Breathless. I pounded down the jetway as the crew prepared to shut the door. A stewardess gave me the look as I edged on board. A woman snarled when I attempted to stick my backpack in the same bin as her carefully folded fur coat. I tried a second bin, this one stuffed with a boxed microwave oven and multiple shopping bags. A third; no dice. The middle-aged man who’d prematurely snatched my aisle seat retreated grudgingly to the center. With the plane fully loaded and the overhead luggage bins crammed, I shoved my backpack under the seat in front of me, muttering a grumpy farewell to legroom. At least I’d made the flight.
Strange, I thought. Irritating. Weird.
I’d arrived at the airport early. The blue Saturn hadn’t followed me; I’d made sure by demanding a circuitous route that drove the cabbie nuts. I’d drunk a cup of coffee and visited an ATM, drawing out a thousand in fifties on the theory that dollars might be more effective bribes than the pesos paid out by the cajeros automdticos in Bogota.
I hadn’t counted on getting yanked out of the security line, placed in a windowless cell, and told to wait.
I replayed the scene in my head while the plane pushed back from the gate. A miracle, really, that I’d made it on board. I’d sat in the cell, minus ticket and passport, tapping my toes and fidgeting, watching the minute hand on my watch creep around the dial. I’m not the sort who has to be first to dash onto the aircraft, but I’d been inspecting my watch at decreasing intervals when a man finally entered the cell and asked me to follow him, please.
He’d ushered me into a slightly larger room occupied by a man and a woman, neither wearing airport security garb. The man, dark-haired and thirtyish, wore a gray suit with shiny patches at the knees, and was busily inspecting my travel documents. The woman, younger, in severe black, took my backpack to a table along the right-hand wall, unzipped the compartments, and started laying out the contents. Gray Suit grabbed a chair from in front of a mirrored wall, straddled it, and beamed me a megawatt smile.
“Have a seat,” he’d said cheerfully.
“My flight leaves in twenty minutes.”
“All the more reason to cooperate as quickly as possible.”
“Who are you?”
“That's the sort of thing that’ll slow us right down. If you really want to make your flight—” His teeth were white and even.
“Go ahead.”
“Why are you traveling to Bogota, Miss Carlyle?”
“Vacation.”
“Visiting friends?”
“Tourist.”
He’d tapped my passport thoughtfully. “You haven’t done much traveling outside the country lately.”
It seemed like he was trying to start me talking, urging me to babble on to fill the silence. I’d used the same technique too often to fall for it.
Gamely, he’d displayed his teeth again. “Will you be staying in Bogota? Or traveling to other cities?” While he was speaking, the woman was shuffling my belongings around the table, wanding them, but I hadn’t been able to focus on her actions and his questions at the same time.
I’d told him I expected to remain in Bogota.
“At a hotel?”
“Yes.”
“You have a reservation?” “No.”
“You know that Colombia is not on the U.S. government's list of approved destinations.”
“Which branch of the government are you with?”
He’d ignored my question so completely, I might never have opened my mouth. Then he’d shot a glance at the mirrored wall, holding it long enough to confirm my suspicion that the mirror was one-way glass. I’d kept the awareness off my face.
“Are you taking any cash out of the country?” I’d gotten the feeling he wasn’t all that interested in my response, so I’d twisted around to watch the woman replacing items in my backpack.
“Why?”
“It's a routine question,” he’d replied blandly.
“If I were taking more than ten thousand bucks, I’d be sure to mention it.” Ten thousand is the magic figure; you take more than that, you’d better declare it.
He’d glanced at the mirror again; he seemed to be waiting for something.
I’d said, “Is that all?”
He’d glanced at the woman, then the mirror. “Yes. If you have any trouble while you’re visiting Colombia, don’t delay. Go directly to the U.S. Embassy.”
“I’m not expecting any trouble,” I’d said, “other than making my flight.”
