A security guard stopped him at the outside gate. Ryan was so winded he could barely speak. “I’m an American citizen. My passport was stolen. I need help.”
“Come with me,” he said.
The guard escorted him onto the compound, where a U.S. Marine met him at the entrance to the main building. Outside the embassy were privately hired guards; inside, the Marines took over. Ryan felt relief at the sight of the American flag in the lobby. Even the picture of the president he hadn’t voted for made him feel at home.
“Thank you so much,” he said.
The young Marine was as stiff as his starched and pressed uniform. He wore a tan shirt and dark blue pants with a red stripe down the side. A pistol and metal handcuffs were on his belt. He drew neither, but he did little else to put Ryan at ease. They passed the elevators and the entrance to the ground-floor offices. The directory on the wall listed everything from the ambassador and the legal attache to the Coast Guard and Drug Enforcement Agency. Ryan wasn’t sure where they were headed. He just followed. They stopped at a set of double wood doors at the end of the hall. The Marine opened the door on the right.
“Please, step inside, sir.”
Ryan went in. The Marine posted himself outside and closed the door behind him. The room was sparsely furnished, just a rectangular table and chairs. A fluorescent light hummed overhead. Two men rose from the chairs on the opposite side of the table. One looked young and Hispanic. The other was more WASP-ish and mature. They were dressed alike in white shirts and dark blue blazers. Both were stone-faced as they looked at Ryan.
“Dr. Duffy?” the older one said. His voice almost echoed off the cold bare walls.
“Yes.”
The man reached inside his pocket and flashed his credentials. “Agent Forsyth. FBI. Agent Enriquez and I would like to ask you some questions. Just take a few minutes. Could you have a seat, please.”
Ryan remained standing, shifting nervously. “I’m just down here on business, you know. Somebody stole my bag.”
“What’s that on your shoulder?”
“Oh, this? I bought it here in the city. At the hotel, actually. As a replacement.”
He seemed skeptical. “Did you report the theft to the Panamanian police?”
“No, I didn’t. I, uh, just didn’t get around to it.”
“Why were you running from the police?”
“What do you mean?”
His gaze tightened. “You heard me.”
“Look, this whole thing is getting way out of hand. My passport was stolen. I just wanted to get back to my own country as quickly as possible. Why would a guy who has anything to hide run straight to the U.S. embassy? If you think I was running from the police, that’s your perception. But I have no idea why the police would be following me.”
“We asked them to pick you up,” said Forsyth.
“That’s why they were following you.”
Ryan looked confused. “The FBI asked them?”
He nodded. “It’s not unusual for the FBI to ask the local police to pick up a subject.”
“A suspect? Suspect of what?”
“I said subject, not suspect. You’re not a suspect. Please, sit. We’d like to talk to you.”
Ryan had watched enough cop shows on television to know there was something magic about the term “suspect.” At the very least, a suspect had to be advised of his legal rights — which was probably why they weren’t calling him one. At least not yet.
“What do you want to know?” asked Ryan.
“For starters, let’s talk about the three-million-dollar account at the Banco del Istmo.” Forsyth leaned forward, watching Ryan carefully. “You must have really pissed off that bank officer you were dealing with. These days it’s a little easier to pierce bank secrecy than it used to be under the dictatorship. But even so, this is the first time we’ve ever gotten the cooperation of the Banco del Istmo. They sent all the records straight to the financial intelligence unit here in Panama, which sent them to us.” He picked up a file from the table before him, apparently reading from something.
“Three hundred transfers in the amount of nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine dollars. A rather unimaginative way to circumvent the ten-thousand-dollar currency transaction reporting requirements, if I do say so myself.”
Ryan blinked, saying nothing.
Forsyth continued to read from his file. “According to the bank officer, you told him — quote — ‘My father was not the kind of man to have three million dollars in a numbered account in the Banco del Istmo. My father wasn’t the kind of man to have three million dollars in any bank.’ End quote.” He looked up from the file. With a quick glance, he directed Ryan to the empty chair at the table. “Have a seat, Dr. Duffy. I’d really like to give you an opportunity to explain that statement.”
Ryan started to sweat. Part of him felt the need to say something. Part of him felt the urge to get the hell out of there. He didn’t know his rights, but he knew someone who did.
“I’ll be happy to talk to you,” he said. “After I talk to my lawyer.”
33
They were out of lettuce. For nine straight days, Sarah’s late-morning snack had consisted of the same unique sandwich delicacy. Peanut butter, sliced bananas, mayonnaise, and iceberg lettuce on rye bread, grilled on both sides until the mayo was bubbling and the lettuce went soft. Dee-licious. But it just wasn’t the same without the lettuce.
She slumped with despair as she stood staring into the open refrigerator. She made one more attempt to bend her pregnant body and check the bottom vegetable bin. Definitely no lettuce. Her hormones took over. She was suddenly on the verge of tears.
The phone rang. She paused, unsure whether it was worth the effort to answer. The wall phone was all the way on the other side of the kitchen. Her swollen ankles were worse today than yesterday, and the cold air from the open refrigerator was feeling mighty good.
It kept ringing. Seven, eight times. Somebody really wanted to talk to her. She stepped away from the fridge and slowly crossed the room, grimacing with each step. She answered in a clipped tone. “Yeah.”
“Sarah, it’s Liz. Where is Brent?”
“Not here.”
“I didn’t think so. Where is he?”
Sarah checked the clock on the oven. “Probably halfway back from Denver by now.”
Liz hesitated. “I appreciate your candor.”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t expect you to actually admit he came here.”
“Liz, what are you talking about? He went to Denver to see you.”
“Me?”
“He left early this morning. Real early. Like two A.M. Said he wanted to catch you before you went to work. He couldn’t sleep. Was up thinking about that deposition your lawyer wanted him to give. He needed to talk to you about it.”
“I never saw him.”
“That’s funny. Then I don’t know where he is.”
“Neither do I. But I have a pretty good idea of where he’s been. Somebody beat the daylights out of my lawyer this morning. Jumped him right in his garage on his way to the office.”
“Oh, my word. Is he hurt bad?”
“Bad enough to land in the hospital.”
“Gosh, Liz. That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Are you?”
She stiffened at the accusatory tone. “Wait a second. You don’t think Brent — what are you thinking?”
“Just look at what happened. Yesterday, Brent was served with a subpoena. It made him so mad he couldn’t sleep. He jumped in his car in the middle of the night and drove to Denver, supposedly to talk to me. Next thing we know my lawyer’s in the emergency room getting his face stitched up.”
Sarah’s hand shook nervously. “Just slow down. I know this looks bad. But let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“This is hardly a jump. Brent’s in trouble this time, Sarah. Big time. All I can say for you is that I hope you had nothing to do with it.”