Passenger 19

by Ward Larsen

  Sorensen shut down her computer and minutes later was in her car. She cut through the nearly empty parking lot at an angle, and was almost to the front gate when her cell phone rang. She looked at the number and didn’t recognize it. She sat through five rings, shrill and loud, before slowing down and taking the call.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Miss Sorensen. I need to meet with you about your very recent request for information.”

  Sorensen steered to the curb at the edge of the parking area, coming to a stop at a diagonal against rows of empty white lines, her Ford Focus highlighted by a tall bank of sodium lights. She cautiously put the car in park before speaking. “Who is this?”

  “That will become clear. We need to meet. Please be at Volta Park at eight thirty. It’s near Georgetown University.”

  Sorensen looked at her watch. Half an hour. Her mind raced. “No. Nine thirty at the western path to the Washington Monument.”

  “Miss Sorensen—”

  She ended the call and turned off her phone. Whoever it was, if they wanted to see her, they’d do it on her terms. It gave her a degree of control. It also gave her ninety minutes to figure out what the hell she was getting into.

  * * *

  From the bar Davis ran across the street, but nearing the parking lot he slowed. He saw a staff car like the one Marquez had been using, a small crowd gathered around it. Policemen were shoehorning in for a look, but nobody seemed in a hurry.

  Davis recognized Rafael, the young man who’d helped him with the video two nights earlier. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Colonel Marquez has been shot.”

  “Is he alive?”

  A solemn look foreshadowed Rafael’s answer. “I do not think so.”

  More police pulled into the parking lot, and when another pair of officers cut through the crowd, Davis fell in behind them. The staff car came into view, and he saw Marquez framed in the driver’s-side window, just above the vulture coat-of-arms. The colonel was sprawled back in his seat, a massive splotch of blood centered on his chest and one ear resting on his shoulder. He was definitely not alive.

  Being the tallest bystander, Davis looked over a sea of heads and across the parking lot. It looked no different than it had thirty minutes ago, when he and Delacorte had walked to the bar. The only changes: five police cars and a dead colonel. Davis found himself revisiting his earlier thought. A man living on borrowed time.

  He backed away and said in a loud voice, “Did anyone see who did this?”

  There were at least twenty people surrounding the car. Not one gave a reply. He spotted Rafael again, and asked, “What happened?”

  “No one saw it. We were all inside.”

  “Did you hear gunshots?”

  “No, there was nothing.”

  An ambulance arrived, and a pair of paramedics hustled to the car. With one look their sense of urgency abated. Soon one of the policemen began asking questions in Spanish. The second person he spoke with, an Air Force corporal Davis had seen regularly in the office, pointed a finger straight at him.

  Davis stood his ground on the perimeter, making the cop come to him. He wasn’t surprised at all when the man grabbed his elbow and said in English, “You come with me, señor.” Davis stared briefly at the cop, then at his accuser.

  He was escorted to a quiet room in El Centro and told not to leave. Davis tried to tell the policeman he had better things to do, that he was investigating the crash of an airliner.

  The door shut decisively in his face.

  * * *

  Sorensen had some years ago begun an MBA at George Washington University. She’d seen it as a career-broadening move, one of the square-fillers expected of those seeking advancement within the Company. With no small degree of irony, her good intentions were undermined when a foreign posting intervened. In a recurring theme, and one that extended beyond her professional life, she withdrew from the program after only two months. Yet even if she’d earned no credits, Sorensen had learned valuable lessons. Among them—the Eckles Library was open to the public, kept late hours, and offered computer access on the second floor.

  She researched Kristin Marie Stewart strictly from public sources, and after approaching the problem from a number of angles, Sorensen narrowed her hunt to two possible suspects. One was a twenty year old who lived in Mesa, Arizona, a girl who had one arrest for possession of marijuana—less than six ounces—and was documented photographically as having participated in at least three swimsuit competitions at various spring break hotspots. She was a bottle blond who’d apparently undertaken her first boob job at a tender young age, and who looked smashing in a polka-dot two-piece with a T-back bottom.

  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 s
miled 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.

  She walked onto the west lawn of the Washington Monument at 9:33, three minutes late. There were actually two paths toward the monument from that direction—she hadn’t been here in some time—and she opted for the nearest. To her left was The Ellipse, and beyond that the White House. Behind her was the World War II Memorial, and farther on the reflecting pool and monument where Lincoln sat eternal watch over the Potomac.