They’d returned passport, ticket, and backpack, solemnly thanking me for my cooperation. Then they’d rushed me down a hallway, skirting security, escorting me through the hidden back streets of the airport, and releasing me into the gate area unscreened by the regular examiners. They’d assured me that my flight would be held till my arrival.
The engines revved and the plane taxied down the runway. Twelve minutes late. I’d never had a plane held at the gate for me before.
The questions had been routine, but the episode hadn’t felt like a standard one-in-ten security check. The lack of proffered ID bothered me. Who the hell were they? Homeland Security? FBI? None of their questions had been targeted at my relationship with Sam Gianelli. DEA? No questions about Roldan. And since when was DEA interested in people leaving the country? Why the office with the one-way glass?
As the plane lifted off, I popped a lemon drop into my mouth and tried to stifle my regret for the window seat. I haven’t flown enough to be jaded; I like to see the ground recede, the water lap the land. But in a window seat, the stewardesses would be too far away to notice the photo of Paolina I intended to prop on my tray-table; they wouldn’t comment on the pretty girl who’d recently taken the same flight. I considered adding the other photos, the man who’d tagged after Paolina in line, the woman who’d preceded her.
Hanson at Biodyne had come through big-time, with head shots I’d picked up on my dash to the airport. When making the reservation, I’d selected the flight closest to the time line on the airport video, hopefully the same Avianca flight Paolina had taken. I didn’t know the ways of flight crews, possibly none of these attendants had worked this flight three nights ago, but searching for witnesses at the same time the subject was observed in the area is one of the golden rules of police work.
My seatmates nodded off as soon as the plane reached cruising altitude, the middle-aged man snoring gently. Most of the passengers followed suit, but I resolutely flipped open my laptop. Earlier, Roz had sent me no fewer than twenty-two clips concerning Paolina's father, Carlos Roldan Gonzales, aka El Martillo, the Hammer, and I’d downloaded the e-mails into a file. Now I adjusted my reading light, twisting the tiny knob to control a stream of chilled air, and tried to adjust my mind to the fact that for the next three hours that was essentially all I’d be able to control.
Tell the truth, airplanes give me the willies. I know about aerodynamics and lift and thrust. I know I’m safer as a passenger in a commercial jet than as a driver on the Southeast Expressway, but I feel totally out of control, a side of beef zooming through space in a soup can. I want to rush the cockpit, demand the pilot's qualifications, make sure his reflexes are as good as mine.
I sucked a deep breath, loosened my hands on the armrests, and immersed myself in background material on Roldan, from The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Miami Herald, El Tiempo de Bogota, and El Espectador, working through the pieces doggedly in chronological order. El Tiempo and El Espectador had the most coverage, which was only to be expected. There were times I devoutly wished for a Spanish/English dictionary, but considering the unfamiliar words in context, I was able to cope.
Carlos Roldan Gonzales, programmed from birth to lead the charmed life of the Colombian upper class, had grown up in north Bogota near the country club, spending weekends at one of his family's sprawling ranches and vacations in Spain. He’d earned an economics degree from Jorge Tadeo Lozano University in Bogota and attended law school in the States. In his late twenties, he’d given up the dances and dinner parties, and disappeared into the jungle to join, and eventually lead, a leftist guerrilla group.
I searched my mind for the North American equivalent, but not a lot of parallels sprang to mind. The scions of wealthy New York families who’d joined the Weather Underground in the ‘60s were a better fit than Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army.
The group Roldan headed was called MM-19, dedicated to the martyrs of the M-19 guerrilla group. I read quotes from his university professors, declaring amazement that a young man from his background had chosen the path he’d taken. Most seemed shocked and horrified; one or two sounded tones of grudging admiration.
M-19 was one of the smallest of Colombia's guerrilla organizations; the largest was FARC, Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, also called the People's Army. Next came the ELN, also an acronym of its official Spanish name. The larger groups were strongest in the countryside. M-19 had been a mainly urban force until 1985, when they’d stormed the Palace of Justice in Bogota. Over a hundred died in the ensuing battle with the military. The Supreme Court Justices got caught in the middle; eleven of them died.
