Fallen Idols (42 page)
Michaelson glanced at his watch. “I've got to get going.”
He walked Tom to the front door. They shook hands.
“Sorry I wasn't more helpful,” Michaelson said.
“It helped,” Tom said. “I'm sorry you didn't feel okay about telling me the name of the collector Diane screwed out of that money.”
Michaelson smiled. “Like I said …” He put his fore-finger to his temple, cocked his thumb.
“I understand that,” Tom told him. “Completely.”
“How are you doing?” Clancy asked, when Tom called him from his hotel room.
Tom slumped onto his bed. “Diane was in cahoots with someone down there who was helping her try to smuggle artifacts out. A person in a position of authority, who could pull it off without being challenged.”
“Who told you that?”
“A collector who buys on the black market. Diane was smuggling artifacts out for him when mom was killed. With all the hue and cry that went down around mom's being killed she never got the goods out. The collector had advanced her a lot of money on the come, and she didn't pay him back.”
“That explains the name change and all the other hush-bush stuff she's been doing,” Clancy said.
“That's right,” Tom agreed. “What really ripped it was this rich guy heard from good sources that her partner was an archaeologist.”
“He said dad's name?”
“No names were mentioned. But who else could it have been?”
“You think mom found out?” Clancy asked.
“How could she not have?” Tom answered. “Dad could never keep a secret from her. She would have busted him,” he declared somberly.
Clancy was silent for a moment. “And was killed for it?” he finally said.
“Can you think of another possibility? Why else would he have constructed such a fabric of lies? All the money he lost, the huge life insurance policy? What else could it be?”
“I don't know,” Clancy replied. “But there's no turning back now. We have to find out what happened down there. No matter what.”
C
learing customs had always been laboriously time-consuming at the San Diego International Airport, where thousands of non-Americans, particularly those from Mexico and Central and South America, passed through daily, but with the new security measures in force, conditions resembled a densely packed, teeming-with-humanity Calcutta train station. Outgoing passengers were thoroughly checked to make sure they weren't carrying anything, be it a nail file or a Coptic cross with a pointed shaft, that could be used in a hijacking.
Those entering the country, especially foreign men who fit one of dozens of profiles the government had instituted to weed out anyone the slightest bit suspicious, were rigorously scrutinized. They were often body-searched and their baggage was gone over with a fine-tooth comb. Even items as innocuous as foot powder were confiscated, and their carriers were questioned. If they didn't come up with the right answers they could be taken into custody by on-site INS in FBI agents, and roughly interrogated. By now, it was well known south of the border, and also in Muslim countries, that if you were coming to the U.S. as a foreign visitor you had better be squeaky clean, or you could be kept in seclusion for months, denied access to your family or even a lawyer.
A few days after Tom Gaines had learned the connection between Diane Montrose, his father, and the world of stolen art, a friendly, good-looking, well-dressed Latino in his mid-thirties, whose English was fluid and cultured (he had studied at Stanford University), was coming through this port of entry, a passage he had taken dozens of times over the past several years. His name was Mario Ernesto Rodríguez. He came from a wealthy, well-connected family. His firm, which manufactured automobile parts on contract from General Motors, Toyota, BMW and DaimlerChrysler, had a large office in Carlsbad, in northern San Diego County. As vice president in charge of distribution, he came and went almost like a commuter.
Usually, he sailed through customs. He traveled light, because he kept spare clothes and accessories at the apartment his company maintained near the office. He came, did his business, and went home, usually within forty-eight hours.
This time, his schedule was different. The company was holding a series of meetings stretching out over a week with their automaker counterparts, first here in California but then in Detroit as well, so he'd had to bring a larger bag to hold his cold-weather clothing.
The other difference was that the customs agents manning the checkpoints were new. None of the faces were familiar. These agents had been rotated in from Texas, as part of a recent policy shift in Washington to insure tighter border security. Familiarity, such as Rodríguez had with the old agents, could breed laxity, which could lead to disaster.
Even so, this would not be a problem. His papers were all in order, and it would be obvious to anyone looking at his passport that he was a regular on this circuit. In addition, he was carrying letters from the American companies he did business with, which signified his legitimacy.
