The Prisoner of Guantanamo (14 page)

Falk thought back to his own days as a young jarhead. He, too, would have been put off by the prayers and the lectures. If his career had gone in another direction, or toward another language, he might still feel that way. And he knew from his experience in the military that a lot of the soldiers in the security force would never move beyond that point of view, whether out of intellectual laziness or blind loyalty to their own way of life. It was a view easily reinforced when the other side starting flying planes into buildings.

“Didn't Boustani get one of the MPs in trouble?” Sharp asked.

“Yeah,” Whitaker said. “For tossing a detainee's Quran on the floor. Chewed him out in front of the detainee, no less. Lot of guys saw it, and it didn't sit well.”

“Smart. Tactful, too.”

“So were the MPs. The minute Boustani left, a bunch of them called him a ‘sand nigger.'”

“Nice,” LaFarge said. “But it doesn't mean he's not guilty as sin.”

“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“Fine. Long as you use the same standard for Van Meter. Who, by the way, isn't charged with anything.”

“Except being a prick.”

More nervous chuckles, everyone beginning to sense the way the aftershocks might rumble through this place for weeks, creating new stresses and fissures, especially if there were more arrests.

“This'll do wonders for teamwork,” Sharp said with a weary sigh.

“Get used to it,” Whitaker said. “With those six on the loose it's bound to get worse.”

Interesting, Falk thought, the way some of them had already decided that all six people at the other table were part and parcel of the same “team.” Another form of guilt by association.

“Well, don't include me among the naysayers,” LaFarge finally said. “For all we know, those guys are doing us a huge favor. Don't forget what we're here for.”

True as well, and Falk nodded along with the others. The prospect of real spies in their midst was perhaps the most sobering possibility of all. Maybe that's why some of them were so eager to laugh it off or to suspect an overzealous investigation. The consequences of a genuine security breakdown could be horrendous. For a few minutes the only sounds were the clank and scrape of forks against plates. Then Mitch Tyndall approached from the chow line with a steaming plate of eggs.

“Who died?” he said, chuckling. “If it's Boustani you're mourning, save it. You should be grateful.”

“Don't try to reason with 'em,” said LaFarge, relieved to have an ally. “It's like talking to the Camp Delta ACLU.”

“Sounds like you know something,” Falk said. “Were you out there, Mitch?”

Tyndall shook his head.

“Heard a little, though. He had some strange tapes on him. Audio, not video. Plus some questionable diskettes. And he had a list of detainee names on his laptop.”

Whitaker snorted.

“Then I better erase mine. Hell, Mitch, probably everybody at this table has got something at their place or on their laptop that they technically shouldn't have. It's not like you can just drive out of here with a briefcase full of documents.”

“He also had a stack of letters at home. From detainees. You got any of those?”

Whitaker shook his head, seemingly chastened.

“Apparently he'd packed them in his bags for the mainland and was going to mail them,” Tyndall continued.

Falk thought of the letter in his possession. Not from a detainee, and it was written in English, not Arabic or Pashto. But the contents would still raise plenty of eyebrows in this climate, especially if anyone knew the reason behind it.

The table again went silent. There would be some late drinking tonight at the Tiki Bar. Loose lips to sink plenty of ships. Just not his, he hoped. Or Pam's. In some people's minds, any speaker of Arabic was probably now under suspicion. Things could get ugly in a hurry if this team wasn't careful.

Falk thought again of Harry, who would be waiting, impatient. Well, let him. There were other people to see first. He rose with his tray.

“Where you headed?” Whitaker asked. “Off to report our conversation to your buddy, Mr. Bokamper?”

“Relax, Whit. The guy I'm going to see knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“Must be Adnan, then.” That finally drew some laughter.

“This fellow makes Adnan look like a chatterbox. His name's Ludwig.”

“Oh. The dead guy.”

“Waiting on the slab. Finish your bacon before it's cold, Whit. Until we meet again, gentlemen. And lady.” A parting glance at Pam. At least everything in that department seemed okay.

