Passenger 19

FIVE

Larry Green arrived for work the next morning and went through the motions of his daily routine. Tall coffee in hand, he nodded to familiar faces in the lobby of L’Enfant Plaza, and took the stairs to his fifth-floor suite. In the anteroom of his office he said hello to Rebecca, his able assistant of five years.

“Good morning, sir.”

“How was your weekend?”

“Great! Charlie and I got engaged!” She wagged an ice-laden finger at him.

“Really?” Green walked around the desk and gave her a heartfelt embrace. “I’m so happy for you! Charlie’s a lucky man — let me know if you need any time off to plan the big day.”

Rebecca gushed for a full two minutes about her fiancé’s prospects — he was a junior attorney at the Department of Justice — and Green listened with all the enthusiasm he could muster. Only when he reached his office, behind a gently closed door, did his expression fall to reflect the grim mood he’d been battling all morning. He immediately checked his e-mail, but saw nothing new that would help Jammer. To the contrary, he found a message from his boss, Janet Cirrillo, Managing Director of the NTSB.

Green took a long sip of coffee. For Cirrillo, heat from above had only two sources: the Office of the Chairman of the NTSB or the White House itself. On its face, neither seemed likely, and Green decided something else was at play. It wasn’t unusual to get interest in crashes from outside the official food chain. It could come from a senator from the Midwest whose hometown built the hydraulic pumps used on the downed aircraft, or perhaps a manufacturer’s lobbyist whose client had a big sale pending to China, and who didn’t want bad press at a critical moment in negotiations. For Green it was a delicate dance — theories and evidence from investigations were privileged information. He supposed that in a day or two the source of the pressure would become clear, telegraphed when Cirrillo began asking more specific questions. He would respond as he always did, metering a few generic details, while gently reminding his boss that the integrity of the process was paramount.

He was disappointed to find no reports from Davis, but then the man had only arrived last night. He hoped the imagery he’d sent had been useful in locating the crash. Jammer had never been the best communicator, and given Jen’s involvement, Green expected the information flow to be even more stunted than usual. With nothing new to report, he happily said so in a polite reply to Cirrillo and launched it into cyberspace.

He was tempted to dial the sat-phone, but then realized it was an hour earlier in Bogotá. Even so, he’d lay money on Jammer being awake. Given the circumstances, he doubted the man would sleep a minute until Jen was found — for better or worse.

Green decided a text best suited the situation: Call with an update when possible. Hope all is going well.

He paused, then hit send.

If misery on Earth kept an address, Jammer Davis had arrived.

His head throbbed, every heartbeat a systolic hammer, and his joints seemed rusted in place. Wretched as that all was, none of it touched the ache in his chest, a dull pressure without source that seemed acutely physical. A manifestation of lost hope.

The idea of movement was overwhelming, so with considerable effort Davis opened one eye. What he saw was confusing at first — the world, such as it was, appeared to be presented sideways. His brain processed the view, summed it with the rough texture grating against his right cheek, and he decided he was lying face down on a concrete floor. Not the most dazzling deduction of his career, but useful in that moment.

Davis took his time, an arm inching one way, a leg twisting another. It took a full two minutes to reach a sitting position, and from there he put a hand to the back of his head and felt a massive knot, along with the oozing warmth of coagulated blood. Everything came back slowly, frame by frame, like a PowerPoint horror show. Larry Green giving him the bad news on the seaplane dock. A five-hour flight from Andrews that seemed to take five days. Dashing over moonlit forest in a helicopter and jumping out before the skids hit the ground. Running for all he was worth toward the charred wreckage. It seemed like a nightmare, every wretched snapshot. Except for the final image that was stamped indelibly in his brain — the inside of the shattered jet. A sight so vivid and intense it could only be true.

Davis had seen the aftermath of crashes before. He’d seen blood and debris and unrecognizable human parts. He’d smelled the stench of rotting flesh days after impact, riding on air further desecrated by the vapor of melted plastic and spent kerosene. But never had he experienced it all on such a personal level. There was nothing explicitly damning in that picture in his head — he hadn’t seen the birthmark on Jen’s ankle, hadn’t recognized a bracelet or a shirt he’d given her as a birthday present. Yet none of that was necessary. Not when the greater picture was so utterly overwhelming.

The crash of TAC-Air Flight 223 had been a typical impact — which was to say, a devastating event. A twenty-one passenger regional jet had struck the earth and been cast in a thousand directions. The results were predictable, and there could be no survivors.

He massaged the back of his head and tried to stand, but failed miserably. So, with his backside on cold concrete, he studied his surroundings. Four cinder block walls predominated. There was a barred window behind him, and a sturdy iron door in front with a slot at the bottom. Simple enough. He’d found his way to a prison cell, probably with good reason.

Davis was still on the floor, thinking about getting up but not really caring, when a familiar voice sounded from behind the heavy door. The lock rattled and Colonel Marquez stepped in. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, scrutinizing Davis as if he were looking at a dog who’d bitten a neighbor. The guard gave him a look that asked if he should stay. Davis was sure the story of his crazed assault at the crash site had made the rounds, so perhaps he was considered dangerous. A threat to himself and others — even if he couldn’t stand up.

Marquez dismissed the man.

“Sorry if I don’t get up,” Davis said.

“How are you feeling?”

“A bottle of ibuprofen would go a long way toward advancing relations between our two nations.”

