The Prisoner of Guantanamo (29 page)

“Sure. I think.”

He was about to turn the key when he suddenly thought of something.

“Shit!” he said, feeling like an idiot.

“What? What is it?”

He pulled out his flashlight and bent as low as he could in the seat, peering beneath the wheel.

“Feel under the dash on your side,” he told Tyndall.

Tyndall tapped feebly beneath the glove compartment.

“What am I looking for?”

“Anything that shouldn't be there.”

“You mean like this?”

There was a sharp clicking sound on Tyndall's side, and when Falk turned the beam Tyndall was holding a small metal disk.

“It was hooked to a wire,” Tyndall said. “Probably goes straight to your radio. That way it broadcasts off your antenna.”

“Meaning they can hear me, what, a mile away?”

“I'm no expert, but probably something like that. Maybe more.” Tyndall was a smart fellow, so he added up the rest of the evidence pretty quickly. “I guess this explains how we ended up with an escort.”

“Yeah. My old pal.”

“Hardly a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Him. And his employers. Part of our special clientele for product from down here. You didn't hear that from me, of course.”

“Special clientele? Since when?”

“Since forever. Or the last change of administrations, anyway. You're his friend. I'd always assumed you two were working together.”

“What, for the Bureau?”

“Not really for the Bureau. Just as part of their, well, whatever they call themselves.”

“And what might that be?”

“Nobody's ever told me. All I know is that certain people in my shop have asked me to cooperate whenever they ask. But I am surprised you didn't know. The way you guys pal around and everything.”

Maybe he and Bo
had
been working together, Falk supposed. Just not in the way he'd imagined.

“As long as everybody else knows so much, tell me this. Those three guys on the team—Bo, Fowler, Cartwright—were they assigned security numbers for signing out detainees inside Delta?”

“That would be a safe assumption.”

“I don't want an assumption. I want an answer.”

“The answer is yes. But I'm not telling you their numbers.”

“Fair enough. All I need is a yes-no on one.”

“You're asking too much.”

“C'mon, Mitch. It's one fucking number. I name it and you tell me if it's Bo's.”

“And you think my memory's that good?”

“For those three? Damn right I do.”

“Okay. For those three, maybe. But it's not like I've got the whole of Camp Delta memorized. To hear some of you guys talk, it's like we're snooping on everybody. Fowler makes an arrest and we get blamed.”

“I'm not here to blame, I just need information.”

“You and the whole fucking world. What's the number?”

Falk dug out his notes by flashlight, and then read aloud the digits that had been logged in for Adnan's interrogation last Wednesday at Camp X-Ray.

“Bo's, right?”

Tyndall shook his head and gave him a funny look, seeming more embarrassed than puzzled.

“Van Meter's, then. Has to be.”

“What is this, twenty questions? Goddamn it, Falk, enough. But of all the numbers, I would have thought that would be one you'd know.”

“Well, it's no one from my team.”

“Of course not. It's from hers.”

“Hers?” A pause while everything clicked.
“Pam's?”

“Satisfied now? No more questions, okay? I think we've both had enough.”

“Okay,” Falk said weakly.

And for the second time in ten minutes, his world turned upside down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
FTER
T
YNDALL SPRINTED
to his car, Falk sat for a few minutes in the driveway with the engine running. His first impulse was to head back to Pam's—bang on her window until he awakened the entire household, roommates and all, then demand an explanation as he stood dripping on their floor. He would throw himself on the mercy of the MPs.

Maybe it would get him kicked off the base. They would put him on a flight, banish him from all this misery. He would take the evidence with him and embarrass them all. Leak it to the press, burn every bridge. Why not, since half his bridges were already ablaze.

But on whose behalf, or for what cause, were his friends betraying him? As far as he could tell, both Pam and Bo had interrogated Adnan. Yet, unless their antipathy for one another was an act—a prospect raising possibilities Falk didn't care to consider just now—then they had been coming at Adnan from opposite agendas. Was Pam working for Fowler, meaning her arrest was some kind of cover? None of it made sense, and all of it made him feel used. They must have been laughing to themselves as he scurried between them, so eager to please and keep the peace.

He turned off the ignition and unlatched the door. The noise of the storm swallowed him in a sheet of rain that slanted right onto the seat. Let it. So what if he was soaked. There were four beers in the refrigerator, and there was a bottle of gin in the cabinet. The idea of a temporary oblivion had its charms just now, so he wasn't bothered in the least as raindrops hammered him all the way up the sidewalk.

Slamming the front door behind him, he was quickly chilled to the bone by the air-conditioning, and he paused to behold the calming groan and hum of the window unit while his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The only light came from a kitchen window to the right, where the orange glow of a streetlamp wavered, filtered by the sheeting rain. A palm frond brushed like fingernails against a screen. It was a nasty one, this storm, perhaps not quite a gale but still a corker for anyone unfortunate enough to be out on the sea. For the slightest moment his heart went out to them, wherever they were, tossed and alone and just trying to stay afloat.

