The Prisoner of Guantanamo (11 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE TIKI BAR
offered the military's idea of tropical island ambience—a little palm thatch, a few paper umbrellas for the fancier drinks, and enough cases of beer to sink an outrigger canoe. It wasn't much to look at—white plastic tables on a plain of concrete—but the drinks were cold, there was a pleasant view of the bay, and prices were at subsidy levels. Better still, its location just a few blocks off the main drag of Sherman Avenue offered an escape from the swarms of the MP underclass, who now had their own open-air bar, Club Survivor, down on the sands of Camp America.

So the Tiki Bar had become the locus of evening social life for Gitmo's chattering class—its interrogators, linguists, and analysts—although there were few more disorienting experiences than spending six hours in a bare room pumping a stubborn old Saudi about life among the sand fleas, then kicking back with a Corona beneath a palm frond while your buddies rehashed an old episode of
Seinfeld.

Even at the Tiki Bar the crowd tended to subdivide by team, rank, or organization. Most cross-pollination involved females and featured all manner of awkward mating dances. Every knot of males gathered near the bar usually had a woman at the center—“the prize in the box of Cracker Jacks,” as Falk's roomie, Whitaker, had once described it.

Falk made a quick reconnaissance to see if Pam had arrived, but instead spotted Whitaker, who had grabbed an early seat in hopes of glimpsing the visitors from Washington. He had already predicted they'd be the source of much entertainment in the days ahead, and he didn't want to miss the opening act.

Bokamper and the others arrived a few minutes later, all three stepping off a yellow school bus. Everyone but Fowler had changed into his own idea of sportswear, which in Cartwright's case meant cargo shorts and a T-shirt. The midges would eat him alive. Fowler had at least left behind his jacket and tie, and made it a point to buy the first round.

Falk handled introductions, and for a while everyone made small talk about the trip down, the weather back in Washington, and the baseball season in Baltimore. Finally Whitaker could no longer contain his curiosity.

“So what can you guys say about what you're up to?” he asked with a smile.

Bokamper smiled back, but said nothing. Cartwright dutifully looked to Fowler, who seized the initiative.

“Not much, I'm afraid. We'll be talking to a lot of you in the next few days. You'll just have to trust me when I say that we intend to be as unobtrusive as possible. Believe me, we know the importance of the work you're doing.”

Whitaker seemed unimpressed.

“I was kind of hoping for a little disruption. Give us something better to do for a while. Or more interesting, anyway.”

Everyone laughed, if a bit politely.

“Be that as it may,” Fowler said, holding his smile, “I'm not sure you fellows realize just how lucky you are to be here. You have no idea how many people in my shop would love to get a crack at this action. They'd give anything to be in your shoes.”

“Anything? A sleeve of new Titleists would do it for me, if they're that hot on the idea. Especially if I could use 'em someplace where you don't have to hit off a toupee.”

That brought more uneasy chuckles, except from Fowler.

“It's okay to joke about it, but you know what I mean. Or ought to. Other than Iraq, Gitmo's the single most important front right now in the GWOT.”

“Gwot?” Cartwright asked, as he swatted at a midge on his thigh.

Falk supplied the answer.

“Global War on Terrorism. Gitmo acronym 12-b. You'll know 'em all within forty-eight hours. I'd urge you to start using the word ‘robust' within the next twenty-four.”

Fowler eyed him coolly, which pissed Falk off enough that he stared back, the beer hitting home a little too quickly after his marathon day. He hadn't eaten since breakfast. He decided it was probably best to make peace before things turned further in the wrong direction. Even the ardor of zealots tended to cool after some quality time on the Rock. In a week or so Fowler might actually be bearable, so Falk pointed to the man's bottle while raising his own, which was empty.

“Let me buy you another. You're half empty.”

“C'mon, Falk,” Whitaker said. “Fowler's a half-full kind of guy.”

“Maybe you
should
pack it on home, with that kind of attitude,” Fowler said.

“Easy, fellas.” It was Bokamper, playing peacemaker, a role he tended to fill only after amply enjoying the sparring. “It's been a long day, but last time I checked we were still on the same side.”