Marquez may have smiled, but he had the kind of face that made it hard to tell. “What you did last night did nothing to advance relations.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“An apology might be in order?” Marquez suggested.

Davis rubbed the front of his head, which throbbed less than the back. “Do you have children, Colonel?”

Marquez hesitated. “Yes, twins. They are eighteen years old, a boy and a girl.”

Davis let that hang in the cell’s thick, fetid air.

“All right,” Marquez said, “I can only imagine what you are going through. But you must remember — we all have responsibilities, Mr. Davis. We all have our duty.”

Again silence ruled, then Marquez came closer. He bent down on one knee until they were eye to eye.

“I received news this morning that perplexes me.” The colonel cast this in a quiet voice, as if not wanting the guard outside to hear. “I have been coordinating things from headquarters while my team establishes a base at the crash site. They moved in quickly and have been working all night. This morning I received a report, and…” the colonel hesitated mightily, actually glancing over his shoulder before finishing, “and we seem to have an unusual situation.”

“What kind of situation?” Davis asked.

“As I told you last night, the manifest given to us by TAC-Air listed twenty-one passengers and three crewmembers. I have personally reviewed the closed-circuit footage from the airport boarding area — in these days of terrorism, it is always one of our first orders of business, is it not? I can tell you without question that every one of those passengers boarded the airplane.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I will put it to you as a question. What would you do, as an investigator, if you went through the wreckage and found two fewer passengers than are listed on the manifest?”

With those words, a barely discernible light flickered deep inside Davis. “You’re two bodies short?”

“All the seats remain intact — none separated during the crash. Two, however, appear to be vacant.”

“Which two?”

“I’d rather not say until things are more clear. We are still—”

Davis lunged and took a vise grip on the colonel’s forearm. “Which two?”

Marquez jerked his arm away. “My people are still pulling bodies clear!” he snapped. “Identification takes time. You know this is something we can’t afford to get wrong.”

Davis looked skyward and closed his eyes. “Yeah… I know. Sorry.”

“I realize this is difficult for you, Mr. Davis. When I have accurate information, I will let you know immediately. Until then, please answer my question. If you were missing two passengers, what would be your thoughts?”

Davis considered it and said in a monotone, “In a crash that was survivable it would give me hope. I’d think somebody made their way clear and walked off in a daze. I’ve had victims wander off and turn up in an emergency room miles from a crash site. I’ve had them take cabs and go home.”

“But this is remote, the middle of a jungle. And you saw the wreckage.”

Davis nodded, the hammer of despair swinging down again. “Yeah, I saw it. Nobody walked away from this one. The tail is gone, right?”

“Yes, we found the horizontal and vertical stabilizers still joined, roughly five hundred meters behind the main debris field in a stand of trees. It must have separated on the initial impact.”

“So there’s your answer. Somewhere in the top of a gumbo-limbo tree you’ll find your missing bodies.”

Marquez stood and began pacing, his small shoes silent over the naked concrete. Davis sensed his uncertainty.

“Yes,” Marquez said, “you might be right. On a more positive note, I can tell you we’ve recovered both the flight data and cockpit voice recorders. Both were mounted in the tail section, yet appear to be in good condition.”

“I’m glad to hear it. They’ll go a long way toward finding out what happened.”

“Let us hope so. There are a few other points I’d like your opinion on, Mr. Davis.”

“Shoot.”

Marquez gave him an odd look, his English evidently not going that far.

“Go ahead with your questions.”

Marquez hesitated, as if in a careful decision-making process. “Actually… I would prefer it if you viewed certain evidence directly. I don’t want to color your opinions. Are you feeling well enough to travel to the crash site?”

“Now?”

Marquez nodded.

His head felt like a split melon, and the idea of seeing the crash in broad daylight did not sit well. But his promise to Larry Green gave no alternative: he was on the hook to figure this out, regardless of what had happened to Jen. It had been an easy promise to make at the time.

He surveyed his malodorous surroundings. “I guess I can tear myself away for a few hours.”

“Very well. But I must impose one condition,” said Marquez.

“Condition?”

“Mr. Davis, you are clearly knowledgeable in our field. I need that kind of help. But you are also a willful man, and not formally under my command. Understand that if you play the cowboy again, I will send you home. This is my inquiry to run, is that clear?”

“Yeah,” Davis said. “Crystal.”

Marquez helped him stand, and new pain sites surfaced. Left shoulder, neck, lower back — the usual aches of a night spent semiconscious on damp concrete.

“By the way,” Davis said. “I am sorry about last night. If we see the guys I pushed around, I’ll say it in person.”

Marquez nodded but didn’t reply. He handed Davis a lanyard with rudimentary credentials — a stamped document with a picture that had been reproduced from his passport photo. As the colonel led to the door, Davis’ thoughts were deflected by what Marquez hadn’t said. They’d certainly identified some of the bodies by now, and if Jen had been among them he would have said so. It was the thinnest of straws, to be sure. But more than he’d had to grasp ten minutes ago.

Rubbing his neck, Davis said, “Colonel, let me ask you one thing.”

Marquez stopped.

“Those two empty seats… were the seat belts fastened?”

“The seat belts? My photographer forwarded a few pictures,” Marquez said as he considered it. “No. No, I’m quite sure they were unfastened.”

Davis followed the colonel out, and he nodded to the guard as he passed the threshold. He tried to ignore the jackhammer in his head and the cement in his limbs. Yet as he walked down the hall, ever so gingerly, the ember inside flickered once more.