Passenger 19

FORTY-NINE

The G-III landed at 3:02 a.m. that Saturday morning, and taxied directly toward a massive hangar on the southwest side of Andrews Air Force Base — the very place Davis had begun his odyssey less than a week earlier.

Vincent Kehoe was the first one off, and stepping down to the tarmac behind him was Kristin Stewart. On the long flight Davis had learned a good deal about Kehoe. He was an Army Ranger and ten-year Delta Force veteran. No surprises there. But Davis was more impressed by what he’d seen. Kehoe had been ready to put himself in harm’s way in order to save Jen and Kristin, no hesitation whatsoever. In truth, almost with relish.

Davis watched Kehoe escort his charge into the big hangar, which was encircled by a phalanx of Secret Service agents. Nearby was a motorcade of limos that stretched around the corner, at least three that he could see. There were no flags flapping from fenders, however, and no police motorcycle escort waiting to lead a parade. This was low-profile, high-value security. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who was inside the hangar. Someone with access to the most sensitive corner of Andrews. Someone with a very good reason to be here.

Martin Stuyvesant was finally going to meet his daughter.

Davis stepped down the stairs, Jen following, and two men walked up to greet them. One wore a nice suit, had a tight haircut and a wire in his ear. He might as well have had Secret Service stamped on his forehead. It was the second man who addressed Davis, a rotund, wonky type with droopy eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

He held out a fleshy hand, and said, “Mr. Davis, my name is Bill Evers. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Davis cut in. He kept his hands at his side.

Clearly put off, the vice president’s chief of staff said, “Mr. Kehoe wasn’t supposed to share that kind of information.”

“Mr. Kehoe is a good man — something in painfully short supply around here.”

With Evers at a loss, Davis turned to the Secret Service man and said, “Sorry about Agent Mulligan. The girl really liked him.”

The agent seemed surprised to be brought into the conversation, but his expression turned solemn and he nodded appreciatively. “Yeah, Tom was one of the good ones.”

Evers began to recover. “I realize it’s very late, and that you’ve traveled a great distance, but we want to debrief both of you. A lot has happened in the last few days, and everyone must understand what’s at stake.”

Davis cocked his head ever so slightly. Everyone must understand what’s at stake. At that moment, he saw where things were going. Candidate Stuyvesant was not surrendering. He was doubling down.

A dark sedan pulled up on some unseen cue, and Evers guided them toward the backseat. Jen was already inside when Davis heard a distant yell. He looked over his shoulder and saw Kristin Stewart bolting from a gap in the hangar door. She was in tears, and from fifty yards away he heard her scream, “I don’t ever want to see you again, you bastard! Just leave Mom and me alone!”

Davis watched her run to one of the limousines. A middle-aged woman emerged from the car, her arms open wide. The two embraced, burying their faces in one another’s shoulders. He was sure he knew the woman’s name — Sorensen had told him two days ago. Jean Stewart.

Mom.

Davis could hear them sobbing from where he stood.

Evers tried to urge him into the limo, putting a hand on his lower back. Davis didn’t move. Jen’s sadness was evident as she watched Kristin and her mother console one another. He remembered the somber expression that came over the Secret Service man when he’d given his condolences about Mulligan.

Evers gave another shove, but he might as well have been trying to move an oak.

Davis turned slowly and looked at Evers. He gave a half smile, and said, “Look, I know how things will go down here, and I’m okay with it. Really, I’m on board.”

“Tell me about it,” said an interested Evers.

Davis did, and when he was done Evers nodded thoughtfully. “I’m glad you can put the good of your country above all else, Mr. Davis.”

“Very much so,” said Davis. “But I do have just one request…”

Martin Stuyvesant stood in the middle of the hangar. Designed to hold a Boeing-747, the place was nearly empty, yet the man walking toward him seemed to fill it up. He studied Jammer Davis under bright fluorescent light as he plodded across the floor between two Secret Service agents. The man was exactly as he’d imagined. Big and brutish, not a trace of sophistication. He might be a savant when it came to deciphering air crashes, Stuyvesant thought, but he clearly had no idea how to carry himself with style. He moved stiffly and his clothes were ill fitting. He hadn’t even bothered to shave or comb his hair for a meeting with the vice president of the United States — the G-III had all the necessary toiletries, so there was really no excuse.

The good news was that Davis was on board with the plan — at least that’s what he’d told Evers. He would maintain a strict silence regarding everything that had happened in Colombia. All he wanted in return was one face-to-face meeting with the soon-to-be president. Stuyvesant was accustomed to such requests — he practically expected them. Davis would ask a favor, most likely a promotion to a more senior position at NTSB. That would be easy enough, and mutually beneficial. Of course, he would probably want a mantel photograph as well, all handshakes and smiles, but Evers had already explained that wasn’t going to happen. Security was the best excuse. With the crisis finally over, it was all down to damage control, something Evers excelled at.

Smooth as ever, Stuyvesant began walking as Davis neared. That was always the best way to meet physically imposing men, although Stuyvesant was more accustomed to scions of industry and Hollywood moguls. He thrust out his hand and beamed his best campaign smile. “So glad to finally meet you, Mr. D—”

So heavy was the right hook that met his jaw, it was the last time in his life Martin Stuyvesant correctly enunciated the letter D.