“So what were you doing under the wing?” the Frenchman asked.
“I wanted to see the landing gear.”
“You suspect a mechanical problem?”
Davis hesitated. “I’ll explain later. What have you been working on?”
“The main fuselage is my area of expertise.”
“The fuselage? I haven’t heard anybody suggest a failure of the pressure hull.”
“True,” said Delacorte, “but there is still a great deal to learn. We design not only to avoid accidents, but also to ensure survivability in a worst case scenario such as this. The ARJ-35 is a relatively new variant with an updated design. The structural integrity relies on composite fiber mated to a metal alloy framework. I’ve been analyzing the post-crash integrity of the hull, to see if it withstood the crash as we hoped.”
“Good luck with that. But it leaves me with the hard part — figuring out why the airplane crashed in the first place.”
“I do not envy you,” said Delacorte. “So often these days it is the human element, and that can be difficult to prove.”
“Like you can’t imagine.”
“I should get back to work. I was going to take the next flight back to Bogotá, but I’ve been told the helicopter is grounded due to weather at the airport. It will be hours before the next departure, and by then there will be a queue — it might take two or three trips to find a seat. Perhaps I will see you later tonight.”
“Right.”
Delacorte turned to leave.
“And Pascal—”
The Frenchman turned.
“Thanks again for your help.”
Delacorte waved amiably before walking off toward the debris field.
Davis looked up at churning gray sky that was plotting more afternoon mayhem. The idea of sitting in the jungle for another four hours didn’t sit well. He had what he’d come for, and with it a new theory, albeit a theory that provided only a partial solution. To make it complete he needed help, and he wasn’t going to get it here in the field, nor from the likes of Marquez or Echevarria. He needed to talk to Anna Sorensen.
Which meant getting back to Bogotá as quickly as possible.
TWENTY
As Davis downed a second bottle of water in the shade of the tent, he found himself watching the luggage truck in the distance. The two men who’d helped him lift the wing were still there, levering the truck’s tailgate into place. They had finished emptying the cargo bay, which meant the truck would soon be clattering back to civilization. He walked over and the men saw him coming. Davis stopped a few steps away and checked their boots. Satisfied, he said, “You guys heading back to the city?”
“Si, con los equipajes,” the orthodontia candidate answered. His English seemed suddenly less fluent, and Davis guessed they were trying to get away before he put them to work again. Fortunately, he recognized the relevant word in the man’s reply, having seen it before in airport terminals.
“Okay, you’re leaving with the luggage. How long does it take to drive back?”
“Two hours, three. It depends.”
It always does here, Davis thought. “Do you mind if I ride with you? The helicopter is delayed and I need to get back.”
The two Colombians had a rapid-fire exchange that was completely lost on Davis. Then the English speaker said, “Yes, okay. But you must ride in back.”
Davis thought the cab looked big enough for four, but a ride was a ride. “I’ll take it.”
The two men moved toward the cab, and Davis had one foot on the rear bumper when he paused. “Tell me one thing—”
The soldiers paused.
He thumbed toward the luggage. “Has this stuff been searched yet?”
“I don’t think, señor. They bring dogs yesterday to smell for drugs, but find nothing.”
Before Davis could ask anything else, the two disappeared into the cab.
He vaulted over the tailgate, landing in the cargo bed. A green canvas tarp was strung over the top on a steel-pole frame, a feeble effort to keep the sun and rain off whatever was being carried. The truck began to move, and after ten seconds, Davis wished he’d argued for a seat up front. The road was awful, the old truck’s suspension seeming to amplify every rut, and the engine’s rumble translated straight to his bones. Sunlight came and went as the road meandered through jungle, bordered on each side by dense walls of green.
The forward half of the cargo bed was taken up by two jagged pieces of metal — if he wasn’t mistaken, the partial remains of the tail and aft fuselage spine. Behind that the floorboards were covered with luggage. Davis situated himself centrally in the knee-deep pile of suitcases. The truck swayed and bounced, but he got a rhythm and balanced himself with a hand on the side rail. He’d never before examined evidence in the back of a moving vehicle. It would not, however, be the first time he’d stood in a sea of brightly colored bags that would never be claimed — at least not by those who had checked them.
Davis was looking at roughly eighteen bags of various shapes and sizes. He started at the back and began checking claim tags. TAC-Air’s luggage tracking system printed the name of each traveler on a fold-over adhesive printout, a common industry format. Davis correlated the name on each routing tag to the passenger list he’d memorized. He also cross-checked the TAC-Air generated wrap-arounds to the personal name and address tags he found on most of the bags. All matched except for one, and that had a common surname to one of the female passengers, suggesting a suitcase borrowed from a family member.
He found Thomas Mulligan’s bag in the center of the pile. Davis set it aside and kept going. His gut wrenched when he reached Jen’s bag — it was barely recognizable, covered in mud and the zipper torn. He bypassed it because his daughter’s belongings would have little investigative significance. At least that was what Davis told himself.
He reached the front of the pile, and was satisfied that Mulligan had checked only one bag. He also did not find a bag for Kristin Stewart, which seemed curious. He went back and lifted Mulligan’s suitcase, which was reasonably light, to the top of the stack and set it on its back. He pulled the zipper and threw back the flap, and on first glance saw little of interest. A few clean shirts, fresh pants, a spare pair of shoes. Reaching deeper with his hand, however, Davis felt a very distinctive shape. Beneath the tail of a button-down Oxford, cradled in the center of the bag, was a neatly folded shoulder holster and weapon. Davis had no doubt it was Mulligan’s service-issued handgun, a Sig Sauer semiautomatic. There were also two spare magazines in a leather pouch, both fully loaded.
Davis left the gun where it was and rooted to the bottom of the suitcase. He found shaving gear, a travel iron, and deodorant — all the things any business traveler would carry. The truck suddenly bottomed on a massive pothole, sending Davis to the floor. He worked himself back onto a knee and considered his options. There was a fleeting urge to take the Sig and slip it into his waistband. He was quite sure there had been no previous search of the bag. If so, Marquez’ crew would have found the gun, logged it into evidence, and put it in a secure place. Reluctantly, Davis jettisoned the thought of keeping the Sig. With the investigation going to hell at flank speed, arming himself with stolen evidence could do nothing but create complications.
The finding did answer one question. If Mulligan was on board to protect Kristin Stewart, why hadn’t he done it? Now Davis knew. Mulligan had transported his weapon in a checked bag, probably because the Colombian authorities hadn’t cleared him to carry it. This highlighted a more relevant issue — who had known Thomas Mulligan would be on board the flight? It was no coincidence that the only passenger shot was an unarmed Secret Service agent.