Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (54 page)

 
          
Riley
said, “Geoffrey, it seems Customs found some contraband in your household goods
shipment.”

 
          
“Oh,
my God . . .”

 
          
“Listen
to me, Mr. Simpson,” Farmer said. “We’re not placing you under arrest at this
time, but I am going to read you your rights so we can question you. We’re
expecting, of course, to get your full cooperation.”

 
          
“I
want an attorney,” Simpson said.

 
          
“Mr.
Simpson, if you do not cooperate we’ll have to detain you.”

 
          
“I
thought you said you wouldn’t have to arrest him,” Riley said.

 
          
“He’s
a flight risk, sir. He has friends in
Peru
and
Bolivia
, overseas bank accounts, contacts ... I
can’t take the chance. I assumed he would cooperate.”

 
          
Knowing
the Department would hate the bad publicity, Riley turned to Simpson. “Dammit,
Simpson, you’ve
got
to cooperate .
..”

 
          
“I
want to speak with an attorney first, sir,” he said in a toneless voice. His
hands were beginning to shake.

 
          
“Get
him out of here,” Riley said. Farmer moved over to the door, opened it, and two
plainclothes investigators entered the room. Simpson got to his feet as one of
the agents grasped him firmly by an upper arm. While the other agent read a
Miranda statement from a laminated card, the first agent placed Simpson’s arms
behind him, handcuffed him and searched him. “Do you really have to cuff him
like that?” Riley said. “The whole damn building will see him.”

 
          
Farmer
looked at Riley, nodded and instructed his agents to remove Simpson’s jacket
and cuff Simpson in front of his body. Then they draped Simpson’s jacket over
his wrists just before leading him out of the office. “We’ll contact the
section counsel and your wife, Geoffrey. Don’t worry, we’ll get this cleared up
in no time ...” He wasn’t sure if Simpson had heard him. He also would have
liked to strangle Elliott.

 
          
When
they had left, Riley went back to his desk and got on the phone: “Anna, get Bob
Turnbull in here on the double.” Then he turned on Brad Elliott: “We handle
things in-house around here. We don’t go off to the FBI—”

 
          
“I
had no choice.”

 
          
“You
could have come to me first, before getting the FBI involved. We have a very good
investigative unit here. We would have turned over everything to the FBI and
Border Security when our investigation was complete. Besides, maybe he’s got an
explanation ...” “Sure, Mr. Riley,” Elliott said, heading for the door. “It may
turn out that Simpson knew nothing about the shock absorbers, that he’s an
innocent babe. I’m not doing the investigation. My job in this is to find out
everything I can about whoever made those shock absorbers and put them around
an ambassador’s personal articles.”

 
          
“Why
are you getting involved in this, General Elliott? I thought Border Security
was only in charge of securing the borders. This doesn’t seem like it’s exactly
your beat.”

 
          
“Border
Security is the agency in charge of the Drug Enforcement Administration, Mr.
Riley. DEA is our intelligence and investigative arm. Customs turns all
drug-related incidents concerning border crossings over to us; once the matter
involves other government agencies or moves further inland we
have
to turn it over to the FBI.” “Sounds
like bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo.” Coming from State, that was almost funny,
Elliott thought. “I heard you were the President’s fair-haired boy—looks like
you got yourself a real sweet billet. But let me tell you, you start using your
leverage to get one of my officers shit-canned without solid evidence and I’ll
come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

 
          
Elliott
stepped up to Riley’s desk, leaned forward.

 
          
“As
long as we’re getting personal here, let me make some observations,” Elliott
said in a soft but rumbling voice. “Speaking of bureaucrats, I see one who’s
more concerned with his own butt instead of finding out the truth. Your section
doesn’t have an investigative unit. I checked. I’m sure you would have come up
with one in an instant, but their main focus would have been to lessen the
impact on you, not to get at the facts.

 
          
“You’re
more shook up about adverse publicity than about what happens to Simpson. You
wanted him to talk, knowing that it was the worst possible advice you could
have given him—he could have blood all over his hands or a gold halo over his
head, but you know he should have his lawyer present before questioning begins.
I don’t know a helluva lot about the law or about investigative procedure, Riley,
but I do know that having your boss tell you to cooperate and talk is a
sell-out.

 
          
“I
think
you
think he’s guilty. You
wanted the State Department lawyer here to advise
you
on what to do. You wanted to hear what Simpson had to say so
you could start your own damage control . . .”

 
          
“Get
out, damn you,” Riley said. “Just get the hell out of my office.”

           
“My pleasure,” Elliott said.

 
          
Later That Day

 
          
The
Geoffrey Simpson that walked through the door of Wilson Riley’s office twelve
hours later was a different man. His jacket was crooked and rumpled, as if he
had slept in it.

