Sweat (32 page)

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.”

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. When his sciatic nerve acted up, he came into to the terminal to check on his passengers. The doctor told him to wait, gave him a brief lesson in acupressure to alleviate the pain in his leg, and sent him back to the plane. “It will all be straightened out shortly,” the doctor assured him.

“I'm getting paid either way,” the pilot answered.

Forty minutes later, the doctor took a seat in a corner of the room, sulking over his detainment. He wheeled the still-sleeping Wei Ling to a spot beneath the television on the wall, and called C.F. Chang at fifteen-minute intervals.

The Chang family's political contacts jolted into action. A call to the Chinese Embassy in Washington was received and passed along the chain of command. The son of a senator hung in the balance, information that under other circumstances would have brought immediate intervention. The lines were clogged with lies and threats, the Chang political machine chugging down the track, cutting between what they could and couldn't say. Phone calls started trickling into the State Department's Chief Liaison Office for the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Island, Saipan. The man in charge looked at the ringing phone, checked the number on the display screen, and walked out the door.

Jake flew through the double doors first, Tony and the Castello brothers behind him, sweating as if they had been sprayed with a hose. The rushing bodies were like a tornado churning up the stale winds of inactivity in the small charter terminal. The stocky CBP Officer glanced at the new arrivals. Rush hour had just arrived.

“May I help you?” the young lady behind the counter asked, pushing her open textbook to the side.

“Yes,” Jake answered, not sure what the follow-up should be.

“How may I help you?” the lady answered, trying to lead Jake into supplying useful information.

Jake checked out the room. He glanced around, looking directly at Wei Ling in the wheelchair and then at the doctor. Then he improvised.

“We will be flying out in a couple of hours. Just wanted to check in.”

“We don't really check in for charter flights, Mr. ……?”

“Jake Patrick.”

Still on the phone behind the lady at the counter, the CBP Officer's eyes flinched. He nodded to the future bean counter and stepped toward Jake, his gold shield pinned through the white shirt of his uniform. Covering the phone in one hand, the cord stretched behind him, the CBP Officer offered Jake the same attitude and advice he had offered the doctor. “Yes, Mr. Patrick. Please have a seat. I'll be with you shortly.”

Not knowing what to do, or what he was waiting for, Jake found a seat with his three bodyguards-for-hire. He looked at the doctor in the corner of the terminal who continually switched his attention between his phone and checking on the Asian girl in the wheelchair. Oblivious that the girl he had traveled halfway around the world to meet was sitting right in front of him, Jake shut his eyes, and said a small prayer. It was a prayer for guidance that was coming, but it wasn't from the man upstairs. It was from a man who wore old clothes, ate at soup kitchens, and read more newspapers than any person on earth.

The suit was the only buttoned linen blend on the island on a sizzling July day. The sleek, frameless glasses, with flip-up dark lens attachments, added an exclamation point to the attire. Tom Foti, dressed for a meeting, strolled into the general aviation terminal office and was on the CBP Officer before he turned around. “Where is he?”

“Are you the Liaison Officer?”

“Yes. Tom Foti. Chief of the Liaison Office for the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands, Saipan,” he said, using a title that put most people to sleep before he could finish spitting it out. He placed the manila folder in his hand on the counter and shook hands with the CBP Officer.

“It is a pleasure to meet you face-to-face,” the officer answered. “I received orders at the morning briefing directing me to contact you if either of these individuals showed up.” The CBP Officer explained the situation to the newest member of guess-who's-in-the-charter terminal and slipped the paper to Tom Foti, who read the document with the dark lenses on his glasses still down.

“If you don't mind me asking, what does the State Department want with him?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“I'm just following orders, but technically he hasn't broken any law from the Department of Homeland Security's perspective. We at Customs and Border Protection have no legal reason to hold either of them.”

“It isn't a matter of DHS or CBS jurisdiction.”

“Sure. Sure. I just want to make it clear that there isn't a DHS violation. Both of them have valid visas.”

“I understand that there is no DHS violation. The State Department is still interested in speaking with him. I assure you that CBP will not be held culpable in any way.”

A look of relief washed over the officer's face. “Like I said, I am just following orders. The morning briefing asked for our cooperation.”

“I appreciate it.”

“He's all yours,” the CBP Officer said gesturing toward the doctor before leaning into Tom and whispering. “Word to the wise…the old man is a little feisty”.

