“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.”
She was about to respond, but the line clicked. Her hands shook harder. She gripped the phone, paralyzed with confusion. The dial tone hummed in her ear. Liz was gone. Brent was unaccounted for.
And Sarah felt completely alone.
Ryan insisted on a thoroughly private line for his call to his lawyer. Agent Forsyth offered the use of an embassy phone, but somehow that sounded about as private as dialing into a talk radio station. The only viable option was a pay phone on the street. Forsyth wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t seem prepared to arrest him to prevent him from walking out of the building. The Panamanian police were no longer a threat, since their only apparent objective had been to assist the FBI in bringing him to the embassy. Ryan found a public phone right on Avenida Balboa. Cars and buses rumbled by on the busy street. He closed one ear with his finger as he dialed Norm’s private line.
“Where are you?” his lawyer asked.
“About a block from the embassy. I’m at a pay phone, but they’re expecting me back inside when I finish talking to you. I’ve been sort of detained for questioning by the FBI.”
“What?” He sounded as if he was coming through the phone.
“You heard me.” Ryan gave him the two-minute summary, filling in the gaps since their talk last night.
“First off,” said Norm, “I suppose it tells us something that you ran into the FBI instead of the DEA. The FBI does do drug work, but if the government thought the three million dollars at Banco del Istmo was drug money, I would think DEA would have detained you rather than the FBI.”
“Does that mean they know the money is from extortion payments?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but I will say this. It’s puzzling that the FBI went to all the trouble of coordinating with the local police to question you in Panama. It would have been much easier just to wait for you to return to the United States.”
“Except that last night I booked a flight to the Cayman Islands so I could check on that offshore corporation that transferred the money to my father’s account. Maybe the FBI wasn’t so sure I was coming back to the states.”
“That’s possible. But the FBI doesn’t have unlimited resources to chase people around the globe. If these agents were based in Panama, that’s one thing. But if they flew down from the States just to talk to you, this thing may be bigger than your father even knew.”
Pedestrians hurried past on the sidewalk. In a moment of paranoia, Ryan wondered if any were FBI. “Let’s take this one step at a time. What do I do right now?”
“Step one is to get your new passport. It should be ready and waiting for you right there at the embassy, and they can’t withhold it.”
“Then what?”