Slowly inching his way, now only a few more people from the head of the line, Rodríguez impatiently looked at his watch, which he had set for U.S. Pacific time. He bad a dinner engagement with a colleague from Toyota's American design division, and with this heightened security in effect he was going to be late. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and started to speed-dial his appointment's office number.
There was a tap on his shoulder. Annoyed, he looked up. A customs agent, another new, unfamiliar face, had come up behind him.
“You'll have to turn that off, sir, until you clear customs,” the agent told him, politely but firmly.
“I'm late for an appointment,” Rodríguez explained, flashing a smile. “People are waiting for me. I need to let them know.”
The agent shook his head. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to turn it off. Otherwise, I'll have to take it from you.”
Rodríguez turned the telephone off and jammed it in his pocket. “Do I look like a raghead terrorist to you?” he muttered in Spanish, under his breath. He picked up his suitcase and pushed it forward—he was one person away from the head of the line now. Finally.
The agent's hand gripped his arm at the biceps. “Come with me, please.” The voice was low, but urgent.
“What for?” Rodríguez asked, trying to twist away.
The agent pointed toward his expensive-looking leather suitcase. “Is this yours?”
Rodríguez nodded. “Yes.” That was obvious—he had just moved it.
“What else belongs to you?” There was no politeness in the agent's manner now.
“My carry-on.” Rodríguez held his garment bag up for the agent to see.
The agent let go of Rodríguez's arm and picked up his bag. “Come with me.”
Rodríguez held his ground, rubbing his arm where the agent had been squeezing it. “This is a mistake,” he said indignantly. “Is Agent Holloway in charge today? Please get him. He'll identify me. I can't be delayed, it's urgent.”
“Holloway's off.”
The people behind Rodríguez, watching this, started talking to each other, a low buzz. They also began backing away.
“Then Agent Shapp.” Rodríguez's voice had taken on a pleading tone. “He'll clear this up. I'm an important businessman. Look at my passport. You'll see.”
“Shapp's on vacation. Please come along. If you're cooperative, this won't take long.”
“Get your supervisor,” Rodríguez said harshly, as if talking to a civil servant in his own country.
The automatic, a huge S&W, was out of the agent's holster.
“Come with me. Now.”
It was humiliating, being treated like a common criminal. At least they let him call his dinner companion and explain his tardiness, once they had checked his passport and other credentials. Still, they had to search his luggage and put him through a pro forma interrogation. Once the process started, it had to be completed.
This was all explained to him by Special Agent in Charge Wendell Tucker, who was a buddy of Shapp and I Holloway.
“Sorry about this inconvenience,” Tucker apologized to Rodríguez in a thick Texas twang. He spoke in English, which Rodríguez had assured him he was fluent in. “You use the word ‘terrorist’ these days, even kidding around, your ass is in deep grass.”
Yes, I understand,” Rodríguez answered. “It was stupid of me to say that. I should have been more sensitive. God knows, I'm glad you guys are on the ball. I wish the security in my own country was half as good.”
They were in a windowless holding room. Rodríguez sat on a hard plastic chair. Across the room, his suitcase was open on a table. A woman agent was carefully looking through the contents, one item at a time.
“How much longer will this take?” Rodríguez asked politely.
“Couple more minutes,” Tucker drawled. He was leaning against the wall, next to Rodríguez. “She's new at this,” he confided in a low, friendly voice. “She goes by the book. I don't want to discourage her, you savvy?”
Rodríguez nodded. “Of course not.”
He sat back and waited, feeling better. So he'd be late. There was still plenty of time to have a fine dinner.
“Chief?” the woman called.
Tucker looked up. “Yeah?”
“See you over here a sec?”
Tucker smiled at Rodríguez. “Excuse me.”
He walked over to the woman agent. They conferred for a moment; she did the talking, keeping her voice low. Tucker listened. Rodríguez, watching them, felt a stab of nerves in his stomach.
It's the typical bureaucratic runaround, he told himself. He'd be out of here and in his limo in five minutes.