Tom Foti walked up to the doctor, flipped the dark lenses on his glasses up, and introduced himself with his full title. With no partner to take the role of the good cop, he took his turn at the bad cop side of his routine.

“What's your name?”

“Martin Yu.”

Tom Foti flashed a skeptical don't-try-to-bullshit-me look, and asked another question. “Real name?”

“Yu, Hao Kuang.”

“Occupation?”

“Physician.”

“Place of employment.”

“Beijing.”

“Do you work in a hospital?”

“No, I am a private physician.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am here on Saipan as the temporary physician for Chang Industries. I am taking an ill patient home on a charter flight.”

“You are here on a tourist visa, not a work visa.”

“I am here as a favor to the Chang Family. I am not being paid and therefore do not need a work visa.” The doctor was confident in his reply. He was backed by a Chinese powerhouse. He had all the answers.

Tom Foti let the doctor know he wasn't some schmuck in a suit.

“Is the girl in the wheelchair your patient?”

“Yes she is.”

“Do you realize it is illegal to take an incapacitated individual for international travel without documentation?”

“I have documentation,” the doctor said smartly, pulling a folder from his bag. The medical folder was thick.

Tom Foti read through the top page in the folder. “You need documentation from a physician with a U.S. medical license. Saipan is a U.S. territory. Your Chinese medical license is not valid here.”

“You don't understand. This girl is very ill,” the doctor said gravely. For the first time, real worry settled in. “She needs medical care that cannot be provided for her on the island. Chang Industries is paying for her well-being, and I am sure the Chang family would appreciate your understanding in this matter.”

Tom Foti dragged the doctor by the arm into the isolation of the small Customs and Border Protection office. He shut the door behind him and scrolled the blinds open so he could see through the metal slats. Tom looked beyond the venetians, through the glass wall at the collection of oddities in the terminal. Then he spun and stared straight into the eyes of the doctor.

“Here is the deal, doctor. We are all going to wait until
your p
a
tient
wakes up, and then
I
am going to decide what needs to be done.”

“You can't do that,” the doctor said with without defeat.

“I can do anything I want, doctor. This is my corner of the world and I will see to it the law is followed as closely as I see fit. Go out there, sit down, and let's wait. If you administer any medicine to the young lady in the wheelchair, I will have you detained. Is that understood?”

“But she needs medical attention.”

“I will have a doctor here in ten minutes.”

Jake heard his name called from across the room. He stood, shrugged his shoulders at Tony and the Castello brothers, and made his way to the small office. The girl behind the counter had put away her accounting books for the day. It was obvious that something out of the ordinary was unfolding, and she wasn't about to miss it over the cost of goods sold or an income statement.

“My name is Tom Foti. Please have a seat, Jake.”

The CBP office smelled putrid. The rotting scent of a confiscated durian invaded every corner of the room. Tom looked out the window over Jake's head. The Chinese doctor, the girl in the wheelchair, and a freshly arrived physician on call at the main terminal huddled in the corner. C.F. Chang's doctor watched as the physician on call, a doctor with a U.S. medical degree, checked Wei Ling's pulse, respiration, and blood pressure.

Tom opened the folder he had brought with him. “Jake, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Please,” Jake said, the words coming out much more comfortably than he was feeling.

“Who is your favorite writer?”

“I'm sorry?” Jake asked, puzzled.

Tom checked his facts. “It says here you are an English Literature student. Is this not accurate?”

Jake looked at the Liaison Officer, his eyes wide. “It says what?”

“English Literature. American University.”

Jake looked at Tom Foti in his suit and glasses with the dark lenses sticking straight out, and wondered what in God's name was going on. “I like Emerson.”

“Emerson?”

“Of course Shakespeare is the most influential writer in the history of the English language, but it's basically unreadable to the average person. I like to read the thoughts of the great writers, not spend my time deciphering them.”

“I'm partial to Shakespeare, actually,” Tom said. “Classic Literature was my main area of study in school.”

There was silence as they measured each other.

“What else do you know?” Jake asked. “You're the second person this month to have a file on me.”

“You must be busy.”

“I am now.”

“I would say so,” Tom added. “Born in Washington D.C., raised by your mother after your parents's divorce. Currently working for your father, Peter Winthrop, at a company with the same name. A medical degree from Georgetown University.”

“A medical degree?” Jake asked.

“That's what it says here. I even have a copy of your diploma.”

“Sir, I don't have a medical degree.”

“You do today. And if that doctor out there starts asking questions about the girl in the wheelchair, just play along.”