Passenger 19

FIFTY

At least it wasn’t another jail cell, Davis mused. Not really.

The meeting room adjacent to the hangar was a solid place, but there were no bars on the windows or steel doors. The carpet was plush, and a comfortable lounge area offered an array of supple chairs. Instead of a bent steel tray pushed through a slot, Davis was looking at a catered spread with a good selection of meat, cheese, and crackers. There was a veggie tray too, with a nice avocado-based dip, and sweet rolls on a platter shaped like Air Force One. The bottles of water had come all the way from Fiji, and there was an assortment of soft drinks, all the standard products of the Coca-Cola company. No, not a holding cell at all. This was the place Stuyvesant had waited out their arrival. Now it was Davis’ turn to wait.

Comfort aside, he was anything but free. They’d removed the cuffs from his wrists, but around the large room he counted eight Secret Service agents, all with unwavering eyes. They’d started with a contingent of four, until whispers began to circulate about a china shop in Bogotá, and the number magically doubled. He didn’t much care. Jen was on her way home, delivered safe and sound. He had done what he’d set out to do, from beginning to end.

He was standing behind a seemingly bottomless coffee pot when the only door to the room opened, and the lead Secret Service man he’d met earlier came through. He was followed by Larry Green.

Green stared at him with exasperation, like a football coach eyeing a player whose foolish penalty had lost the big game. It was the third time in a week Davis had been in someone’s custody, and he was sure Green had the tally marks to prove it.

Davis held out his palms in a what’s a guy to do? gesture.

After a brief discussion with his escort, Green walked over while the Secret Service man stayed at the door. That brought the count to nine agents. Davis sank into one of the wide lounge chairs. Green took the opposing seat.

“You’ll never learn, will you, Jammer?”

“How is he?”

“Stuyvesant’s in surgery — the best maxillofacial surgeon in town is trying to reconstruct his lower mandible.”

“I missed the upper?”

Green eyed him severely.

“Are you here to bail me out?” Davis asked.

“Actually, I don’t have to. For reasons I cannot imagine, they’ve decided not to file charges. Any idea why?”

“Maybe… but it’s a long story. And I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

Green gave him a tormented look.

“I’ll tell you about it later… that is, if you can keep a secret. And if you buy me a beer.”

A sigh from Green, then, “I checked on Jen — she made it home.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll bet she sleeps for a week,” said Green.

“I might join her. By the way, thanks for setting me up with those DEA guys. They were good, a first-rate crew. None of them will get in trouble, will they? You know, with what happened to the drone and all?”

“That’s something else I wanted to bring up. Why is it that every time I send you to investigate an accident, you end up crashing another airplane?”

Davis only shrugged. “McBain and Jorgensen?” he asked again.

“They’ll be fine. It was you who turned that drone into a weapon. General Jammer T. Davis? God help us.”

“What? You don’t think I’m flag-grade material?”

Green ignored the question. “Your co-conspirators were operating under some kind of emergency authority. It’s not exactly a get-out-of-jail-free card, but the seniors at DEA seem pretty happy with the way things turned out. Rumor I heard was that nine paramilitaries were killed in the crash, including the guy who ran the whole operation — Echevarria, I think, was the name. Apparently he was a busy guy, a major on the Bogotá police force who operated a paramilitary squad on the side. He’s been sabotaging government operations for years to support his trafficking and extortion sideline. I also heard something about a former TAC-Air pilot who got caught trying to leave the country on a false passport.”

“Reyna?” Davis asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. What they nearly got away with down there was madness. But somehow…” Green paused for emphasis and leaned closer, “somehow this is all getting swept under a carpet.”

Davis said nothing.

Green looked pointedly around the room at a sea of somber faces. “Then there’s the fact that you and I are sitting right now in the hangar they use to stow Air Force One. Surrounded by Secret Service agents. What the hell did you get into, Jammer?”

Davis flexed his right fist, squeezing the fingers open and shut. Two knuckles were sore. “You put me on this inquiry, Larry. But, like I said, buy me a beer later and I’ll explain everything.”

Green heaved a long sigh. “Anyway, I’m supposed to tell you that somebody is going to stop by your house tomorrow and take statements from both you and Jen. Otherwise, for reasons I can’t imagine, you’re free to go. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Both men got up and headed for the door. None of the special agents flinched. They were two steps from leaving when the head of Stuyvesant’s security detail stepped in their path and held up a palm.

They paused, and the agent stared at Davis. His face was stone as he said, “I’m not sure how you got away with what you did in that hangar. And I really don’t like that it happened on my watch. It makes for a hell of a lot of paperwork.” Then a barely perceptible smile edged one corner of his mouth, and he leaned close to whisper, “That was a nice shot, though. A few of us around here have been wanting to do that for a long time.”

Davis grinned back. “My pleasure.”