Davis stood, but he didn’t move toward the door. He hovered ominously over the colonel’s desk, their bodies separated, in Davis’ view, by the precise distance of one extended fist. “My daughter is out there, and I’m going to find her. Do not get in my way.”
Marquez rose from his chair, the colonel’s three stars prominent on his shoulders. “Pack your bags and go home!” he bellowed. “You are no longer part of this inquiry!”
“I don’t answer to you, Colonel, so I’m not going anywhere. You can put in a request to dismiss me through official channels, but that will take time.”
Marquez almost said something, his eyes going to slits. In the end he remained silent.
Minutes later Davis was walking through a sultry evening, his eyes level and his center of gravity forward. At one point a bystander backed out of his way, shouldering against a wall. So lost in thought was Davis, he never even noticed.
TWENTY-ONE
Davis stopped at his room where he exchanged the satellite phone for the second prepaid, which he had not yet used. Out the door a minute later, he set out on foot and left the airport behind, its terminal access roads choked by traffic on the evening rush. The sky was no better off, a string of white landing lights — lined up at precise three-mile intervals, Davis knew — stretching far into the night. An aerial traffic jam. Problems in the sky often had their terrestrial equivalents.
He thought a great deal about Marquez, how so many inconsistencies had slipped past him. It seemed careless, imprecise. Only Marquez wasn’t that sort. He was the type of guy who would scramble eggs using a recipe, who would have the best-trimmed hedges on the block. So how had so many irregularities escaped his detailed eye? It made no sense whatsoever.
For the second time since arriving in Colombia, Davis found himself looking over his shoulder. It seemed an exercise in futility. Even if he spotted someone, he wouldn’t know who to suspect of following him. Would they be tied to Marquez? Echevarria? An unknown assassin wearing a scarred black boot? The United States Secret Service? He could be on any of those radar screens, and possibly others he wasn’t aware of. It was like flying through a great air battle in a neutral airplane, dodging and diving and trying to stay out of everyone’s gun sights.
It was enough to drive a man to paranoia. Streetlights seemed to follow his every move, and the ubiquitous yellow taxis all had the same driver. He checked six after every turn, and backtracked twice. There was no chance of getting lost — the southern mountains were always there as a reference, dark shadows cradling the city in their interminable granite grasp. He passed an old church, bristling with crumbling stucco, whose door flyer invited those in need of salvation, then a fortresslike lending bank preferring those in need of solvency. Davis ignored all of it as he dialed the number — Sorensen’s brother-in-law.
This time she answered directly.
“It’s good to hear a friendly voice,” he said.
“It’s good to hear yours, Jammer. Any luck finding Jen?”
“Not yet, but I’m definitely making waves.”
“That I believe. Did you learn anything more about Agent Mulligan?” she asked.
“I found his Sig Sauer a few hours ago. It was checked in his suitcase, presumably because he didn’t have clearance to carry it on the flight. Does that sound right?”
“It does. Secret Service agents have carte blanche to carry on domestic flights, but foreign-flagged carriers are a different game. Depending on the principal he was protecting, Mulligan might have been forced to check. Or maybe it was a tactical decision — do you want to fill out a lot of paperwork in order to carry, or is it better to quietly check your weapon and not draw attention? I’m only thinking out loud here — I’ve never been on that side of the fence.”
“It makes sense,” he said. “And it probably made sense to Mulligan until somebody pointed a nine millimeter at him. Listen, I need another favor. This one’s delicate too.”
“Whatever — I’ll do it.”
“I haven’t told you what it is yet.”
Silence from Virginia.
“Thanks, Anna. Here’s the deal — I think I know who Mulligan was assigned to protect. There was a girl on the flight sitting next to Jen.”
“You said there were two passengers missing. Is this girl the other one by any chance?”
“Actually, yeah. Her name is Kristin Marie Stewart, a U.S. citizen.” Davis took out his wallet and removed a slip of paper. “I wrote down her passport number — are you ready?” Sorensen said she was, and Davis read off the number and date of birth. “I think she was heading to the same internship program as Jen, but I’m not sure. That’s all I’ve got. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Nothing at all.”
“It should be easy enough. She’s twenty years old, and probably a college student. Try Facebook or Instagram.”
“It won’t be that easy, but I’ll track her down.”
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Officially, I’m down here working for Larry Green at NTSB. I think I introduced you to him once.”
“You did. I remember giving him my condolences.”
“Well, I’m still driving him nuts. I want you to go see him and pass along a message.” Davis told her what he wanted.
Sorensen considered it. “Jammer, I know how you operate. You won’t be any good to Jen if you get in trouble yourself.”
“I’ll be careful.”
A hesitation. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”
“That’s exactly what I need, Anna.”
The warehouse across from El Centro had once been the epicenter of a thriving air cargo business, a concern that fell abruptly insolvent when a raiding task force uncovered half a metric ton of high-grade cocaine embedded in shipments of aquarium filter cartridges. The owner of the company claimed to know nothing about the scheme, nor did the floor shift managers, and in the end the most expeditious path for everyone had been to simply shutter the place and sidestep blame.
That was the story Davis had heard, and it might well have been true. Heritage aside, the building across the street from El Centro was ideally suited to fill the investigation’s most immediate need — ten thousand square feet of broomed concrete and a corrugated roof that didn’t leak.
A guard at the door waved him through with only a glance at his credentials. Davis had been here twice before, and in the last twenty-four hours the room had begun to fill. Mostly it was the strays: antennas, wingtips, and sheet metal that had separated from the fuselage in the crash. The tail had been recovered largely intact, and now sat crookedly in one corner, the TAC-Air logo still sharp and clear on the unblemished white background. The most significant section missing was the disjointed fuselage and cockpit. Because the ARJ-35 was a relatively small aircraft, those pieces would likely be recovered as a whole, although the job would require a crane and a flatbed truck sturdy enough to handle a twenty-thousand-pound load — a matter further complicated by the condition of the roads and the remoteness of the crash site.
Davis walked straight past the wreckage. He was here with one objective in mind, and it had nothing to do with the metal on the floor. His footsteps echoed off the cavernous walls as he approached Pascal Delacorte, who was leaning over a bent horizontal stabilizer and taking a measurement.
“Glad to see I’m not the only one working late,” said Davis.
Delacorte stood straight and stretched as if his back was sore. “I have not been in the field for over a year. One forgets how taxing it can be.”
“You didn’t come dressed for it, either,” said Davis, staring at the Frenchman’s silk shirt, pleated trousers, and Italian loafers. “How’s the survivability of your airframe holding up?”