Whitaker said something under his breath and picked at the label of his Bud. Fowler made a show of checking his watch, then stood.

“Thanks, but I'll have to pass.” His tone and smile were so curtly formal that Falk wouldn't have been shocked if he'd bowed, or told Whitaker to meet him at dawn with pistols and seconds. “I've got some work to catch up on before bed.”

Cartwright also rose in a show of solidarity with the boss, but when Fowler seemed to dismiss him with a flick of the hand he sank obediently back into his chair. A real sacrifice given the fits he was having with the bugs. Whitaker by now was flushed with embarrassment, or maybe he was just drunk. Falk wondered how long he'd been at it. It was becoming a habit with his roommate. But as Fowler boarded the bus, Whitaker snarled back to life.

“Off to pray for our souls, I guess.”

Bokamper grinned, taking a neat swig. “That
was
quite the sermonette.”

“Ward's always been pretty gung ho,” Cartwright said.

“But an intriguing piece of work,” Bokamper said. “Give him time, Whit. He'll grow on you.”

Whitaker normally hated being called Whit, but didn't seem to mind it this time.

“You know him pretty well?”

Bokamper shrugged.

“In the Washington sort of way. He used to work down the hall from me at State before making the jump to Homeland Security. One of the new breed, out to save the world one conquest at a time. I was out to his house once. Dinner party, probably his wife's idea. Nonstop shop talk. The world's most well-read man, judging from all the books. Practically had them classified by the Dewey Decimal System.”

“Maybe he had 'em shipped in by a consultant. One of those clubs with leather bindings and blank pages. The Palace of Unread Books.”

Bo grinned, shaking his head.

“Not his style. More likely he had them all memorized, cover to cover. The last thing you should do is underestimate him. Besides, it's easy enough to see why he's pumped. I mean, look at this place. It
is
amazing. Jihadists on the inside, Fidel on the perimeter. Half the corn-fed youth of the Midwest down by the sea in their barracks, chowing down in their cammies and saying ‘Honor bound' every time they salute. At least that's what I read in the
Washington Post.
For anybody with an ounce of red, white, and blue it's a paranoid's paradise. Not that everyone isn't really out to get us.”

Only Bokamper could blend reverence and subversion so artfully, then punctuate it with a verbal slap on the back. Cartwright seemed to decide it had been suitably laudatory, so he joined in the chuckling. The only one not laughing was Whitaker, still smarting from Fowler's brush-off.

“I understand General Trabert's made quite a difference,” Cartwright said, in a tone that seemed eager for affirmation. “Intelligence volume is way up, in any event. I hear they're doing more than a hundred interrogations a week now. Pretty impressive.”

“It's all about pushing the envelope,” Whitaker said. “Buzzword of the month. But I'm a Bureau guy. What do I know?”

“Not everybody sees eye to eye on technique,” Falk explained. “Especially those of us who've been trained to be a little more subtle. And I don't mean Miranda rights. I'm talking about excesses that in the States would get your confession kicked out of court.”

Cartwright flicked yet another midge off his knee.

“Well, it's not like there isn't some pretty noble precedent for bending the rules. Lincoln suspended habeas corpus, shut down the secessionist newspapers, and arrested the mayor and police chief of Baltimore to restore order. Even jailed Francis Scott Key's grandson at Fort McHenry. But everything seemed to work out okay. There's a war on, even if a lot of people still don't want to believe it. And I guess we've got even more grounds for paranoia now that the Cubans are stealing our soldiers. Or so I heard on the way down.”

“Yeah, what's up with that, Falk?” Whitaker asked. “Everybody says the tides should've pushed him our way.”

Falk frowned.

“Depends on where he really went in. Or maybe everybody's looking at the wrong charts. Hell, I don't know. Maybe a dolphin took him for a ride. Ask General Trabert. He seems to be ahead of me on this one.” He turned to Cartwright. “Not counting you guys, of course. I hear you may have some news for us in the morning.”

