have the room without a view. He paused to think twice. He could stay put and try to explain. But with no passport and three million dollars in a numbered bank account, he wasn’t looking forward to a police interrogation. The dictatorship was gone, but Panama was still the third world.
Boot steps rumbled in the hall, like a charging cavalry. No time to think. He opened the window and climbed out on the ledge.
It was a narrow alley, barely wide enough for compact cars. Ryan’s room faced a seafood restaurant. Garbage lined both sides, some of it in big overflowing bins, most just scattered in the gutter. The odor suggested that it had been there for some time. He wasn’t sure what to do. He could jump straight to the pavement and risk breaking an ankle. Or he could let the trash break the fall and risk smelling like week-old mahimahi.
A hard knock on the door announced their arrival. “La policia! Abre la puerta! ”
Ryan paused. If he jumped, there was no turning back. If I stay…
The knock was suddenly a thud — then a crash. The door burst open just a crack, caught by the chain. They were breaking down the door.
Staying is not an option.
He took a deep breath and jumped from the ledge, flying, amazed at how long it took to fall just three stories. His feet skidded on the pavement. Momentum sent him rolling across the alley between the trash piles. He kept his bag close to protect the breakables inside. From the ground, he looked up toward his room.
The police were at the window, shouting something in Spanish.
Ryan sprang to his feet and ran up the alley, weaving between trash bins and a few makeshift bungalows for the homeless. His knee was throbbing from the fall, but it didn’t slow him down. At a dead run it was difficult to see in the shadows. He kept his eye on the daylight just ahead, where the alley fed into a busy thoroughfare. He heard shouting behind him. The police. A burst of adrenaline quickened his pace. Finally he reached the street, clutching his bag like a football.
The sidewalk was a two-way stream of pedestrians, nearly shoulder to shoulder. It was impossible to run. Better not to run, thought Ryan. Just blend with the crowd.
A shrill whistle cut through the usual city noises. Ryan glanced over his shoulder. It was a police whistle. They were coming from the alley.
His eyes darted, searching for an escape. He was itching to turn and see if they were closing in. He couldn’t run without giving himself away. But maybe they had a bead on him. His only chance might be an all-out run for it.
Ryan spotted a cab pulling up at the corner. He nearly broke into a run. The moment the previous passenger stepped out, Ryan jumped in the backseat and slammed the door behind him.
“ El embassy de los Estados Unidos,” he said in bad Spanish. He dug all of his money from his bag and showed it to the driver. “ Pronto, por favor.”
The cabby hit the gas so hard it threw Ryan against the backseat. Ryan looked out the rear window. The police were in the street, shouting at each other. One of them pointed at the taxi as it sped away.
Ryan glanced ahead through the windshield. The American embassy was just a few blocks away. That was his best bet. The local police had no jurisdiction there. If he’d done something wrong, he’d face the music in his own country. He just didn’t want to spend the night — or longer — in a Panamanian jail.
Sirens blared behind them. The police were in pursuit.
“Hurry, please!” said Ryan.
The cab screeched to a halt. The driver was shouting in rapid-fire Spanish. Ryan couldn’t understand the words, but the point was clear. He wanted no part of a police chase. Ryan tossed him some money for the ride and jumped out at the curb.
The embassy was just a half-block ahead, between Thirty-eighth and Thirty-ninth streets on busy Avenida Balboa. The main building, which housed the ambassador, faced the blue-green Bay of Panama. Ryan was fairly certain that his new passport was waiting in the administrative offices a few blocks away, but right now he had other priorities. He slung his bag over his shoulder and sprinted up the avenue, toward a large circular intersection. Traffic fed in from five different directions, then wound around a small park in the center. By car, the police would have to go the long way around the perimeter. Ryan was better off on foot. He cut across the diameter, running straight through the park. Just six lanes of traffic separated him from U.S. soil. The police car was nearly on two wheels as it raced around the circle, weaving in and out of cars. Ryan dodged a few cars as he cut across the street. An old Chevy swerved and slammed on its brakes, nearly flattening him. Ryan leaped to the sidewalk and never stopped. The police car screeched to a halt in front of the embassy. Ryan kept going. The police jumped out and ran across the sidewalk, then stopped at the gated entrance to the embassy grounds — the end of their jurisdiction. He glanced back, relieved to see they had given up.
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