As he stepped toward the refrigerator he was startled by the chirp of a cigarette lighter and the sudden glow of a small flame from the living room. Someone was sitting on the couch.

“Who's there?”

No answer.

“Bo?”

“Instructive response.” Falk didn't recognize the voice.

Then the lights came on, blinding him momentarily.

“Care to explain why you expected Ted Bokamper to be waiting for you at this hour of the day?”

It was Fowler, and he wasn't alone. An MP stood in a far corner, gun holstered and hands behind his back.

“What's this all about?”

“I've got a few questions. Have a seat.”

“How 'bout getting the hell out of here. I'm tired and need a drink, and I'm definitely not in the mood for a chat.”

“Go ahead with the drink. But I'm not leaving until we've talked.”

“You here to arrest me?”

“Should I be?”

Falk shook his head and turned down the hall, away from the kitchen.

“I'm going to bed. Turn out the lights on your way out.”

But there was a second MP blocking the entrance to his room, and when Falk stopped to ponder his next move a hand slapped against the wall from behind. Fowler's. He had moved from the couch with the rapid stealth of a commando and was close enough for Falk to smell the toothpaste on his breath.

“All right.” Fowler was all business now. “Enough playing around. You can make this as hard as you want. But don't give me any guff about warrants, or your rights as a civilian, because you know exactly where we are and what that means as far as anyone's rights are concerned. The Constitution? Never heard of it. We're in the zone of exclusion, and I've been authorized by the highest authority possible, so pay attention. Now how 'bout if we both have a seat?”

Falk returned to the living room while wondering what Fowler meant by “highest authority possible.” On the base? In the task force? Or back in the States? Which would be a different matter altogether. Maybe Fowler was bluffing. But he was right about one thing. No one would be reading Falk his Miranda rights anytime soon.

“Maybe you should take that wet jacket off,” Fowler said, settling back onto the couch. “This could take a while.”

As Falk unzipped the jacket he felt the rigid wafer of the fake passport in his right pocket, and it was all he could do not to flinch. One quick patdown by the MP and he'd have been a goner. He gingerly placed the dripping jacket on a coat hook by the door, as if it had been wired to explode. Then he sat down in a chair opposite Fowler.

“Frankly I'm surprised you came back from Jacksonville,” Fowler began. “When I heard you'd skipped town I figured you'd hang out there until everything blew over, then come creeping back like nothing had ever happened.”

“You've obviously never spent much time in Jacksonville.”

“You haven't either, from what I've heard. Took off due south and weren't seen again until the day of the flight. Care to tell me where you went?”

“I've got to account for my leave time now? Hell, I'm not even military. I'm civilian. I don't have to tell you anything.”

“Look, I know you may think of me as an overly patriotic blowhard. Plenty of others around here do. It's like some sort of Gitmo combat fatigue. Two months of mission and everyone's a cynic. So go ahead, but be forewarned. Right now your loyalty is in question.”

“Loyalty to what?”

“This task force, and everything it stands for. Your country, your employer.”

“Care to explain what makes you think that?”

“Do you really want the list?”

“Yes. Because frankly I'm not sure who's working for what anymore, or why. And that includes my closest friends and colleagues, and it certainly includes you.”

“Since you brought it up, let's discuss your friends. Ted Bokamper, for one.”

“What about him?”

“What's he up to? And what's your role in it?”

“Look, I'm not sure what delusions you're operating under. But I'm not involved in
anything.
Whatever my friend Ted Bokamper does is his business. If I've done a few favors for him along the way, then that's all they've been, favors for a friend, and maybe I'd like to know what the hell they were for, too, now that they're attracting so much unwanted attention.”

Besides, he just bugged my goddamn car!
Falk wanted to say, but he restrained himself.

“So you
have
been helping him.”

“I've passed along the usual rumors. Offered him my opinion on the lay of the land. It's no secret that your little team hasn't exactly been the happiest development in the history of Camp Delta. Some see it as a needed cleansing, some see it as a witch hunt. But everybody I've talked to seems to be as much in the dark as I am about what's really going on.”

“I'm not here to talk about the arrests, or our little security investigation, and I think you know that. I'm talking about the extracurricular activities that your friend Mr. Bokamper and some of his local colleagues have been involved in. Van Meter. Lawson. And you. That's four pieces I know of, and we're looking for more, so how 'bout some straight answers.”

Every time Falk thought he had something figured out, the tables turned again. He was more confused than ever.

“Then you'd better ask Bokamper. Because I'm not a part of it, and don't want to be.”

