Davis nodded. “Fair enough.”
Echevarria concurred.
They arranged to meet later in the day, and Davis was the first to leave.
He walked outside and looked across the tarmac. The Huey was departing, likely with Pascal Delacorte on board. Davis saw an ARJ-35 landing in the distance, gliding smoothly to a soft touchdown under cotton-ball morning clouds. Like much of the previous night, however, the oblique thoughts that skimmed through his head had nothing to do with airplanes. When did spring semester begin for Jen? Had she already talked to her advisor about a class schedule?
Davis had gone through it before, battled the malignant aftermath of an erased existence. A week or a month from now he would be home, and on a bright September afternoon find his mailbox filled with the usual junk advertisements. Most would be in his name, but Jen would get her share, the great machine of American capitalism being what it was. Student loan pitches, credit card offers, summer-in-Europe scams. Would he set them aside for his daughter with smiley faces drawn on? Or would he slam them into the trash crumpled in a bitter wad?
Davis had nearly lost his temper with Marquez. Almost done something stupid, which would surely have gotten him tossed off the investigation. Had he been rescued by reason, a rare display of self-control? Pity for the beleaguered Colombian? Would any of his efforts matter in the end?
After three days in limbo, the uncertainty of Jen’s fate seemed suddenly overwhelming. Facts tumbled in his head without order or direction. Every investigation had its roadblocks, but typically problems that were sourced externally. Never before had Davis seized from within. That’s what it was like — being frozen from the inside out.
He put his face up to the lifting sun, then checked his watch. Three hours until his call to Sorensen. Three hours to keep going.
SEVENTEEN
At three minutes past noon on Wednesday, Davis called the number Sorensen had given him from a corner table at a restaurant. The establishment was one he hadn’t been to before, half a mile from his usual place. Three minutes past noon because it had taken that long to compose his fast-disintegrating thoughts.
His hard-won equilibrium lurched when a male voice answered, “Hello.”
“Uh… hello. I was trying to reach Anna Sorensen.”
“Oh, right. Here you go.”
Sorensen’s voice. “Hey, Jammer.”
“Was that your brother-in-law?”
“Yeah. We all met for lunch in Manassas.”
“Sounds like fun,” he replied, not knowing what else to say. From where he sat, lunch in Manassas was like lunch on the moon. “Do you think this line is okay?”
“Best I can do for now,” she said. “I’m stepping outside.”
He was no expert in communications security, but a brother-in-law’s cell phone from a sidewalk seemed marginal at best. Lacking any better plan, he said, “I hope you’ve got something for me. There’s no news about Jen, and I feel like I’m beating my head against a wall down here.”
“Too bad for the wall.”
Davis said nothing.
“How are you really?”
A sea of clichés came to mind. He settled for, “I’m treading water — but barely.”
“That’s good, I think. I do have some news for you. I got a bead on your man Mulligan. Are you sitting down?”
He assured her he was.
“The guy was United States Secret Service.”
Davis sank lower in his booth, staring at the empty plate in front of him that had fifteen minutes ago been piled with rice, beans, and chicken. He blew out a long breath. “Wow. I didn’t see that one coming.”
“Neither did I. Once I knew that much, I made some very discreet inquiries to find out what he was doing down there.”
“And?”
“It’s a little vague — I didn’t want to put my source on the spot. Mulligan was on mission status, personal protection duty.”
“What?”
“I know, I know. When I saw he was Secret Service, I figured he’d be part of some financial crimes task force — you know, chasing after laundered drug money or something. But that wasn’t the case. Mulligan was on that flight to act as a bodyguard.”
“A bodyguard for who?”
“That I couldn’t find out. The Secret Service keeps information on principals at a very high level. My source went through some back doors to even discover that Mulligan was on mission status.”
“Yeah, I get that part. But who could we be talking about?”
“Everybody knows these guys protect the president, but they also cover past presidents and certain family members. Then there’s the vice president and his family. I’ve been told others can be covered in special cases — senators, department secretaries, foreign dignitaries. It’s a bigger list than you might think. The problem is, only a handful of people know who’s on that list.”
“Okay,” he said. “Anything else?”
“One more thing. These guys always travel armed, but it takes special authorization to carry on a commercial flight. Clearance is particularly complicated when traveling abroad.”
Davis considered it. “Which means there would be people in Colombia who knew Mulligan was coming.”
“They’d have known the time and date of his flight, and where he was going. They probably even knew his seat assignment. Which leads to something else.” Sorensen paused to let him figure it out.
“They probably also knew who he was protecting.”
“I think there’s a good chance.”
The gears in Davis’ head ground to a stop, but he wasn’t sure why. He let it go for the moment. “It opens up a lot of possibilities.”
“What else I can do to help?” Sorensen asked.
“Let’s take a pass on Mulligan. It would only highlight us to keep chasing that, and you’ve stuck your neck out far enough as it is. I might ask for one more thing, but I’ve got some work to do on my end first. Thanks for your help.”
“She’s out there, Jammer. I feel it.”
“I hope to hell you’re right.”
Davis ended the call, but he didn’t move. He sat at the table with the phone in his hand, Sorensen’s last words ringing in his head.
She’s out there, Jammer. I feel it.
For the first time since arriving in Colombia, he felt it too.
Davis used the ten-minute walk back to headquarters to assess his options. He considered calling a meeting to confront Marquez and Echevarria with the information on Thomas Mulligan. He wondered if one, or even both of them, already knew the truth about Passenger 21. His internal scales weighed against the idea for the time being — he just couldn’t see how sharing that information would advance his cause.
Arriving at the El Centro he went straight to a computer, hoping to build on Sorensen’s revelation. He called up the video he’d seen two nights earlier, the closed-circuit recording of the TAC-Air boarding area. Cueing to the segment he wanted, he saw Jen and Kristin Stewart, and directly behind them Thomas Mulligan. Davis ran the video to its end, slightly short of the point where they all disappeared.
Mulligan was exactly as he remembered. Sport coat and pressed trousers. Busy eyes working the terminal and checking his phone. Davis had viewed the scene before, but his first interpretation was totally off the mark. If he’d been dropping a practice bomb on a training flight it would have rated unscorable — would have landed completely off the range. Davis had pegged Mulligan for a businessman here to sell some new line of products. When Kristin had turned and said something to the man, he’d taken it for a casual acquaintance.