regional softball league. On the wall were two plaques that bore the names of FBI agents who’d lost their lives in the line of duty. It was in chronological order. There seemed to be more in recent years, like everything else. More guns. More criminals. More dead FBI agents. More Americans kidnapped abroad.
Finally the door opened and the receptionist called for me. “Come with me, please.”
She clipped a visitor’s badge to my shirt, and I followed her down the brightly lit hall. We made several turns, then came to a larger room that was partitioned into smaller workstations by chest-high dividers. Dozens of agents and other personnel were busy in their pods, reviewing files, working at computer terminals, or talking on the telephone. Work here was done without the noise and confusion of police stations, where people always seemed to be shouting at each other or dodging some drunk who was about to vomit on their shoes. An FBI field office had an air of dignity, practically a church, compared to the zoo-in-blue downtown.
We stopped at a conference room. Three walls were windowless; the fourth was completely glass and faced the interior workstations. Inside were two agents who rose from the table to greet me. The older one was Agent Sam Huitt, a man about my dad’s age. He had the same lines around his eyes as Dad did, too, not from years of squinting in the sun, I surmised, but from habitually narrowing his gaze with suspicion. The younger agent was Angela Pintero, a tall woman with olive skin and short brown hair styled into tight, efficient curls. We exchanged pleasantries and then took our seats, me across the table from the two of them.
“Are you Agent Nettles’s supervisor?” I asked Huitt.
“Not directly, but I am a supervisory special agent. And I’m aware of the impasse between the bureau and the State Department.”
“Good. Because I’m making it my business to break the impasse. Agent Nettles tried to help, but his hands were clearly tied. If you can’t do better, I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”
“I’m confident we can help.”
“That’s encouraging. Do you have anything specific in mind?”
“First, I propose to listen. You came to us. I presume you have some thoughts of your own as to how we can solve the problem.”
Huitt sat back with hands clasped behind his head. Pintero was poised to take notes. They seemed to operate the way Duncan and I did, the senior guy running the show, the other playing backup.
“Here’s the way I see it,” I said. “The State Department insists that FBI negotiators can’t be involved if they plan to assist the family in the payment of a ransom. After speaking with my father’s business partner last night, my fear is that the kidnappers will demand a ransom that my family can’t possibly pay. If that’s the case, we might as well have the FBI negotiators on our side trying to get the kidnappers to release my father for no ransom. Let’s just tell the State Department we’ll play by their rules.”
He smiled thinly, as if amused. “That’s a little transparent, don’t you think?”
“How so?”
“If I were the State Department, I would suspect that your overall plan is simply to get the FBI involved, get them entrenched in the case, and then ultimately ignore the no-concessions policy and pay a ransom.”
The guy was onto me. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
“Yes. Take a step back and ask yourself why the FBI really declined the State Department’s invitation to participate in this case.”
I didn’t like his tone. Things had suddenly moved from a friendly discussion to a subtle confrontation, one I didn’t fully understand. “You’re going to have to help me out there, Mr. Huitt.”
“Did you know that your father has been stopped and interrogated by U.S. customs nineteen times in the last five years?”
That one hit me like ice water. “No.”
“Does it surprise you?”
“Not really. He probably fits an arbitrary profile the government has developed. As often as he travels alone between Miami and Central America, it honestly surprises me that he hasn’t been stopped more often.”
They just stared at me, silent accusers. Their gaze made me look away, through the conference room’s glass wall. At one of the workstations outside the conference room, I noticed a bumper sticker tacked up on the bulletin board. It read, SO MANY COLOMBIANS, SO LITTLE TIME.
“Am I in the narcotics unit?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m a squad leader.”
“My father’s been kidnapped. Why am I talking to narcotics agents?”
“Because we’re the ones you need to play ball with.”
“What?”
“You give us something, we give you something. Quid pro quo.”
“You’d better mean
“Fisherman, huh?”
“Yeah. Fisherman.”
“Whatever you say. But if you stick to that story, we get nowhere in our efforts to resolve the so-called policy differences between the FBI and the State Department.”
I leaned into the table and looked him in the eye. “Let me make sure I understand. You’re telling me that this deadlock between the FBI and the State Department can be cleared up if. . what?”
“If you cut the crap about your old man being a fisherman.”
“But that’s what he is.”
“Humor us,” said Huitt. “For argument’s sake, let’s say he’s not.”
I was getting angry. “Okay, let’s play fantasy world. My dad’s not a fisherman. Then what? You’re saying that the FBI will help him get released from his kidnappers, but only if I give you information that will land him in jail the minute he returns to the United States? That’s crazy.”
“We’re not after your old man. It’s his business partner we want. The Nicaraguan, Guillermo Cruz.”
“I barely even know Guillermo.”
“That’s our point,” said the female agent, her only contribution.
I looked at her, then at Huitt. Both were deadpan. There was nothing I could say in Guillermo’s defense. I’d met him only once in my life.
Huitt said, “Talk to your mother, see how much she knows. If you can come up with something compelling on Cruz, we’re in business. We get the man we want. Your father gets an FBI negotiator working on his case. Your whole family can have immunity from prosecution.”
“Prosecution for
“Talk to your mother. And take my advice. Watch yourself around Guillermo Cruz.”
They rose simultaneously, as if on cue. It struck me as pure intimidation, the strategic moment at which an experienced agent like Huitt liked to end meetings of this sort.
The younger agent opened the door to escort me back to the lobby. As she led me away from the table, I stopped for one last word with Huitt.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said. “Of all those times my father was stopped by U.S. customs, how many times was he found to have broken the law?”
He said nothing.
“That’s what I thought.” I turned and headed out the door, the other agent at my side.
“Kid,” said Huitt.
I was halfway down the hall with Agent Pintero. We stopped and looked back.
“It only takes once,” he said flatly, then stepped back into the conference room.
I wondered if that was some kind of warning that he’d continue to dog my family until he got something on us. Or was he implying that he already had the goods?
I continued toward the lobby in silence, more confused than when I’d arrived.
9