 
          
Riley
let Simpson stand in front of his desk a few moments as he pretended to write
something into a folder, then motioned toward a chair with his eyes. Simpson
dropped into it as if his legs had just refused to support his weight any
longer. Riley continued his doodling until he saw Simpson begin to fidget in
his seat. “I received a call from the FBI. They are releasing you. No charges
are being filed.”

 
          
Simpson
let out a sigh. “Thank God . . .”

 
          
“But
you’re not out of it, Simpson, not by a damned long shot. All they told me was
that, in their opinion, you had nothing to do with packing your household
goods.”

 
          
“Of
course I didn’t have anything to do with it! I was staying in the ambassador’s
residence when my goods were being packed—”

 
          
“But
you hired
this
company to move your
things, bypassing the State Department guidelines for selecting a moving
company . . .”

 
          
Simpson
rubbed his eyes wearily, then held up a hand. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d
rather not go over all this again . . .”

 
          
“You
had better talk to me, Simpson ...”

 
          
“My
attorney said—”

 
          
“Don’t
give
me that lawyer crap. I don’t
care what your lawyer says. You’re a State Department official and a part of
my
section. All of this could have been avoided
if you had cooperated with the FBI and told them what you know. Legal says the
FBI would not have arrested you if you’d cooperated. But you waved the
Constitution around like some sleaze Mafia boss, they put handcuffs on you and
marched you through the building
—my
building. You are a major goddamn embarrassment, Simpson, and right now you are
way beyond this ‘remain silent’ Miranda stuff. Now, when I tell you to talk,
you talk and keep talking. When 1 tell you to shut up, you shut up. All clear
on that?” Simpson nodded. “Okay, why did you hire that moving company to pack
your stuff? You read the advisory from Border Security that said drug smugglers
often front as moving companies to ship drugs. Why did you ignore that advisory
and go outside department regulations?”

 
          
“The
moving company was owned by the nephew of one of the district Conservative
Party chiefs,” Simpson said quietly. “He helped us establish the new
free-trade-zone regulations a few months ago. It was a personal favor—”

 
          
“It
was also, at best, a damned stupid thing to do,” Riley said. “He was probably
on the smuggler’s payroll. The whole free-trade-zone agreement was probably
part of the smuggling operation, and you, bright boy, fell right into it. But
why did you call Customs and complain about the handling your goods were
getting? Why did you call the Customs commissioner’s office? You sounded like a
pusher who couldn’t wait to go back into business.”

 
          
“Because
we’re paying three hundred dollars a night for a hotel room,” Simpson said.
“Our goods have been in transit for almost a month—”

 
          
“And
that’s another thing. Why the hell are you staying at a suite at the
Madison
, living it up like some damned Arab sheik?
The FBI was sure someone had lined your pockets with a little cash. It looked
suspicious as hell.”

 
          
Simpson’s
head bowed a bit. “Tina . . . my wife, Tina . . . she was so happy to get out
of
Peru
, to get back to the States . . . she always wanted to stay at the
Madison
. We were only going to stay for a week,
sort of . . . sort of as a holiday. We just . . . never checked out . . .”

 
          
“And
you paid
cash
for your room?”

 
          
“We
. . . we had cashed in a lot of pesos . . .”

 
          
Riley
turned away from Simpson in disgust, shaking his head. “Stupid,” he muttered.
He stared out the window for a few moments, letting Simpson squirm in the hard,
thinly padded armless chair. Then: “You’ve been reassigned to Frank Melvin’s
section. My secretary has your assignment folder outside.”

 
          
Simpson
looked ashen. “Melvin . . . I’ve been assigned to
Africa
? Why? I don’t understand ...”

 
          
“The
consul general in
Lubumbashi
has a request in for a replacement,” Riley said. “They need someone
right away. You’re what the doctor ordered.”

 
          
“
Lubumbashi
? You mean
Zaire
? You’re sending me to
Zaire
because of this?”

 
          
“Have
a nice trip, Simpson.”

 
          
“But
I’m
innocent.”
Simpson half-rose from
the chair. “I didn’t know about the damn cocaine. I didn’t know about my
household- goods shipment being used to transport drugs. I can account for
every penny I’ve spent—”

 
          
“Simpson,
the Department takes care of its own, if they cooperate. I gave you a chance to
take advantage of that when the FBI and Border Security people stormed into my
office. You thought you’d hide behind some outside lawyer and your
rights
—well, now I’ve got FBI agents and
Border Security I-Team investigators rummaging through my files, and I had to
put up with a gimp prima donna Air Force general lecturing me on how to run my
shop. You embarrassed this entire section. I can’t help you any more. Good
luck, Mr. Simpson. Have a ball in the
Congo
.”

 
          
Zaza
Airfield,
Verrettes
,
Haiti

           
One
Day Later

 
          
“Senor
Gachez. What a surprise,” Salazar said over the scrambled phone. He was at his
desk in his office, getting a shoe shine from a young peasant boy. With Salazar
was his chief pilot, Major Trujillo, and his aide, Field Captain Hermosa. They
had all been expecting the call.