  Even at this hour tourists were wheeling around the uplit monument and taking pictures with their smartphones, images destined to join tens of millions of nearly identical compositions in that web-based repository known as The Cloud. Sorensen was standing on one of the most highly monitored acres of land on Earth, which of course was why she’d chosen it. She saw the U.S. Park Police, U.S. Capitol Police, and along Constitution Avenue a pair of D.C. Metro squad cars were parked nose to tail. All that reassurance aside, Sorensen did feel a tendril of unease. Being so close the White House, the Secret Service had to be near, quite possibly the agency she was here to meet. Had she put herself on enemy territory?

  With no idea whom she was looking for, Sorensen paused a hundred feet short of the massive obelisk and pretended to admire it. Her confidence was rewarded.

  “Miss Sorensen?”

  She turned to see a man of medium height standing behind her. He wore a well-cut suit and tie, although he didn’t look completely comfortable in it. Short hair and a square jaw made her think of the military.

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Jones, ma’am.”

  Sorensen replied with a grin, and said, “Jones? Is that your last name or your first? Or maybe the only one—you know, like Pele or Bono?”

  The face cracked briefly into a regulation smile, but it died quickly. He pointed a thick and noticeably bent finger to the east. “Would you mind if we walked toward The Mall? The crowds here can be difficult.”

  Sorensen allowed it, and they set off at a casual pace.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said as they paused at the 14th Street crosswalk.

  “So who are you with?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure if that’s relevant to what—”

  “My money is on the Secret Service,” she cut in. “I performed a search on a young woman named Kristin Stewart, and was immediately locked out. I’ve never seen that before. Then a few minutes later you call and ask me for a shadowy meeting. A bit melodramatic on your part, if you don’t mind my saying so. If I were to take this all to my supervisor, I’m not sure what she—”

  “No,” Jones interrupted, “I’m not with the Secret Service.”

  Sorensen stared at him, mildly surprised, and she thought he might be on the level. The crossing light changed and they began to walk.

  “The name you just mentioned, Miss Stewart. She’s a college student who’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “It’s an age when kids tend to find trouble.”

  “You make it sound like she got caught skinny dipping in the university fountain. She was a passenger on an airliner that crashed under very suspicious circumstances.”

  Jones’ gaze sharpened ever so slightly. “That situation is being handled. As far as you and your employer are concerned, Kristin Stewart should be left alone.”

  “Left alone?” Sorensen repeated. “That implies she survived. It makes me think you know where she is.”

  The two exchanged an awkward look.

  “There’s still a great deal of uncertainty,” said Jones “which I think you already know.”

  Sorensen didn’t reply, an admission he was right.

&nb
sp; “You’ve been in contact with Mr. Davis, I think? I understand the two of you are friends on … some level.”

  Sorensen kept steady against the implication that Jones, and whoever he represented, knew about her intermittent relationship with Jammer. “He’s down in Colombia looking for Kristin Stewart, and he asked for my help. I suspect you know that much. What you don’t know is how close he’s gotten.”

  “And you do?” he asked as they rounded a group of Asian tourists.

  “Like you said—we’ve been in contact.”

  “I can promise you one thing, Miss Sorensen. Your friend Davis may eventually discover what happened to that flight—in fact, we hope he does—but there’s no chance of him finding Kristin Stewart.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to underestimate him. His daughter was on that flight too.”

  Jones paused and gave her a peculiar look. “His daughter?”

  Sorensen eyed the man critically. “I have you at a disadvantage, don’t I? A little bit of knowledge—it can be a dangerous thing.”

  Jones seemed acutely deliberate in gathering his response. He stood silhouetted by the distant White House, which itself was pleasingly framed by dark, thick-branched chestnut trees in the warm evening air. He finally said, “Miss Sorensen, I can’t tell you who I represent, but rest assured it is someone who doesn’t forget a favor.”

  “Such as?”

  “The easiest thing of all. Go home, have a glass of wine, and get a good night’s sleep. Go to work tomorrow and forget all about this. If Mr. Davis calls, tell him you’ve hit a dead end in your search for the girl—which you did. Things are being managed at a higher level. Please believe me when I say it’s best for everyone involved if you simply allow events to run their course.”