Hostage Zero

Jonathan settled into his chair at the head of the conference table in the War Room and gave the floor to Venice. Behind her, at the far end of the room, Evan Guinn’s face continued to watch them from the projection screen. It disappeared only when she began to speak, replaced by the face of a man in his mid-forties, shot at an oblique angle, clearly through a telephoto lens.

“This is Mitchell Ponder,” she began. “Of the few pictures of him that are available in any of the databases we can access, this is both the most recent and the most identifiable.”

Identifiable was a relative term, Jonathan thought. Sure, the guy had features-he had a nose and a mouth and a set of eyes just like everyone else, but nothing about him truly stood out as unusual, which meant that even the best facial recognition software would be only marginally useful.

Venice clicked the remote control in her hand, and the image on the screen changed to a much younger version of the same plain vanilla face, but this time accompanied by a complete set of fingerprints. “This is his Army induction photo from twenty years ago,” she explained. “His service record is unremarkable. In and out in six years with an honorable discharge as an E-5.”

Jonathan recognized E-5 as the Army’s rate of sergeant. To achieve a third chevron in six years was admirable, but nothing special.

“The big break,” Venice went on, “is the set of prints. Since we know who we’re looking for, and we know where to look for him, I was able to trace him down.” She clicked again, and brought up a picture that could have been snapped at any immigration counter at any airport in the world. Obviously shot by a security camera, the photo showed the same man as the other pictures-Mitch Ponder. “Because the Colombians are still pissed at us for our hundred years of meddling, they require fingerprints of any American, Brit, or Frenchman coming in and out of the country.” The time stamp on the photo showed he’d been in country for just over eighteen hours. “He’s traveling under the name Robert Zambrano. I don’t know if there’s significance to the alias.”

“Who else arrived on the same flight?” Jonathan asked.

“Too many to help us,” Venice said. “He came in on a commercial flight from Houston with about a hundred of his closest friends.”

“Houston?” Boxers asked. “Not Dulles, which would have been much closer.” He looked to Jonathan. “I guess they took their collapsible chopper to a private airport somewhere and then took a private jet to Houston? Why not just fly him to Colombia?”

Venice explained, “The Colombian government pays very close attention to incoming civil aviation traffic. And the U.S. government pays even closer attention to outbound civil aviation traffic.”

“But why Houston?” Jonathan wondered aloud. “Of all the outbound connections, why there? Were there any children who look like our boy?”

Venice shook her head. “I’ve done an initial run-through of faces and didn’t see anything that even came close.”

“So where could he be?” Boxers asked.

“Assuming he was on the plane, there’s only one other place I can think of,” Venice said. “In with the luggage.”

Gail sat forward. “Wouldn’t he suffocate?”

“I thought the same thing,” Venice said. “But the research says no. I’d never really thought about this before, but they have to keep cargo holds pressurized now because of people transporting pets and such. With the pressure, there’s plenty of oxygen to survive and temperature controls to keep you from freezing to death. I verified this on the Internet. But the key…” She paused for dramatic effect, hoping the Jonathan would complete her thought for her.

“Ven, please. You know I hate this game.”

“The key is to properly sedate the passenger you pack.”

Now he saw it. “Jeremy Schuler was sedated, too.”

Venice licked her finger and affixed a gold star to the air. “Bingo.” She pressed her remote and revealed a sea of luggage being managed by uniformed airline personnel. “It turns out that the El Dorado Airport in Bogota has high-end security in their baggage claim.”

“But clearly not on their firewall,” Jonathan quipped. “You never cease to amaze me with this stuff.”

She gave a coy grin. “Oh, I’m just getting started. So, at the airport, every bit of luggage is tracked as a function of the passenger who carried it. Since we have fingerprints, we also have a ticket number. With the ticket number, we can know exactly what our guy was carrying on his direct flight from Washington.”

She clicked again, and the screen filled with images of an unremarkable black nylon suitcase and an oversize hardsided case that was double-sealed with a wrap-around strap. “Take a look at the big one,” she said, “because I believe that it contains Evan Guinn. Notice the orange tag warning that it’s overweight.”

“I don’t buy it,” Boxers said. “It’s too risky. TSA opens half the bags that get loaded onto a flight.”