Miguel sighed. The Colombian officer’s comment about the lack of preparation for the mission appeared to be right on target.
“Anything I need to know that may be useful in this mission?” Miguel’s question opened the floodgates.
“The paramilitary groups are worse than the cartels, by far.” A soldier in the front row piped up with this not-so-helpful comment.
“Worse than drug dealers? Hard to believe,” Miguel said.
“Believe it, sir. They care less about life than the drug dealers. The drug dealers want to keep their clients alive. Dead clients don’t buy drugs, after all. But the paramilitary guys don’t give a damn about civilian life because they don’t make all their money from the drug trade.”
“What’s your name and how do you know so much about the paramilitary guys?”
The soldier stood up and saluted. “Private Gabriel Kohl, and I’ve been here the longest.”
“Well, Private, then how do the guerrillas make money?”
“They siphon gas from the pipeline and sell it on the black market. Those that aren’t siphoning bomb it, and extort protection money from the local government. Those that don’t siphon or bomb, kidnap.”
“So I’ve heard. And the government pays extortion money? Why?”
“Hell, half the paramilitary guys we’re dealing with are the relatives of the governmental officials, so in many cases the government has no real incentive to shut them down.”
“Sounds just like Miami.” Miguel’s voice was dry. He handed out copies of a picture of Emma.
“This is a passenger from Flight 689. Name of Emma Caldridge.”
Kohl whistled. “Man, she’s pretty!”
Miguel frowned at Kohl.
“Uh, sorry, sir, just an observation,” Kohl said.
Miguel glanced at the picture. “She is pretty, but that’s not why I gave you the picture. She’s an extreme runner and chemist who somehow managed to send a text message from her telephone after the crash.” He handed out copies of Emma’s text message. “There are several guerrilla organizations operating in the area from where we received the message, but we have reason to believe that the group that collected the passengers was headed by one Luis Rodrigo.”
Several men groaned.
“Exactly,” Miguel said. “We need to find the passengers before Rodrigo annihilates them all. And we’ll need some way to locate the mines. I understand he’s famous for them. Kohl, do you have any idea where we might obtain a bomb-sniffing dog?”
Private Kohl thought for a moment. “The Colombian army guys have a couple of German shepherds that they use for mine clearing.”
“Take me to them. Let’s see if we can borrow them.”
Within a couple of hours, Miguel arranged to take two German shepherds, named Boris and Natasha, with them on their journey. After securing the shepherds, Miguel called Carol Stromeyer.
“Major Stromeyer, I’ve got twenty special forces men dressed for the Iraqi desert instead of the Colombian jungle. Any chance you can get the DOD to spring for the proper clothing?”
“No problem. Get me their names. I’ll look into it and get back to you.”
Three hours after that, the first search helicopters took off.
16
STROMEYER STOOD BEFORE A YOUNG RECEPTIONIST SITTING behind a mahogany desk in the Pure Chemistry lobby. The company’s success was manifested in its corporate offices. Housed in a glass building with green-tinted windows, the facility occupied half a city block. A brochure placed in the reception area boasted that Pure Chemistry contained a state-of-the-art laboratory.
Stromeyer introduced herself. After a few minutes, a large man dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved white shirt walked up to her. He sported a bad comb-over, a polyester tie that was askew, and a plastic pocket protector in the shirt’s breast pocket. Stromeyer couldn’t begin to imagine the thoughts Banner would have if he saw Mr. White. He smiled a grin that exposed miles of gums, and stuck his hand out.
“I’m Gerald White. Nice to meet you. I’ve got the additional information on Emma Caldridge that you need.”
Stromeyer shook his hand. “I appreciate it.”
White led her past the receptionist into a carpeted hallway lined with doors. They reached one in the back.
“Here’s my office. Would you like some coffee?” He opened the door.
