Passenger 19

THIRTY-SEVEN

No government organization on Earth, including those residing in Colombia, knows the jagged topography of the northern Andes as well as the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. The War on Drugs, advanced in earnest during the Reagan administration, had ushered in a new era in law enforcement, throwing the weight of the United States DOD, CIA, and State Department behind escalating drug interdiction efforts. High-tech surveillance, low-tech informants, and the aerial spraying of herbicides all became part of a master plan whose long-term results, when it came to supply-side interruption, were decidedly mixed. Less equivocal was the expertise gained by operators in the field.

While Jorgensen worked a computer, McBain gave Davis a briefing on the composition of Colombian rebel forces, some element of which would invariably prove to be their target.

“FARC used to pretty much own the jungle, everything south of Bogotá and east of Cali, which is the area we’re talking about. It began during the sixties, and at their high point they controlled roughly one third of Colombia. Over the last decade they’ve morphed. The government came down hard a few years back, and FARC went into decline. They’ve made a recent comeback in the form of small cells—pisa suaves, which translates to tread lightly. These are company-sized units, about thirty men each, and they move constantly. Of course, it’s not just FARC we have to consider. You’ve got your right-wing paramilitaries and fringe groups. They all make their living in roughly the same way — abductions, extortion, and acting as middlemen in the drug trade.”

“Do they actually grow coca?” Davis asked.

“Not enough manpower. They let the peasants run the farms, and do like any legitimate government — tax the grower, tax the guy who harvests the leaves, tax the guy who processes it into powder, and finally tax the drug lord who hauls the final product through their territory to reach the market.”

“Like we do with corn, but without the subsidies.”

“Pretty much,” said McBain. “Like most organized crime, these paramilitary groups have adopted a business plan based on multiple income streams, and kidnapping is high on the list. We’re usually talking about the wives and kids of prominent businessmen, though — nothing like the victim you’re trying to recover.”

“These company-sized units — do they operate independently?”

“These days, yeah, most do.”

“So if we can figure out which one is responsible, we’ll have a good idea of the size of the force we’re up against.”

McBain raised an eyebrow. “We?”

“Well… I’m just sayin’…”

“Right. Let’s see if we can find them first.”

They worked through the night. Davis helped where he could, but mostly stayed out of the way. Just after sunrise he was dispatched on a mission to a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts shop, which seemed more prevalent here than in Boston. Davis returned with an assorted dozen donuts in a box and a tray of coffee. With an order like that, he decided this particular DEA safe house was not intended for deep cover work.

“I count fourteen airstrips in the area we’ve identified,” said McBain, referring to a desktop computer display with exactly that many yellow circles. “A long time ago the big drug cartels were awash in cash. They flew in processing material and shipped out product using small twin-engine aircraft, so runways had to be cleared. Some were fairly long, because the guys in charge liked the convenience of flying in to visit their operations from villas in places like the Caymans and Panama.”

“When you’re grossing fifty million a month,” expanded Jorgensen, “who wants to live in a tent in the jungle?”

McBain picked up, “Over the years we’ve surveyed every grass and dirt clearing in the jungle that could support an airplane. These airstrips come and go — a new one will get bulldozed now and again, while others are abandoned and the jungle takes over. There are only two official airports in this region, one in Neiva and one in San José del Guaviare. Both have asphalt runways, and at least a minimal degree of government oversight.”

“No,” said Davis, using a wrist to wipe glazed sugar off his chin. “Rule those out. I saw the landing gear — that airplane definitely landed on a soft field.”

Jorgensen made the deletion on his keyboard, and two of the yellow circles disappeared. “How much runway would this jet have needed?” he asked.

“I’ve already talked to an engineer about some basic numbers. Landing is easy enough — the grass helps you stop. But our jet took off again, and that’s more limiting. Let’s say thirty-two hundred feet. That’s conservative, the real number is probably higher.”

Jorgensen did his magic and seven more circles disappeared. “Okay, we’re making some headway. We have five unimproved strips that are at least thirty-two hundred feet long.”

They all stared at the screen. It was a manageable number, but still too big.

“Where do we go from here?” McBain asked.

“Elevation? If any of these small strips are at high altitude there would be a performance penalty — jet engines put out less thrust when they run a mile above sea level.”

“One’s at six thousand feet.”

“Strike it,” said Davis.

Four circles stared back.

Davis lifted his coffee and took a long draw through the plastic lid. “Let’s draw a line. Take the last known position of the jet before air traffic control lost contact, then connect it to the crash.” Davis pointed to both spots on the map, and Jorgensen drew a magenta line from one to the other. Two circles touched the line. The other two lay over fifty miles east.

“Our criteria are getting a little iffy,” said McBain.

“Yeah, I know,” replied Davis. “Fifty miles. The jet could easily have traveled that far in our time frame.”

Everyone was silent until Davis said, “No, I think we’re right. It’s one of these. We need a way to take a closer look.”

“What time is it?” McBain asked.

“Seven thirty,” answered Jorgensen.

The DEA agents exchanged a knowing look.

“What?” Davis asked.

“You’re gonna like this,” said Jorgensen. “We have a drone that operates from a remote pad near Cali. It makes a run each night over the FARC National Wildlife Refuge, a preprogrammed route to log comparative imagery. Basically we look for changes — roads that have been traveled overnight, vehicles that have moved. This time of day the drone is nearly done, but there’s a window for special requests before it gets low on fuel.”

“So the drone can get us pictures of these two sites?”

“Even better — if we get it approved, we can watch them in real time.”

“Who approves it?” Davis asked.

“The DEA regional manager for Colombia and Peru,” said Jorgensen, his voice garbled as he bit into a vanilla-frosted with sprinkles. “Bert Collimore is his name, a real jerk. He works out of an office in Cali. Or at least he used to. Bert was fired last week, which means the decision goes to the acting manager, the regional chief operations officer.”

“And who’s that?”

Jorgensen smiled broadly. “That would be me.”