any number of responses came to Davis’ mind. He’d only recently discovered the audio portion, the element the police might find useful. He could argue he’d taken possession of the device as his daughter’s personal effect, or even as part of the crash investigation. He didn’t bother with any of that. He said, “This doesn’t make sense.”

“What are you speaking of?”

“Everything. The crash, the missing passengers. Gunshots and false identities. It’s all too crude and obvious.”

“Even a Colombian detective might realize that criminal forces are at work?”

Davis kept on track. “Whoever is behind this — they’ve practically advertised their crime.” He explained his theory of the jet’s diversion and the abduction of the girls.

“That is what you think happened?” Echevarria asked.

“It’s not very subtle. The people who dreamed this up are confident of two things. First, they seem sure that only one person outside Colombia realizes what’s going on.”

“Who might that be?”

“Kristin Stewart’s father.”

Davis watched Echevarria cup a hand over his broad mustache and drag it down over his lips, a theatrical gesture of reflection. “And the second thing?”

“The people we’re looking for — they seem certain they won’t get caught.”

The policeman shrugged. “Your ideas are entertaining as always, Mr. Davis. I will miss them.” Echevarria pulled a United States passport out of a different pocket — Davis didn’t have to ask whose picture was inside — and handed it through the bars. “Your time here has come to an end. Our foreign ministry forwarded a demand that you be sent home. We received an immediate response — from your NTSB head office, I think. You are being recalled immediately. The next flight to Washington is at seven tomorrow morning. Make sure you are on it. Until then, I will do my best to overlook these new troubles you have found yourself in.”

Davis looked curiously at the policeman. “Do you have children, Major?”

No response.

“I’d guess not, because if you did you’d understand why I’m not going anywhere — not without my daughter.”

“Señor… make no mistake. You attacked four policemen today in front of many witnesses. There is also the murder of Colonel Marquez to consider. That investigation remains in its early stages, and I should question you further. Take this as a once-in-a-lifetime offer — leave while you can. My influence is not endless. If you are placed on trial for these crimes you will likely end up in a far less accommodating place than this. And for a very, very long time.”

Davis gave no reply.

“Rest assured that the investigation into the crash, and of course the fate of your daughter, will move forward. My department is taking over entirely until a replacement for poor Colonel Marquez can he found.”

“That could take days, even weeks.”

The policeman only shrugged.

“Your department knows nothing about aviation.”

Echevarria once more reached into a pocket — he was beginning to remind Davis of a bad magician — and he handed over a small piece of paper. He said, “If my advice is not persuasive enough, perhaps this note will guide your decision. It was found in your room by one of the officers you assaulted.”

The note was handwritten in block letters.

Davis felt a clench in his gut. Every muscle in his body tensed as he glared at the policeman.

“I will find your daughter,” Echevarria promised. “But if you stay in Colombia, I fear it might not be in the condition you wish.” The major was silent for a time, then motioned to the jailer at the top of the hall. The man came with a set of keys and opened the lock.

“Goodbye, Mr. Davis,” said Echevarria, beckoning him toward the wide-open door.

Davis felt like a soldier in an old war movie — being offered freedom, yet fully expecting to be shot in the back for attempted escape. He wanted Jen’s iPod back, but knew it was pointless to ask. He walked past Echevarria into the long corridor.

Moments later Davis stepped outside. The night was deepening, a hard black punctuated by bright windows and passing headlights. He didn’t know what part of town he was in, but he saw the lights of the mountain, Monserrate, to his left. He turned the other way. Airports in any city were set away from mountains, and Bogotá was no exception.

His shoulder hurt and his head was spinning, twin blows from very different truncheons — one hardened steel and the other a scribbled note in his pocket. Leave the country now if you ever want to see her again.

Davis knew he couldn’t do it. He might end up searching a thousand square miles of jungle, or locked in another jail, but there was no decision to be made. He would find Jen or he would die trying. He was weighing the practical ramifications of this conclusion, grim as they were, when a voice called from an alcove, “Jammer Davis?”

