The other prospect was also twenty years old, but cut from a very different bolt of cloth. This Kristin Stewart had graduated from her Raleigh, North Carolina, high school near the top of her class. She’d been active in a variety of extracurricular activities, including Spanish Club and lacrosse, and received a scholarship from the local Elks Lodge which, according to the blurb beneath a photograph, would advance her pursuit of a degree in soil science at the University of Virginia. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, and exhibited the buoyant smile of a young girl ready to take the world by storm. Also labeled in the Elks Lodge picture was her mother, Jean Stewart, presumably of Raleigh, North Carolina.
Sorensen was certain she’d found her girl.
She checked the time and saw she had twenty-five minutes until her rendezvous at the Washington Monument. With whom, Sorensen had no idea, but she wasn’t particularly worried. The meeting had all the hallmarks of an inter-service turf war. Jammer had inadvertently crashed someone’s delicate clandestine op, and now her parallel inquiries had trampled further onto the hallowed ground of some shadowy agency, likely a three-letter acronym she’d dealt with before. All the same, for a face-to-face meeting Sorensen thought it wise to keep things in plain view. She doubted she was in professional hot water. Not yet, anyway. If that were the case, the meeting would not have been arranged by an anonymous phone call. It would have convened in a Langley conference room by directive, a boulder rolling down the hill that was her lawful chain of command. No, she decided — this meeting under the stars was not on the record.
Sorensen nearly got up from the computer when a last contingency entered her mind. Whoever she was about to meet would likely try to intimidate her, and in the worst case she would get a phone call from her supervisor telling her to back off. If that happened, she would comply, at least on appearances. But she wasn’t going to give up. Not as long as Jen was missing.
It took four minutes more on the computer to find what she needed. She scribbled down an address and stuffed it in her purse.
TWENTY-THREE
Davis waited in the room for nearly an hour, his only company a progression of sorry thoughts. A policeman checked on him every ten minutes, presumably to ensure that he hadn’t chipped through the cinder block walls of the windowless room. Finally, the person he was expecting walked in.
“Good evening, Mr. Davis,” said Major Echevarria of the Bogotá Police, Special Investigations Unit.
“Not really,” said Davis, not rising from his folding metal chair to shake hands. “Certainly not for Marquez.”
Echevarria pulled up the only other chair in the room, turned it backwards, and straddled it to face Davis with a Formica work table between them. The interrogation room — the only phrase that fit — was typically used for storage, and was littered with empty boxes, paper, and file cabinets. The air was laced in print toner and cheap cleanser.
“So what happened?” Davis asked.
“That is what I’ve come to find out.”
“He was shot.”
“Yes, three times. A very thorough job.”
“Any idea who’s responsible?”
Echevarria rubbed his forehead with a meaty finger, like a man at the end of a particularly hard and troubling day. “Where were you tonight?”
Davis smiled grimly, his head tipping to one side. “At the time of the murder? Are you serious?”
The policeman’s silence said he was.
“I was across the street having a beer with an engineer from BTA. His name is Pascal Delacorte. There was a bartender too, and I’m sure if you looked, you could find ten customers who’d remember us being there.”
Echevarria nodded. “Actually, I already know that much. The trouble I am faced with is this — at least two of the workers in this building heard you and Marquez arguing not long before his death.”
“We’ve been arguing for the last two days. You already know that, just like you know I had nothing to do with this.”
“Then who is responsible?”
A shrug from Davis. “I’m sure Colombia has its share of hoodlums and thugs.”
“And that’s where you suggest I look? Hoodlums and thugs in the barrios? What would you know about such people?”
“A lot — I play rugby. But I’m not talking about the barrios. No petty criminal is going to shoot a military officer while he’s sitting in his staff car.”
“Organized crime, then?”
“You’re getting closer. If I were you, I’d consider motive. Who benefits from his death? It could be someone respectable, somebody from the air force or city hall… maybe even the police department.”
Echevarria remained steady, but his voice went cool. “Let me put it to you another way, Mr. Davis. Have there been developments in the investigation that might cause difficulties for Colonel Marquez?”
“I blew his hijacking theory out of the water today. That was probably difficult for him.”
“Would it have been a problem for anyone else?”
Davis leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Now that’s your best question yet, Major. I’d look into it if I were you. Who does Marquez report to?”
Echevarria hesitated, and Davis expected him to say that he would be asking the questions. Instead, he said, “He is attached to Comando Aéreo de Combate 2. General Suarez is in charge.”
“So General Suarez is Marquez’ commander of record. What about off the record?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Davis paused a beat. “I found evidence today that points to some very disturbing conclusions about this crash.”
“Such as?”
“I can’t say,” said Davis. “It’s privileged information relating to an ongoing investigation.”
“If that’s what you think,” Echevarria said in a rising voice, “then you are not very well versed in Colombian law.”
“So call a lawyer. Or if you really don’t like it, put me up as a guest of the State tonight. I’ve already seen the accommodations, and they’re not that bad.” Davis straightened in his chair. “The way I see it, neither of us can afford to waste time.”
“A serious crime was committed here tonight, Mr. Davis.”
“True, a man was killed, one who had two teenage kids and a wife. The thing is, I’m investigating an even more serious crime. I’ve got twenty-one bodies and three missing persons.”
Echevarria said nothing.
Davis stood and said in a calm voice, “A lot of people seem to have an interest in this crash. I don’t know who or why, but I’ll find out. When I do I’ll share it with you, because the same people and motives are behind what happened to Colonel Marquez. In the meantime, I’m guessing this crash investigation will spin its wheels for a time. The air force will put a new colonel in charge, by next week if we’re lucky. Unfortunately, he or she will have to start from square one. It’ll take a long time to get up to speed, which means for the foreseeable future, the only person who’s going to make any progress in this inquiry is me. I don’t care if you like me, Major. I doubt we’ll exchange Christmas cards this December. But right now — you should understand that I’m the best friend you’ve got.”
Davis turned toward the door.
Echevarria spoke through what sounded like a clenched jaw. “You still have hope for your daughter?”
Davis paused at the threshold, and without looking back said, “Very much so.”
“Then I wish you happy hunting.”
Anna Sorensen was a trained CIA field operative. As such, she habitually arrived at clandestine meetings early in order to survey the field of play and take precautions. Tonight there had been no time.