Tucker closed the suitcase and walked back to Rodríguez. “Did you do your own packing, Mr. Rodríguez?” he asked. No smile now.
Rodríguez stared at him. “My wife helped me,” he acknowledged. He smiled, his teeth white, perfectly straight. “She's better at folding my shirts.”
“Your wife?” Tucker stared at Rodríguez. “Nobody else?”
Rodríguez shook his head. He hesitated for the slightest moment; less than a second. “No,” he answered firmly. He forced another smile. “There's no problem, is there?”
They drove Rodríguez, handcuffed, in an unmarked sedan, to FBI headquarters in San Diego. He asked—I begged—that he be allowed to call the company's lawyer, but they refused, which under the post–9/11 United States security laws governing noncitizens they were permitted (and unofficially encouraged) to do. After booking him, confiscating his bags and all of his personal articles, they strip-searched him and threw him into an empty cell. The door was locked, and he was left in darkness.
He didn't know how much time passed before they came and got him. It could have been hours. He had no sense of time. He was scared out of his wits.
The door to his cell swung open and two men in plainclothes entered.
“What's going on?” Rodríguez asked them, his voice quivering with fear. “Why are you doing this?” More shrilly: “Say something. Please.”
They said nothing. One of them rehandcuffed him, then he was led down a jail corridor, into an elevator, which was empty except for his escorts and him, and alter going up some flights (he didn't know how many, there weren't any indicator lights in the elevator) the door opened and he was led down another hallway and into an interrogation room. Agent Tucker was there, as well as three other men Rodríguez hadn't seen before. One of them was dark-complexioned, Latino like himself. This man's features were almost Indian-like, especially the hawk nose and flat, sloping forehead.
There was a dull-metal conference table in the center of the room, surrounded by cheap plastic chairs. Three of the walls were bare, painted institutional dirty-white. The fourth wall was a mirror, the glass tinted dark. Rodríguez, seeing it, assumed it was a one-way mirror. The circumstances felt like those of an American television show,
NYPD Blue
or
Law and Order,
except this was real, not playacting.
“Uncuff him,” Tucker told his escorts.
The cuffs were removed. Rodríguez rubbed his wrists, more from nerves than from pain.
“Sit down, Mr. Rodríguez.” Tucker pointed to one of the plastic chairs.
Rodríguez sat. The others remained standing. They all started at him with stern, unsmiling expressions on their faces.
“What is going on?” Rodríguez asked again, this time of Tucker.
Tucker looked at him a moment longer. Then he grabbed one of the chairs that faced Rodríguez from across the table, turned it around, and sat down, resting his elbows on the chair-back.
“So you know,” Tucker told him, “you're being recorded. Audio and video. For your protection as much as ours. You got a problem with that?”
Rodríguez knew it wouldn't matter if he did or not. “No,” he answered.
“Good.” Tucker leaned forward. “One more time, Mr. Rodríguez, so there's no misunderstanding: nobody packed your bags except you and your wife. Nobody asked you to bring anything with you, either here or in your own country.”
Rodríguez wet his lips nervously. “No. Only my wife and I packed.”
Tucker shrugged, as if to say “I gave you a chance to be straight with me, and you blew it.” Without taking his eyes off Rodríguez's face, he held up a hand. One of the other agents placed a large padded envelope in it. Tucker put the envelope on the table between him and Rodríguez, opened the clasp, and reached inside. He, brought out two objects—a small statuette about a foot tall and a man's wristwatch. He placed the two items in front of Rodríguez.
“Do you recognize these?” he asked. “Go ahead, you can pick them up.”
Rodríguez's heart sank. “Yes, I recognize them,” he answered dully, without touching them.
“They belong to you?”
Rodríguez was about to say yes, but he hesitated.
Tucker picked up the statuette, held it a few inches from Rodríguez's face. “Where did you get this?”
“A friend gave it to me,” Rodríguez told him. “They are very common, they are sold everywhere.”
Tucker looked at the object in his hand. “What is this, precisely?”
“A figure of the Virgin,” Rodríguez said. “People like to have them for luck,” he explained. “They keep them in their homes, their cars, offices.”