Mr. White’s office bore the stamp of a professional decorator. It was the antithesis of the man himself. The square-shaped room had a bank of windows on one side with a view of a small grassy area next to the building. A sleek cherrywood desk held a laptop in a docking station, a manila folder, and nothing else. Bookshelves lined the walls. Stromeyer saw a Grey’s Anatomy along with several volumes of scientific journals. A book titled Nostradamus, the Predictions caught her eye.
“Interesting choice, Nostradamus,” she said.
White gave her a sheepish look. “He was a sort of scientist, you know. I’ve always been fascinated by him.” White grabbed the manila folder. He perched on the edge of the desk.
“I have Ms. Caldridge’s personnel file here. As you know, it’s confidential, but I can tell you some information without the need for a subpoena. Like how long she’s been employed by us, her job description, et cetera.”
“How long has she been employed here?”
“Eighteen months. She transferred here from a job at a prestigious lab in the Midwest. We were very excited to get her, because she already had quite a reputation for her knowledge of plants.”
“I’ve read an article about her in Science magazine. Something about adding artificial chromosomes to plants,” Stromeyer said.
Mr. White nodded, a look of excitement in his eyes. “Yes, that work is truly groundbreaking. The Mondrian Chemical Company is looking to license her technology.”
“Is she continuing that research here?”
Mr. White shifted, as if nervous. “Not exactly. We do cosmetic chemistry. However, some of her work complements our needs. For example, we know that vitamin C liquid acts as a powerful antioxidant, but a serum containing it degrades quickly into a useless liquid. Ms. Caldridge helped create the technology that allows the ingredient to retain its potency for consumer use.”
“Why did she leave her last job?”
“Her fiancé died. She decided to move here to be near her father. He had retired to Florida.”
“I’d heard something about the fiancé. How did he die?”
“Car accident. He was hit by a drunk driver who veered into on-coming traffic.”
“How tragic.”
White nodded. “She doesn’t talk about it much, but I bumped into some of her former colleagues at a seminar and they say she was devastated.” He handed Stromeyer a piece of paper from the folder.
“She gave her father’s name and address as her emergency contact. George Caldridge, 2370 Poinsettia Place, Miami Beach. Here’s the phone number.”
“Do you think he knows that she was on Flight 689?”
White nodded. “I imagine not the exact flight, but he knew she was headed to Bogotá. Ms. Caldridge mentioned to her secretary that she’d informed her family of her trip.”
Stromeyer couldn’t help but be shocked. What kind of father didn’t call after his daughter when he knew she was on a flight from the same American city, to the same region, on the same day, that a jet went down?
“Has he been in contact with Pure Chemistry?”
White shook his head. “Not at all. In fact, we tried to contact him, but there’s no answer, and the machine is set to take no messages.”
“Ms. Caldridge sent a text to you after the plane went down. Are you very close?”
Mr. White looked pleased. His face turned pink in the beginnings of a blush. “We are. She’s brilliant, but easy to work with. Not the usual combination in our business. A lot of scientists are eccentric, to say the least.” It was clear Mr. White had a crush on Ms. Caldridge.
Stromeyer stood up. “Co
uld I see her office? It would give me a feel for her.”
“Of course. Most of her time here is spent in the lab, which is off-limits to visitors, but her office is right down the hall.” Stromeyer followed White, who led her two doors down the hallway. He opened the door and waved her in.
The office benefited from the same professional decoration as White’s. It, too, had windows that looked out onto the same grassy area, a bookshelf built into a wall, and a cherrywood desk that was identical to White’s. Her desk contained a notepad engraved at the top with the words From the desk of Emma Caldridge, an empty laptop docking station, and a framed photograph of Emma with her arms wrapped around the waist of a man. Stromeyer picked up the picture.
“Is this the fiancé?” she said.
White nodded. “His name was Patrick McBain.”
Both Emma and the man smiled into the camera. They looked happy and carefree. Stromeyer replaced the frame on the desk.
“Do you know if she took her laptop with her?”
White shook his head. “Doubtful. We have strict controls on how much information our scientists can cart around. We’d hate for a competitor to get their hands on some of our work, and laptops can be easily stolen. When not in use, they’re locked in a secure room.”