MM-19 was excoriated as a drug business, with Roldan mentioned in the same sentences as Pedro Escobar and the Ochoa brothers. A “war without quarter” against the cartels included the guerrilla groups in its scope. The cartels corrupted public officials with huge payoffs. They employed sicarios to assassinate judges and politicians.
A few of the more recent stories mentioned ties between the traffickers and the AUC, a network of right-wing “paramilitary” groups suspected of killing leftist politicians and their supporters. I reread two articles, but they didn’t make sense juxtaposed one against the other. If MM-19 had morphed from a revolutionary cell into a drug cartel, were they allied with the right-wing paramilitaries or the left-wing guerrillas?
I closed my eyes, and smoothed my forehead with my fingertips. There were too many competing groups, too many agendas. Too much violence. I couldn’t expect to understand the complexities of Colombia, and mainly I didn’t give a damn. I was there to find Paolina, to find her and bring her back.
A dark-haired steward asked what I’d like to drink. I requested a Pepsi, accepted a Coke, and inquired about the photos. He shrugged and shook his head. Was the girl famous, he wanted to know. Maybe that Puerto Rican singer?
I scrolled on. Roldan and MM-19 had aided a village ravaged by disease and paramilitary executions. They’d kidnapped two doctors and held them for ransom. They were implicated in the bombing of a famous nightclub. As I read, I noted the names of the Colombian journalists. El Tiempo's Luisa Cabrera had more direct quotes from members of MM-19, greater detail, a markedly sympathetic tone. I wondered whether she might know a way to get in touch with Roldan in case the Bogota phone numbers on Naylor's bill didn’t pan out. I scribbled her name in my notebook, then skimmed the articles concerning Roldan's disappearance. The Cessna had set out from a town called Convencion in Norte de Santander province. Either three men or five men had been aboard, depending on the article I read. Several citizens of Magdalena province had reported a fireball. I wondered if Roldan had been expected to board the plane, but missed the flight. Possibly the report of his death had been made up by the press or planted by friends. I’d need to send Roz an e-mail after I landed. I wanted more information on Angel Navas, the man who’d reportedly inherited Roldan's drug empire. When the passenger in front of me decided to lean his seat into my lap, I decided to ignore the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign and take a walk before my legs atrophied.
There's a game I play on airplanes: Spot the sky marshall. I have a good batting average because the rules for what to wear on airplane flights have relaxed over the years while the rules for proper Justice Department attire have not. Spot a guy in a suit and tie on other than a Washington—New York flight, and chances are he's got a shoulder holster to match.
I wondered whether the man and woman who’d delayed me at the airport worked for Justice. They’d been dressed well enough.
If the silver-haired man in 32F hadn’t dropped his eyes and looked away, I might not have noticed him. The sudden motion, the tilt as he shifted his weight to gaze blankly out the window, drew my eye like a magnet and I thought: Where have I seen him before? Not in the security line. Not in the boarding lounge; I hadn’t spent any time in the boarding lounge.
I edged into the tiny restroom. My breathing was shallow and my palms felt damp. Maybe it was simply lack of sleep. No sleep, Paolina's disappearance, the stubbornly clinging blue Saturn, the anonymous airport agents—the combination had me reacting like a rookie cop in a bad neighborhood, imagining a machine gun in every violin case. I needed to steel myself, get a grip. The plane dipped its wings and gave a sudden lurch. The PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEAT sign flashed accusingly as I splashed water on my face.
Emerging from the toilet, I stood near the rear of the plane expecting, hoping, to recover my perspective and reclassify the man as a harmless stranger. I ran my eyes over his muscular back, protruding ears, thick neck. Paranoia crept between my shoulder blades. Dammit, I was right. I distinctly remembered the laughing brunette on his arm, the tall frosted glass in his right hand, the tops of his sunburned ears. I couldn’t be mistaken. I’d noticed him near the pool, crossing the patio by the crystalline water.
At Drew Naylor's party.