“Give him our best,” Whitaker said. He had covered his bacon with a napkin.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
S IT TURNED OUT,
Ludwig's body was no longer on the slab. It had already been boxed for shipment in a military-issue coffin, then draped with a flag. By the time Falk reached the hospital it was sitting on the loading dock, awaiting delivery to Leeward Point for the next flight out. An orderly took him down for a look, but there was little to see apart from the Stars and Stripes. Camp Delta's one and only casualty—unless you counted the suicidal detainee still vegetating in a coma—was ready to go home.

Falk was mildly perturbed. In the States he'd have chewed out the doctor for moving ahead without telling him. Here that would only make trouble, generating a retaliatory chain of paperwork. At least there was an autopsy report to read.

The doctor was a Captain Ebert, who seemed agreeable enough. He probably wasn't accustomed to dealing with law enforcement people, and was apparently oblivious to his faux pas.

“The toxicology tests are still pending,” Ebert said, reading over Falk's shoulder. “But there was no alcohol in his blood. It was pretty much what you'd expect.”

“Water in the lungs?”

“Chock-full. Although that would have been the case even if he hadn't drowned, after all that time in the ocean.”

“How many hours, do you think?”

“Seven or eight. Maybe more. Being on the beach a while muddies it. What time did the Cubans find him? The paperwork was a little vague.”

“Seven, seven thirty. They weren't exactly gushing with information, under the circumstances.”

“In any case, it was a drowning. Nobody shot him, stabbed him, or strangled him.”

“Or knocked him on the head?”

“That, too.”

“Could somebody have held him under water?”

“Sure. No marks to indicate it, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. The fish got to him after a while, so I'm not sure any marks would be all that clear.”

“Find anything to explain why he might have gone swimming with his uniform and boots on?”

Ebert shook his head.

“Like I said, he wasn't drunk. Could have reached into the water for something, I guess. Gone wading and slipped, fallen down. Then the waves took over. It happens.”

“But you said there was no blow to the head. So it's not likely any fall would have knocked him unconscious.”

“True enough.”

“And I guess he still could have been on some kind of drugs.”

“From where? For all the stories I hear of the goings-on down in Camp America, that's one that has yet to come up. Drinking? Sure. The way of the soldier. Drugs? Not unless he was on some prescription medication. But I'll give you a shout when those tests come back.”

“Which should be when?”

“A few days yet. Sorry. The samples go to the States. It's why I was in such a rush to get him out of here. They're shipping his body on the ten-ten to JAX.”

“Here's my number.”

“You'll be the first to know. You and General Trabert.”

“Somehow I thought you'd say that. Has he been ‘making inquiries,' as they say?”

Ebert smiled but said nothing, the good soldier honoring the chain of command.

Falk had yet to come up with a scenario other than suicide that would explain why Ludwig had removed his wallet but not his boots or uniform. As an accident, the death still made little sense.

His next stop was the port control office, where the comings and goings of every ship were monitored by radar and radio. It wasn't a busy place. Gitmo seldom got seagoing visitors apart from the Coast Guard and the supply barge from Jacksonville.

An Ensign Osgood was manning the post alone, and seemed eager for company. He obliged Falk by unrolling a huge white chart awash in gray, white, and pale blue, and covered with contour lines and depth readings. It was titled “Guantánamo Bay, From Entrance to Caimanera.” Osgood began explaining what all the markings meant.

“Don't worry,” Falk said. “I can read 'em.”

“Ex-Navy?”

“Marines. But I grew up on the water.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Up North.” Keep it vague enough and they tended to drop the line of questioning. “So, tell me, Osgood. If somebody goes in here”—he pointed to a spot just off Windmill Beach—“then swims out maybe a hundred yards, max, and then turns parallel to the shoreline and swims, let's say, another hundred yards east …” In his uniform and boots, no less. Falk still couldn't get that out of his head. “And then let's say he drowns. Where do you think he comes ashore?”