Stromeyer was surprised. “Is the information that valuable?”
White smiled. “The cosmetics industry is based on fast-paced innovation. Once a product is on the market, generics will re-create it within months. Next thing you know, your expensive face cream is shelved next to the drugstore’s cheaper house brand. Our clients expect to be copied once they launch, but they insist that we maintain tight security during the research-and-development phase.”
Stromeyer eyed the bookshelf. A volume entitled The Indigenous People of Colombia caught her eye. She pulled it off the shelf and showed it to White.
“Had she been to Colombia before?”
White wiped his hands on his thighs. Stromeyer thought he once again looked nervous.
“She went to the Ciudad Perdida last year.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Lost City. Ancient ruins, like Peru’s Machu Picchu, located in the Colombian Sierra Nevada Mountains not far from the coast. The site remained hidden until the 1970s, when grave robbers discovered it. Of course the indigenous people always knew it was there. To get there requires a grueling six-day trek through jungle and paramilitary-controlled coca fields. Not too many people attempt it. Emma took the trek last year.”
“Looking for plants?”
“Yes.”
“Did she find any?”
White shook his head. “She’d hoped that the indigenous people would utilize the local plants in a new, useful way, but all they used was the coca plant.”
Stromeyer was surprised. “Really?”
White chuckled. “Really. They think it’s a sacred plant that confers strength and fertility on those who ingest it. They chew it for energy. Needless to say, we couldn’t utilize that particular plant.”
“You win some, you lose some.” Stromeyer smiled at White.
White laughed. “You’ve got that right.”
Stromeyer replaced the book and held out her hand. “Thanks for your help. I’ll drive by Mr. Caldridge’s house and check it out.”
“Of course. As I told you on the phone, Ms. Caldridge is one of my best researchers. She’s one of the few people I know who are completely unafraid of new situations. She’d fly to the most dangerous places in the world if it meant discovering something new and exciting.”
“Does Pure Chemistry have kidnap insurance for her?” The thought just popped into Stromeyer’s head.
“No. We only take out ‘kidnap’ and ‘key man’ insurance for our CEO. The rest of us are stuck flying without a net, so to speak. Perhaps her family will offer a ransom.”
“Not likely, Mr. White. They haven’t bothered to check on her.”
Mr. White looked glum. “I know. Not what I’d expect, frankly. She’s a nice woman. Seems like she’d come from a nice family.”
After leaving Pure Chemistry, Stromeyer drove over the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. She found Poinsettia Place in a small, gated community on a strip of land flanked by water. The houses were solid brick with shingle roofs, unusual for Miami, with its emphasis on Spanish tile and Mediterranean architecture. These houses could have been in New Hampshire or Connecticut.
The Caldridge house was a ranch style with a red brick exterior and a dark shingle roof. Solid and prosperous-looking, it sat on a corner, with trimmed bushes surrounding the perimeter, red bougainvillea climbing up the side walls, and orange hibiscus and crocus plants lining a brick sidewalk.
Stromeyer rang the bell and waited. Four minutes later, she rang again. She checked her watch. Five minutes later, she rang again. Nothing. The curtains on a front picture window remained closed. Whether against the noonday sun or because the owner was gone, Stromeyer couldn’t tell. She walked around the house. Two large air-conditioning units sat on one side. Silent. This told Stromeyer everything she needed to know. As far as she could tell, these were the only air conditioners in the entire state of Florida that were switched off. Florida’s streets baked in oppressive heat, while every interior Stromeyer visited remained ice-cold. If George Caldridge’s air was turned off, he wasn’t home and wasn’t planning on being home for a while; it was as simple as that. She climbed back into her government-issued sedan and ruminated on the missing-in-action senior Caldridge all the way back to Southern Command.
She located Banner pacing in the conference room, a coffee cup in his hand. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Good news, I hope? I need some.”
Stromeyer sank into a swivel chair. “Emma Caldridge put her father down as her emergency contact. But he’s gone, flew the coop.”
