Ryan slept in his hotel room until noon. He’d been awake all night, having last checked the alarm clock at 6:55 A.M. Rest was something that no longer came easy, not since his father’s death. Each time his busy mind drifted toward sleep, the images came. He would think of his father. Dead, not alive. He could see him in the ground, sleeping peacefully beneath so many tons of earth. Beside him in the coffin was a noticeable void, a hole much deeper than the one in which they’d buried him. It was a vast underground cavern, like the ones he’d shown Ryan long ago in New Mexico, big enough for the secrets he should have taken to the grave.
The phone rang. He was standing at the bathroom sink, dressed only from the waist down, splashing away the soapy remains of his morning shave — though it was actually the afternoon. He dried his face with a towel as he crossed the room and answered on the half-ring.
“Hello.”
“They’re coming for you. Get out of the hotel.”
It was a woman’s voice. It sounded vaguely familiar — like the woman who’d scammed him in the hotel bar. “Who is this?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds, no more. Get out of the hotel. Now. ”
The line clicked.
Ryan stood frozen. It was the same voice, he was sure of it. Which means this is probably another scam.
He pulled on a shirt and went to the door. He opened it quickly but carefully, just a crack, not even as far as the chain lock would allow. The door frame blocked his view to the left. To the right, however, he could see all the way down the long corridor, clear to the elevators. About thirty other rooms separated his from the exit. The halls were quiet and empty, save for an unattended maid’s cart. A few doors were open for cleaning. The clang of the elevator bell signaled an arrival. Ryan watched from afar as the doors slid open.
Five men stepped out. Their pace was brisk, purposeful. All were dressed in the beige and brown uniforms of the Panamanian military police.
Ryan closed the door, nearly fell against it. Son of a bitch.
His mind raced with possibilities. It had to be a setup orchestrated by the very same woman who had teamed up to steal his bag. She’d called them herself. But why would she have called to warn him? Maybe the banker at Banco del Istmo had called them. This was his payback for the way Ryan had bullied him into violating Panamanian bank secrecy. Ryan just didn’t know. And he didn’t intend to hang around and find out.
He double-checked the lock on the door and raced across the room. His garment bag was already packed and on the bed, but baggage would slow him, and it wasn’t worth saving. He grabbed only his smaller bag and ran to the window. He was on the second floor, in one of the cheaper rooms that faced the alley. For once he was glad to 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 “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.”