“Thanks,” I said, though I would rather have had the time alone. “Want me to call you when I’m ready?”
“Just meet us in the lobby whenever you get done. Maybe thirty minutes? Eight o’clock, plus or minus?”
“You sure y’all don’t want to just go on without me?”
“Sure, Doc. It’s not like we’ve got big plans.”
“Hey, speak for yourself, old man,” cracked Kimball. “Jack in the Box? Mickey D’s? Them joints is some happenin’, dude—I’ll be rockin’ this warehouse district all night!” I could hear the younger agents riffing on this theme and laughing as I stepped into my room. Closing the door behind me, I immersed myself in the cool and the dark, soaking up the soothing, white-noise hum of processed air.
My phone was already in my hand by the time I’d chained the door, and I felt a surge of nervous energy when I saw that I had two voice mails waiting.
The first was a reminder about a finance committee meeting at my church the next day, one I might have skipped even if I weren’t two thousand miles away. The second one, though, was as electrifying as the first one was boring. “Dr. Brockton? It’s Red. I’ve got some follow-up info I think you’ll find interesting. Call back when you can.”
I checked the clock. It was 7:30 in San Diego, which made it 10:30 in Knoxville. Too late to call, I thought. But then again, she worked until midnight—or did on some nights, although I didn’t know about tonight. She said to call anytime, I reminded myself. I hit the “call” button. “Hello,” said the now-familiar voice. “Is that you, Dr. B?”
“It is. Sorry to call so late. Are you still working?”
“I’m always working. My work ethic knows no bounds. Well, few bounds.” She paused. “Okay, truth is, my work ethic is fairly feeble. But I’m gung ho about this particular task.”
I didn’t have time for witty repartee. “Your voice mail said you found something interesting.”
“Well, I think so, but I’ll let you be the judge.”
“Tell me quick, then,” I said. “I don’t have much time.”
“Richard Janus was a pilot for Air America from 1970 to ’75.”
That wasn’t interesting at all, I judged. “So? The man’s a pilot. Was. I’d be surprised if he didn’t fly for an airline or two.”
“Air America wasn’t an airline. Air America was the CIA’s secret air force in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War.”
Suddenly I judged the information to be considerably more interesting. “The CIA? As in Central Intelligence Agency?”
“As in. Air America was the cover name. A shell company, it’s called. Civilian pilots—get this—flying military aircraft, on black-ops missions: commando insertions, weapons drops, downed-pilot rescues. Mostly in Laos and Cambodia, where U.S. troops weren’t supposed to be. There’s some evidence—claims, anyhow—that Air America also trafficked in opium.”
“What?”
“To help fund their operations. More profitable than bake sales, I guess.”
“Damn,” I whispered. Her news wasn’t just “interesting,” it was also damning, or at least potentially incriminating, on many levels. Had official U.S. agencies been complicit in the global drug trade? Had Richard Janus been part of that complicity? And had this much-admired humanitarian actually been a drug smuggler—for years, or even decades?
If so, it could explain a lot—maybe even explain everything: The investigation by the FBI. The involvement of another federal agency—the DEA, or the CIA, or whoever the redheaded fat man worked for. A desperate midnight run for the border of Mexico. It could even explain controlled flight into terrain—suicide-by-mountainside—if the demons or humans hounding Janus were sufficiently savage, if dying seemed less hellish than living.
“Gotta go,” I said. “Thanks for the info. Very interesting, but damned discomforting.”
“How do you mean?”
“If Janus was a serious drug runner, that could change things—change the investigation—in all sorts of ways. Maybe he was assassinated—possibly by Guzmán, possibly by the government. Maybe he was set up. Maybe this whole thing is one huge hoax.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe it’s even more complicated than any of those. Be interesting to find out. Have a good night, Dr. B.”
“Yeah,” I said as I disconnected and headed out for an evening of fast food, forced camaraderie, and unshared secrets.
DESPITE MY NIGHT OF FRETTING ABOUT AIR AMERICA, the CIA, and the labyrinth of secrets that seemed to surround the life and death of Richard Janus, I resumed searching on day three with high hopes. Buoyed by the prior afternoon’s discovery of a tooth, I’d assumed the rest of the remains would emerge immediately.