“You really still think you're immune, don't you? Is it because you work for the Bureau? Or because of Bokamper's sponsors, and who they represent? I'm here to tell you that you're not protected by either. In fact, you've got a couple of major weaknesses that none of them have.”

So here was where Fowler began talking about Cuba, Harry, and Paco, he supposed. Here was when they decided to search the house, and turn the place upside down.

“All right. Tell me about my weaknesses.”

“One is that you're here, and already in our custody. With no lawyers and no phones. Yours has been disconnected, by the way. The bigger one is this: There's no one back in the States who'll miss you. I've checked. No wife and kids. No mom and dad. No bro and sis. No steady. No rich uncle or doting aunt. Hell, Falk, you're alone in the world except for your employer, and trust me, they'll agree to play along once they know the stakes. As for your girlfriend, she's under house arrest. And your best buddy, well, maybe we can't touch him yet, but if you think he'd lift a finger on your behalf then maybe you really
don't
know what he's up to. But I still think you're playing dumb, and I won't tolerate it.”

Falk shook his head, saying nothing. Fowler continued.

“Okay, then. Let's talk about the Yemenis. Seven of them in all, I believe, all but one signed out by interrogators who withheld their ID numbers. Why'd you authorize that?”

So Fowler had also seen those records, which put his theft for Bo in an entirely new light.

“I never authorized anything, especially not that. I'd like to know who those people are, too.”

“For a Bureau man you're not very good at lying, you know.”

At that moment Falk could see himself as if in a mirror. Or, more apt, as if he were looking at himself through a two-way mirror, from the viewing room of an interrogation booth. He was there on the couch, still dripping wet, face startled, the light a little too bright in his eyes as his weariness began to show. He was hedging his answers and looking off into the corner. He was avoiding eye contact, professing ignorance even as he admitted knowledge.

Fowler was right. Falk was being sloppy and acting stupidly or, worse, acting like a liar. Well, he was done with that now. Time to tighten the ship. He turned and looked Fowler straight in the eye while keeping his hands in his lap. No gestures of evasion or futility. He struck the relaxed pose of a man with nothing to hide, but also nothing to offer—well, nothing except one small item to cover the misstep he'd just made by admitting to knowing about the interrogated Yemenis. From here on out he wouldn't leave a single track for Fowler to follow.

“Look, I checked those sign-in books, too. Just like you must have done. But I did it in the course of the Ludwig investigation. I was checking all the sign-outs done during his watch. A matter of routine. But none of those people were me, and none were authorized by me. I've spoken to probably three of those Yemenis in all, but primarily Adnan. And now he's been removed beyond my access.”

“Ludwig? The soldier who went missing?”

“The soldier who drowned. Then washed up on the Cuban side. You should look into it. Maybe you'd find the tracks of some of your buddies. Van Meter, for one, although you seem to be implying he's no longer on your side.”

Falk knew he had gone too far with the remark, but it would keep Fowler busy for a while.

“Your story doesn't wash,” Fowler said, but no longer with his previous conviction. “We know that you've been after
all
those Yemenis, and we know—repeat,
know
—that you're doing it in tandem with your friend Ted Bokamper.”

“Sorry. You're just wrong.” He held the gaze. Kept his hands folded.

“Then let's move back to more fertile ground. Bokamper. You still haven't filled in the blanks on him.”

Falk was beginning to realize that Fowler wasn't very good at this, so he decided to say nothing more, not because he was protecting anyone—were any of his friends even worthy of protection now?—but because he had no idea which end was up. There was a new dynamic at work, one that he had never encountered before, a new code, a new language even. He spoke Arabic as well as any of the non-Muslims here, but in this strange realm dreamed up by Bo, Fowler, Van Meter, Tyndall, Paco, and yes, perhaps also Pam, what he needed most right now was an interpreter, someone to point out all the loaded words and to separate the treasonous from the loyal, the duplicitous from the straightforward, and, frankly, the murderous from the merely pragmatic.

Until he could speak that language, he was determined to keep his own counsel.

Fowler played one last card, but it was a pretty powerful one.

“I'm going to give you a proposition to consider overnight,” he said. “How would you like to end up inside the wire? Someplace where you would be ours and ours alone? I could make it happen, you know. Put you on the wrong side of the table, and for good. You'd be one of the ghosts, with no sponsor, no advocate, and no one back home to ask whatever happened to old what's-his-name? So think about that tonight while you're trying to sleep. In the meantime, I'll post these MPs out front to keep you safe. Not that there's anywhere to go. In the morning, we'll talk again. And if you're still not in the mood, we can try a little of what General Trabert calls ‘pushing the envelope.' Sleep well.”

Fowler got up to leave, and the two sentries followed. Falk kept his seat on the couch.

Snakes, indeed.