He watched the video more closely. Not only did Kristin say something, but he saw Mulligan give a response. How had he missed that? Davis concentrated on a 1.2 second loop, and watched it over and over. In the end, he was reasonably sure he could lip read Mulligan’s three word reply. “No, Kristin, don’t.”
He stopped the video.
No, Kristin, don’t.
It was a response steeped in familiarity. And also a directive. Which was not at all how a thirty-something guy would address a college-aged girl he’d just met in an airline boarding area. With his elbows on the chair’s armrests and his hands steepled under his chin, Davis ran the video back and carefully studied the minutes before those words. He paid particular attention to Mulligan’s positioning, eye movement, and who seemed to hold his attention. By the third run-through there could be no doubt. Special Agent Mulligan was in the boarding area for one reason.
He was protecting Kristin Stewart.
Davis could have kicked himself. All along it had been right there in front of him. Two missing passengers. He’d been so fully focused on Jen that her seatmate seemed an afterthought. Now he realized it was quite the opposite. Jen was no more than an innocent bystander, swept into events beyond her control. Kristin Stewart was something else altogether. She was instrumental to everything that had happened on TAC-Air Flight 223.
Passenger 19 was the key.
“Seven million U.S.? Are they nuts?” asked the man named Evers. A characteristically dour man, his baggy eyes and creased jowls took on an unusually sour arrangement. In truth the number did not surprise him, but he thought it good form to make a show of displeasure.
“I don’t expect any negotiation on the point,” said the other man in the very private room on G Street. His name was Frederick Strand, and he was CEO of The Alamosa Group — the nicely indeterminate name of the company he’d founded six years ago, this after retiring from the Navy with twenty-four good years and the rank of vice admiral.
“That’s your professional opinion?” asked Evers, his tone laced in sarcasm.
“It is,” said an undeterred Strand.
“Where are we supposed to get that kind of money on short notice?”
“That’s not for me to say, Mr. Evers. One source comes to mind, but there are obvious complications, the likes of which you would understand better than I. The deadline for compliance is noon this Friday.”
“And if we fail to meet it?”
“You saw the message. If the transfer is not completed on schedule, they promise to — how was it worded? Make the truth known to all?”
“How would they make good on such a threat?”
The CEO cocked his head and pursed his lips, as he once might have done to consider which surface battle group to apply to an enemy’s exposed flank. “I would use DNA, send samples simultaneously to a number of media outlets. That would guarantee a race to publication, with limited time for you to plan a preemptive public relations strike. The facts would run their course, and put you immediately on the defensive.”
Evers closed his eyes, imagining that awful scenario. “What kind of samples?” he asked with clear discomfort. “They won’t harm her, will they?”
“Is this a question from you… or your employer?”
“Me.”
The admiral steepled his hands thoughtfully. “I doubt very much they would harm her. There’s no benefit… and safe to say, in time, the possible downside could be significant.”
“Do you see any chance of settling this by more direct means?”
Strand chuckled briefly, but held his bearing. “As in an armed intervention? Delta Force or SEAL Team Six? I don’t see anyone authorizing that. And if you’re thinking of a private venture — it would take a month to plan, and something in the neighborhood of the same seven million.”
Evers wilted in his seat. “We’re paying you a hell of a lot of money, and this is the best advice you can give?”
“We both face limitations, Mr. Evers, you know that. We have one asset presently in theater, the man the NTSB sent. It initially seemed like a good idea, to have someone in country and watching this investigation, but he hasn’t gotten anywhere. The man might be capable in his field, but there can’t be any thought about him getting the girl back. That would be way out of his league. For what it’s worth, we were able to track down the old beggar who delivered the message to Stuyvesant in the soup kitchen. He’s no one, a cul-de-sac. I’m sure there are at least three cutouts. These people are not beginners — they know what they’re doing.”
Evers fumed. “All right, I’ll look into the funds. Assuming I can arrange it, what happens next?”
“If the message is accurate, the rest is simple. We send a man to Colombia to complete the transaction.”
“Who?”
“I have someone in mind.”
Evers stared, unsatisfied.
“His name is Kehoe, if you must know. He’s my best man.”
“All right, I’ll be in touch. Please tell Mr. Kehoe to pack his bags.”
The admiral smiled as the two shook hands. “Chief Petty Officer Kehoe has had a bag packed for twenty years. He uses it often.”
Reinvigorated by his video session, Davis decided the next thing to attack was the whereabouts of Captain Reyna. He got up and found Marquez still in his office.
“Do we have a TAC-Air flight procedures manual?” Davis asked, his shoulders filling the door’s frame. The room was utilitarian, one desk in the middle, a pair of wooden chairs, and a beaten couch against the wall. A file cabinet anchored one corner, and the walls displayed nothing more than puncture wounds from old nails.
Marquez looked up from his paperwork, none too happy. His uniform was wrinkled and he needed a shave. It was never a good sign in a unit when full colonels started letting themselves go. “Yes, somewhere.” He scanned his office, and finally pointed to a binder on the couch. It was in pile that included an ARJ-35 maintenance manual and a copy of Colombia’s aviation regulations.
Davis took the binder and began leafing through.
“What are you looking for?” asked Marquez.
“A little guidance.”
Marquez frowned and went back to his work.
Davis guessed what he wanted would be in a chapter labeled Regulaciones Piloto. Pilot Regulations. He scanned over twenty pages of rules and company policies, all written in Spanish, before finding what he wanted.
He interrupted Marquez again. “Would you translate one part, right here—” Davis pointed to the section.
Marquez heaved a great sigh, and put on a pair of reading glasses. “All pilots will report to the aircraft at least one hour prior to the scheduled takeoff time. If conditions—”
“Great,” Davis interrupted. “That’s all I needed.”
He tossed the manual back on the couch and returned to the computer where the boarding area video remained cued. Previously he’d viewed the recording as far back as fifty minutes before departure, reasoning that few passengers would arrive before that. But he was no longer looking for passengers. He took the video back one hour and ten minutes, and then let it run in real time. Twelve minutes forward — two minutes late by TAC-Air standards — Captain Blas Reyna and First Officer Hugo Moreno arrived at the gate.
Both pilots were pulling wheeled suitcases with their brain bags — thick leather cases packed with charts and manuals — hooked on back. The man in the captain’s uniform matched the photo of the real Reyna. Using Moreno as a measuring stick, Davis decided the height was also dead on — six foot one. Definitely their missing captain. Not an impostor, and not another pilot who’d traded into the trip. Reyna had been right there at the gate, ready to fly.