“A hundred yards out?” Osgood mulled it over a moment, then slid his finger a few inches west, a half mile farther from Cuban territory, and pointed to a location marked as Blind Beach.

“This would be my guess. The chart says ‘Blind Beach,' because you can't see it from the water, but everybody here calls it Hidden Beach. Of course, there's a chance you would drift even farther.” Osgood moved his finger another few inches west. “Maybe all the way down to Blue Beach. The trade winds run pretty steady out of the east down this coast. The currents, too. Ships running against it say it usually takes a pretty good push to get around the horn.”

“Did anything happen the night before last that might have changed the equation? A weather front? A big ship in the neighborhood, maybe? A freak wind shift? Hell, anything.”

“I've been wondering the same thing, sir. I'm assuming you're asking about Sergeant Ludwig. After I heard where they found him I checked the wind readouts, the shipping schedules, the works. I also wondered about an offshore storm, something that might have caused a riptide, pulled him out to sea. But …” He shrugged.

“Nothing?”

“Sorry. The only thing I can't account for is the Cuban patrol boats. One could've crossed into our sector by mistake, I guess. Hit him or something. They've fucked up before, but it's been years. And they've never come this far. Not to Windmill Beach.”

“As far as we know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wouldn't they have showed up on your radar equipment?”

“Not the smaller ones. But the seaward surveillance people would have spotted 'em. Or heard 'em.”

“Seaward surveillance?”

“The 204th Mobile Inshore Undersea Warfare Unit, if you want the whole mouthful. A Naval Reserve unit. They've set up a couple observation posts in the hills since Camp Delta opened. If a Cuban patrol had come across that night, or any night, I think everybody and his brother would have heard about it by now.”

“Good point, ensign.”

Even in the unlikely event that the Cubans had blundered across the line undetected, long enough to either pick Ludwig up or accidentally kill him, in that case they never would have reported finding the body. They would have been eager to hush it up. By now he would have been buried on their side in an unmarked grave, or tossed back into the current to make his inevitable way west.

“Then let's try this,” Falk said. “General Trabert seems to think—or maybe somebody told him—that the currents can be kind of tricky out there, right off Windmill. Undertows or whatever. He believes it's not that unusual that Ludwig washed up where he did.”

Osgood practically stood at attention at the mention of the general's name. His face reddened as he began to speak.

“I can't presume to speak for an Army general, sir.”

“Not asking you to.”

Osgood blew air out of puffed cheeks.

“Well, you can see the contour lines and the depth markings as well as I can, sir. It's pretty straightforward. And I'll show you the wind readings from that night if you want.”

“For the record, that would be great. But no need right now. There is one thing you can show me, though. Point out where you think he would have had to have gone down to end up where he did, which was approximately … well, hell, it's not even on this chart.”

“I've got another one, sir. Covers more area.”

Osgood retrieved a chart of slightly larger scale, labeled “Approaches to Guantánamo Bay.” The eastern edge extended several miles past the Cuban fenceline, just past the entrance to a small inlet at Punta Barlovento.

“He made landfall right about here,” Falk said, tapping the Cuban shoreline. “About a half mile past the fence. Your opinion only, of course.”

Osgood hesitated.

“Could any report you make just state that it's actually
your
opinion? Based on available nautical and meteorological data from this office, of course.”

“My pleasure, ensign.”

He nodded, and the color returned to his face.

“Any way you slice it, he went down in Cuban waters, sir. By a good bit. And if he had gone much past here”—Osgood tapped a spot just offshore from where Ludwig beached—“then he probably would have been carried up into this little bay of theirs, at Punta Barlovento. I know they had a patrol boat hit a shoal out there once. Her engine died, and she washed right up the inlet. Broad daylight, too.”

Osgood obviously didn't have a high opinion of Cuban seamanship.

“Meaning what, that he must have drowned fairly close to shore?”

“Yes, sir. I'd say within a hundred yards.”

“But over on their side. At least a half a mile over.”