Banner stopped pacing. “Are you sure?”
“I went to his house. The machine doesn’t accept messages, no answer at the door, and his air-conditioning is turned off.”
“Any idea where he worked? Maybe he’s on vacation.”
“He’s retired. Maybe he’s traveling, but I doubt it. Even if he was, you’d think he’d check in on his daughter when he saw the CNN footage. Unless he’s in some extremely remote area, he’s bound to have seen it.”
“Have we checked her house?”
“Not yet. Honestly, I didn’t think it would be necessary. I’ll contact the FBI, get a warrant, and head over there right away. I did get one piece of interesting information, though. Seems that last year she visited a remote area of Colombia looking for plants. She found nothing Pure Chemistry could use, but was supposedly headed back there for work purposes. It’s a little odd.”
Banner took a sip of his coffee. “I had a feeling she was a player,” he said.
17
EMMA CAUGHT UP WITH THE PASSENGERS TWO HOURS AFTER washing the herbicide off her skin. She trudged behind the line, her spear gripped in her hand and the guerrilla’s rifle over her shoulder. The path in front of her curved right. The trees were less dense than before, which allowed sun to filter between them. Grass grew knee-high in the patches of light. Emma could see the line of passengers between the breaks in the trees. Two guerrillas held up the rear. She dodged behind a tree to let them regain their lead.
A snorting, huffing sound came from the jungle, somewhere between Emma and the line of passengers. The guerrillas called a halt. The snorting sounds continued, along with rustling sounds made by whatever was in the tall grass as it moved through. The soldiers holding up the rear became agitated. They kept spinning around to look behind them. Two turned around and walked backward, their eyes scanning the jungle. The snuffling sounds intensified.
“Pigs!” one of the lagging soldiers yelled. He yelled it in Spanish, but Emma recognized the word. At least she thought she did, until she saw the others guerrillas turn to peer into the grass. The fear on their faces was unnerving.
Why in the world are they so af
raid of pigs? Emma wondered. She kneeled behind the tree and watched the men.
The rat-faced guerrilla pushed back through the line of passengers. He crouched next to the path and aimed his rifle toward the snorting sounds. Emma was thirty feet away and directly in his line of fire.
Emma froze. She warred with herself. Should she move slowly away? What if he heard her? Stay behind the tree? Take the risk that he’d spot her? Or stay frozen and let him shoot, taking the risk that a stray bullet would hit her?
Before she could decide to do either, the rat-faced guerrilla fired. He sprayed the area with shot. Emma heaved herself backward as the bullets landed all around her. She dropped to the ground and curled into a ball to make herself as small a target as possible.
The guerrilla let off another round. This time, loud squeals accompanied the noise of the gunfire. Emma watched as the low-growing palms and grasses moved in waves. When the waves were twenty feet away from her, she saw the wild pigs.
They were unlike any pigs she’d ever seen before. The size and shape of small pit bulls, they were muscled and hairless. The lead pig had two large tusks that grew from his lips, like a wild boar, except these tusks stuck straight out in front of his snout. He squealed in rage and ran at her. Six others fell in behind him.
Emma grabbed her spear, pulled herself upright, and took off back down the path. She ran as fast as she dared, dodging tree branches and avoiding small ruts. The spear flashed in her peripheral vision each time it moved with the pumping action of her arms. Her feet slipped and flew out from under her. She stumbled forward and landed face-first in the mud. She could still hear the pigs running and grunting behind her.
She got up and took two steps, and on the third, pain shot through her left shin. It felt like someone had driven a nail through it. It flared with each bone-jarring step. Emma’s brain registered the injury that she recognized as a shin splint, a tiny fracture of the shinbone, while the rest of her strained to continue running. She looked back.
The lead pig gained on her. She heard its hooves scrabbling on some loose stones. It moved with a speed that Emma did not think possible in an animal that size, and it showed no signs of slowing. The other animals fanned out behind it.
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