them.” The agent had fire-red hair and a personality to match.
The rain on the roof of the warehouse drowned out the pounding of heavy feet, fit bodies weighed down by thick bulletproof vests and rifles. Two teams in standard cover formation closed in on the warehouse exits, one team going through the front door, another team with a door-ram coming in the back.
Inside the warehouse, Hasad was enjoying the conversation, marveling at the breadth of interest of Winthrop Enterprises’ clients. It was Hasad’s turn to grease the wheels of politeness. A little business before
The front door swung open a split second before the back door flew onto the floor, torn from its hinges.
“Don’t move motherfucker,” Agent John Tulloch screamed with six months of pent up anger. Six months of wasted time. Six months of the runaround. Six months of chasing leads that were nothing more than dead ends. Six months of putting up with his partner.
Peter Winthrop looked at Agent Tulloch, a five-foot-five Napoleon complex with a gun, and raised his hands. “Don’t you move,” Agent Tulloch repeated, dropping the vulgarity.
Hasad looked at Peter and put his arms straight up like a kid playing cops-and-robbers.
Federal Agents from the FBI and the Office of Export Controls swept the warehouse with guns drawn, each man covered by another as they made their way through the maze of boxes. Shouts of “clear,” echoed through the air as every corner of the warehouse was secured. Agent Cahill joined her partner in the warehouse, hair dripping on her FBI windbreaker, her pants soaked. Agent Tulloch was quick to notice the positive effect the wet outfit had on the little beauty his partner did possess.
“Peter Winthrop, we are placing you under arrest for the purchase of controlled goods with the intent to export,” Agent Cahill said, a large drop of water falling off her nose as she spoke.
“What goods would that be?” Peter asked.
“One thousand military-grade night vision goggles, for starters. They are illegal to own without a permit and they sure as hell are illegal to sell to foreign nationals.”
Hasad visibly squirmed.
“Without a search warrant, this arrest, and anything confiscated during a search, is illegal and invalid in a court of law.” Peter looked at the agents with the same smug smile he flashed when he last cleaned up at the high roller table in Vegas.
Agent Tulloch reached into his jacket, pulled out the warrant, and handed it to Peter. Peter quickly flipped the warrant to the back page and looked at the judge’s signature. Elizabeth Rubin. “Elizabeth Rubin,” he said quietly to himself, committing the name to memory.
“Something wrong, Peter?” Agent Cahill asked with sarcasm.
Peter shrugged his shoulders and ignored the agent’s comment, focusing his thoughts forty miles south to the Nation’s Capitol. ***
Peter and Hasad, now handcuffed, sat on the edge of the dirty desk near the door as the federal agents tore the warehouse and its contents to shreds. The cursing by the agents started immediately and didn’t stop until the last box was on the floor, opened. Two hundred and fifty boxes labeled with night-vision goggle tags were reduced to cardboard scraps. Two hundred and fifty boxes filled with over a thousand household items ranging from tea kettles to cookie sheets. All bought at Walmart. All paid for with a Winthrop Enterprises corporate American Express card.
Agent Cahill stood next to the CEO and Hasad, working over the piece of gum in her mouth like a beaver on a log. Her face had passed flush half an hour ago and now teetered on the verge of white, drained by anger and embarrassment.
Agent Tulloch called Agent Cahill over, pulling her gently by the sleeve of her jacket, turning her back toward their suspects.
“There is nothing here. No goggles, no guns, nothing illegal. He has paperwork for everything in the warehouse. Nothing in the boxes labeled ‘goggles’ but a household clearance sale from Walmart—the price stickers still attached.”
“How did he know?”
“I don’t know. Maybe his son had second thoughts and let his old man know we were coming.”
“But why?”
“Because he is his father.”
On the other side of the room, Hasad looked confused. “Peter, what happened? Where are my hunting goggles?”
“They are due to arrive in Istanbul this evening,” Peter said in a whisper.
But how? How did you know they were coming?”
“Because my son is just like his mother.”
Chapter 41
The van lurched over the speed bump that marked the edge of Saipan International Airport property and the beginning of the parking lot for the small general aviation terminal on the south side of the runways. Inside the small terminal, two rows of seats sat twenty plastic molded chairs that hadn’t been filled in a year since a U.S. military transport aircraft was forced to make an emergency landing after taking an albatross through the engine.
The general aviation terminal’s Customs and Border Protection (CBP) staffed exactly one person who rotated shifts and split their time working at the main terminal where most of the action was. A young local woman with a nose ring and geeky demeanor was the only non-government staff, spending her time organizing and coordinating the half-dozen charter flights that landed and took off on any given afternoon. On days when the employees outnumbered the number of flights, the lone baggage handler took naps in the back room while the young lady at the counter openly studied accounting in her third attempt at passing the course online.
U.S. Customs and Border Protection, even on Saipan, was a serious bunch, and the doctor with the sedated Chinese girl in the wheelchair brought natural scrutiny. The lone CBP officer on duty in the general aviation terminal, a short man of nearly equal height and width, looked at both passports and then at the faces of the doctor and the girl. He checked the date on Wei Ling’s U.S. work visa and then checked the doctor’s visitor visa. He looked at the documents and the faces one more time and reached for a paper on his desk. He scanned the paper feverishly and then gestured with his hand toward the empty seats in the waiting area.
“Please have a seat.”
“Is there a problem? I am a physician providing medical care for a sick patient.”
“Doctor, have a seat and I will be right with you.”
The doctor smelled trouble. He had traveled enough to know that either you get a stamp in your passport immediately, or you could be waiting as long as the authorities deemed necessary. And government bureaucracy could wait longer than any man.
“What are we waiting for? I have legal and medical documentation concerning this girl. I am her personal physician. She is a Chinese national, and I am taking her back to Beijing for medical care. Read the documents.”
The stout CBP Officer, phone now in his ear, raised his hand and silenced the doctor with his palm. The officer with the girth of a large oak was following orders to the letter.
The doctor refused to sit down and stood with military line-up posture, exchanging glances with the CBP Officer who was getting agitated. The officer made no effort to hide his focus on Wei Ling. The girl’s eyes were shut, her breathing heavy. She was dead to the world and, according to the doctor’s schedule, at least an hour away from consciousness. The doctor grew nervous.
The plane hired by C.F. Chang was fueled and ready for takeoff. The emergency flight, hired on ninety minutes’s notice, cost C.F. Chang twenty-five grand. The pilot, who stood to pocket most of that sum, waited in the plane for further instructions. He leaned back in the seat, checked the instruments and adjusted his sunglasses.