Osgood nodded. Falk folded his arms, more stumped than ever.

“Doesn't make sense.”

“No, sir.”

“You think I could get one of these?” Falk said, pointing to the chart.

“Sure. C'mon back to the chart room.”

Falk could have spent hours in there, unrolling them all to unlock their secrets. Nautical charts were tailor-made for daydreams. You stumbled upon markings for old mines and shipwrecks. When he studied depth readings for shoals and sandbars he almost felt the shudder of a hull scraping bottom. When reading the bigger numbers he imagined the inky depths of the troughs. All of that lore hidden beneath the waves—a silent world inhabited by fish, long-forgotten ships, and the drifting corpses of everyone who had ever been lost at sea and never recovered. Ludwig could easily have wound up like that. Two of Falk's childhood friends were still down there, lost in summer storms off Stonington, sons of lobstermen, just like he was. Sometimes when studying the contours he felt like a cop scanning a map of a city's darkest and most dangerous alleys. Other times it was like viewing one big escape plan, a variety of portals that led to any place of your choosing. Because once you were out on the water you could end up almost anywhere, as long as you knew what you were doing.

“We've got a whole set of these, you know,” Osgood said. “Three charts of the area, if you're interested.”

“Sure,” Falk said. “Maybe I'll put one up in our kitchen. Spruce the place up. Might as well have something to look at besides the grease stains.”

“Here.” The ensign rolled them up into a cardboard tube. “We've got plenty, and we're due to get more. The Navy's always remapping the shipping lanes down this way for us and the Coast Guard.”

“For chasing drug runners?”

“And refugees.”

“Forgot about them.”

“Busy place out there sometimes. Just not in our neck of the woods.”

         

F
ALK MADE IT TO
L
UDWIG'S BARRACKS
about a half hour before lunchtime. The unit's CO, a Reserve colonel, had warily set up the appointment.

Ludwig had bunked in a panel barracks, the latest style of housing at Camp America in an evolution that had earlier included tents and flimsy sea huts. The panel units had twelve beds arranged in two rows, with no windows but plenty of air-conditioning. Ludwig's building was the second one down in a row of five in one of the newer parts of the camp. A new outdoor basketball court was nearby, already doing a brisk business despite the midday swelter. The grounds around the barracks were gravel, not grass, which only added to the heat. Stand out here long enough and you'd start to hallucinate, Falk thought.

A Weber grill and a couple of bicycles were parked outside. By the door was a bulletin board where somebody had posted a flyer offering a fishing rod with a full tackle box for thirty dollars. Probably a soldier who was headed home.

Falk entered without knocking, and the first thing he saw was a full-color poster of the World Trade Center towers in flames, above the typically awkward wording of an Army propaganda poster: “Are you in a New York state of mind? Don't leak information our enemies can use to kill U.S. troops, or more innocent people.”

“You must be special agent Falk.”

“And you must be Colonel Davis.”

“Correct.”

A few other soldiers were also present, and the atmosphere was one of quiet hostility. Besides the usual tension common to any unit that had just lost a soldier, there was an element of the civilian-military mistrust that one often found elsewhere at Gitmo. This mistrust went double if they knew you spoke Arabic. These fellows tended to hear from their officers 24/7 that each and every one of the detainees was a hardened killer and an experienced terrorist, who in at least some way shared responsibility for 9/11. It was part of the effort to keep them motivated and boost their morale. Falk didn't find it at all surprising that given that sort of indoctrination, they were skeptical of anyone who believed otherwise. To them, Falk was among the accommodators and deal makers, a guy who not only spoke the language of the enemy but had also complained about some of the rougher treatment during interrogation. And now he had come here to ask them questions, not seeming to care whether or not he pissed them off.

“We've tried to keep anyone from touching his stuff,” Davis said. “Not that anybody would want to. It's been kind of hard for them, having this empty bunk.”

“I can understand that. I was a Marine once myself. Got a key for his footlocker?”