Found Money - James Grippando [70]
“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 attaché 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