“Oh, I'm pretty much where everyone else is, still trying to make the pieces fit.” He slapped another midge, then stared at his knobby knees. You could tell he wasn't accustomed to lying. “We'll carry out our little assignments, then get out of everyone's way. Which reminds me, I've also got some work to do before I turn in. Better get moving if I'm going to be worth a damn in the morning.”

So he, too, took his leave. The morose Whitaker retreated to the bar, where he lingered near a knot of revelers that actually included two females for a change, even though neither was the one Falk was looking for. Bokamper watched the departures in apparent amusement.

“Nice job, Falk. You and your roomie cleared the table. But now that I've got a private audience, what the hell
is
going on with this Ludwig case?”

“You mean with me trying to solve a drowning, or the shit storm it's stirring up?”

“You know me. The latter.”

“The Cubans aren't happy, that's for sure. Both sides have ramped up patrols along the fenceline. I'd imagine they'll lodge some sort of formal protest. On what grounds I have no idea. An invasion by a dead man doesn't strike me as a major threat to sovereignty. Otherwise, I'm too near the bottom of the Gitmo food chain to know anything more. I thought maybe you'd have some answers, coming from Washington.”

“Same boat as you're in. In this delegation anyway.”

“Then what's your real role in the Brady Bunch? Or are you just here as a chaperone, keeping an eye on Greg and Marsha?”

“If only we had a Marsha. Let's just say that an interested party wanted to have a counterweight in place.”

“A counterweight to what? Or who?”

“You'll see. If you pay attention.”

“Who's the interested party?”

“Not open to discussion.”

“C'mon, Bo. You're too old to start being a toady.”

Then a pause, a few beats longer than necessary. From their long years of acquaintance, Falk knew that something significant was likely to follow.

“Sorry, but I can't say more. Doctor's orders.”

It was all Falk needed. Bokamper's longtime benefactor at the State Department was Saul Endler, an aging sachem of high policy who had accumulated so many PhDs that Bo simply referred to him as the Doc. One part Kissinger and two parts alchemist, Endler seemed to get involved only when political conjuring was required and stakes were at their highest. Even then you hardly ever saw his name in the press, except in those obscure journals that published inside accounts months after the fact, in lengthy footnotes that no one but the experts read.

“Got it,” Falk said.

“Thought you would.”

“So you're not really here for the secretary.”

“Oh, I'm doing his bidding, all right. Officially, anyhow.”

“But it's also some kind of cover?”

“Officially? Not at all.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Unofficially? Because I need your help.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “With any number of things. Maybe even the Ludwig matter, depending on where it leads. As for the rest, we'll both have a better idea by the close of business tomorrow.”

“Arrests? That's the rumor.”

“Just keep your eye on Cartwright.”

“And what will you be doing? Keeping an eye on Fowler?”

Bokamper shook his head, not in denial but in apparent refusal to offer anything more.

“Think OPSEC, Falk.”

“Very good. You learn fast.”

But Bokamper's attention had abruptly moved elsewhere. A look of appreciation creased his brow, an expression Falk had seen often enough to know that a woman must be approaching. Falk was on the verge of turning to make his own appraisal when a hand brushed his shoulder, followed by a familiar voice.

“Knew I'd find you here. Looks like your new friends have all gone to bed.”

“All but one,” Bo said, rising to his feet.

“This is Pam Cobb,” Falk said. “Captain Cobb to you. And this is Ted Bokamper, who's also here for the sleepover. So watch what you say. He's very official.”

“Just as well there are only two of you,” she said. “It gets old being the only woman at a table for six.”

“From what I've seen that's pretty much the norm.”

“You told him how the Gitmo rating system works?” she asked Falk.

“It's the old ten-point scale,” Falk explained. “Except the moment you step off the plane the rating for every male drops by three, and every female goes up by three.”

“Which makes you what?” Bokamper said to Pam. “About a twelve?”

“See, you're already warped by the inflation. I'm a stateside six and a Gitmo nine, yet I still ended up with this guy,” she said with a smile. Fortunately she no longer seemed peeved by this morning's news of the perfumed letter. Falk was about to offer to buy her a drink, but saw that she already had her usual, bourbon on the rocks. No umbrella.