He looked and saw a side entrance to the police station, a door that probably hadn’t been used in years. Overhead was stenciled: PROHIBIDA LA ENTRADA. Out of the shadow stepped a scruffy Nordic-looking man. He was tall and strongly built, with long blond hair that fell to his shoulders and a bushy mustache. A seriously lost Viking in a loose cotton shirt and worn Levi’s.

“Who are you?” Davis asked.

A thin smile, clear-blue eyes glinting under the stab of a streetlight. “I’m the guy who just busted you out of prison.”

The stretch limousine sat motionless on black tarmac, blending with the quiet airfield that shouldered the Maryland-Virginia border. The ramp was lit in a sulfuric yellow mist, and parked nearby, like an ever-watchful bird of prey, was a sleek eggshell-white business jet. In the back seat of the limo, separated from the driver by an opaque privacy screen, Frederick Strand, CEO of The Alamosa Group, sat next to the vice president’s chief of staff, Bill Evers. It was Evers, voice weary after a strenuous day of travel, who issued the final instructions to Vincent Kehoe.

“We still don’t know who we’re dealing with. If at all possible, we’d like you to find out, just in case this issue comes up again.”

“Your boss will have more firepower in a few months?” Kehoe suggested.

Strand shot his man a hard look. “You are being paid for neither humor nor speculation, Kehoe. Put a sock in it.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Evers picked up, “Never lose sight of the immediate objective. First and foremost, get the girl out safely.”

Kehoe promised he would, and two handshakes later he was stepping smartly across the tarmac, a large suitcase in hand. The two men in the limo watched him climb the boarding stairs and disappear into the big Gulfstream — in fact, the very same G-III that had whisked Jammer Davis to Colombia days earlier. The door shut immediately, and the twin turbofans purred to life.

“Will he be able do it?” Evers asked

“Get the girl home? I think so. It’s a lot of money, which in my experience equates to success. Also, I don’t think they’re fools. In a few months, Martin Stuyvesant will be the last man in the world anyone wants pissed at them.”

“And the other? Will Kehoe be able to identify who we’re dealing with?”

Strand hedged, “I’m not sure about that. It depends on how careful they are. But as long as we get the girl, the rest should prove moot. I think everyone will be happy at that point.”

Strand’s phone chimed and he looked at a message. He smiled. “Our Mr. Davis has turned into a complete bust. He can’t even stay out of jail.”

“Jail?”

“Apparently he beat four policemen senseless.”

“Four?” Evers looked away from Strand and shook his head. “The man’s a damned embarrassment. It’s no wonder he hasn’t gotten any results.”

“It was worth a try. When you attack problems like this, you have to do it from every conceivable angle. Fortunately, the angle in the briefcase Kehoe is carrying is generally the most effective. You did well, raising that much cash on short notice.”

“It cost us a great deal,” said Evers.

“An ambassadorship?”

“Worse — a department head.”

“Which one?” asked Strand.

“Treasury.”

Strand studied Evers for a moment, then remembered that the Secretary of Treasury had announced her intent to step down at the end of the current administration. He was naturally curious who her successor would be, information being the currency it was in his town. A Wall Street hedge fund manager? A Goldman Sachs partner? Strand knew better than to ask, relenting that the answer would have to wait until spring.

The jet carrying Sergeant Kehoe began to move, and two minutes later clawed into the sky in a rush of tormented air.

“Kehoe did have a point,” said Strand. “If Stuyvesant wins the election… he won’t need the likes of me anymore. He’ll have the entire United States military at his disposal.”

“Worried about your job?” Evers asked playfully.

The retired admiral chuckled. “Certainly not. Midterm congressional elections are always right around the corner. Four hundred and thirty-five House members, one-third of the Senate, all coming up for reelection. With a crowd like that? I always find work, Mr. Evers. Always.”