The Prisoner of Guantanamo (33 page)

“I stopped by the old trailer,” Falk said.

Mr. Holman looked puzzled a moment, and then the light of recognition dawned.

“Your dad's old place, you mean. I'd forgotten you lived there, too, it's been so long. Had to give it up when he moved out to the nursing home, of course. But it's better for him there. Gets all his meals. Hell, I expect half his fishing buddies must be there by now. Give me a few more years and who knows?” Then he laughed a little too loud. “But he'll tell you all about it, I expect.”

“Right. I'm sure of it.”

There was only one nursing home on the island, and it was less than half a mile from their old house, just off the highway. The bell jingled as another person came in through the door, a tourist asking when the day's catch would be available for sale. Falk seized the opportunity to begin his retreat.

“See you later, Mr. Holman.”

“Come back and see us, Revere.”

But he realized he had no way to get there unless he wanted to ride seven miles on the bike. So he waited awkwardly by the door while Mr. Holman told the tourist to come back later, when the boats were unloading at the dockside scales.

“By the way, Mr. Holman, hate to ask a favor of you, but my rental car's acting up this morning, and I had to catch a ride into town. Do you think maybe I could … ?”

“Absolutely, son. Take my truck. She's right outside.”

He tossed Falk the keys.

“Don't need her 'til four.”

And by the way he said it, Falk wondered if Mr. Holman had ever believed a word of the tall tales about the glamorous overseas career of Revere Falk.

He climbed in and turned the key, and of course the sound of the engine was like the roar of a small factory, the muffler shot to hell by salt air and hard winters. No wonder everyone here over the age of fifty shouted, after a lifetime of talking over this kind of noise. The throb of the engine worked its way up his spine like Morse code, tapping out a message from all those predawn mornings of his past, chill hours when he had blown on his hands until the engine warmed during their ride down to the harbor.

Falk pulled out of the lot and headed back into town, then turned north on Highway 15. So this was it, he supposed, his stomach feeling light and fluttery, the blood rushing to his fingertips. A meeting for the ages. But what in the hell would he say?

He accelerated, engine grumbling. As he headed north he was so raptly attuned to the unfolding sights that he didn't even notice the dark blue Ford that tucked in behind him just as he was leaving the town.

The Ford soon dropped back, keeping a healthy distance but never quite losing touch.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

J
UST KNOWING THAT
the old man was alive lightened Falk's burden, if only by taking his mind off Gitmo.

Part of him had always figured that by the time he worked up the nerve to return he would find only a headstone. Instead, his father was at this very moment only a few miles up Highway 15, perhaps cackling among old friends in a game room, checking the cards in his hand while awaiting the next deal. Sober, no less.

It was the unspoken implications of Bob Holman's news that were troubling, as if he had been tiptoeing around the edge of something catastrophic. Falk supposed it was possible his father was hooked up to tubes and monitors, with a glazed stare that would comprehend nothing, his son long forgotten.

He pulled into the parking lot beneath a canopy of young trees. The Blue Cove Nursing Home was a one-story brick building with only thirty beds, nonprofit and nothing fancy. Falk presumed that some sort of government money was paying the tab.

He approached a receptionist behind a long counter. At first glance the young woman reminded him of his sister, whom he had last seen when he was eleven and she was eighteen. He gave his father's name, and the woman typed it into a computer while eyeing a blinking screen. When she looked back up, the resemblance was gone and she seemed like any other young woman with dark hair and brown eyes.

“Your name?”

A twinge of doubt. What if the networks started broadcasting his name in this afternoon's newscasts?

“Revere Falk. I'm his son.”

“Oh.” She brightened. “I wasn't aware he had any … well,
anyone.
”

So his dad hadn't continued weaving his little fictions here, apparently. Falk wondered if there would be any photos in the room. She pointed him down a hallway to the right.

“If he's not awake, just ask a nurse to help. Or you can always just wait in the room.”

“Thanks.”

The hall smelled like medicine and half-finished breakfasts, unwashed bedpans and antiseptic cleaners. A wheezing cough came from one doorway, a moan from another. A television seemed to be turned to top volume in every room. The air was stuffy here, as if the heat was on. All these old bones, so easily chilled. By the time he found the room he was back to the precipice of dread.

The door was ajar, so he knocked lightly, and heard sheets stir. An old voice croaked.

“Yes?”

Falk ducked inside and saw a face, vaguely familiar but winnowed to its essentials, skin translucent. He recognized the eyes first—china blue and a little watery—and as he moved closer they bloomed with recognition. Color rose in the old man's cheeks, and the difference was dramatic, as if someone had just boosted his energy by fifty thousand watts.

“Dad?”

The man actually smiled, and a tear formed at the corner of each eye. Or was his father just trying to clear the filmy haze from his field of vision?

“Son? Revere?”

There was a catch in Falk's throat as he spoke again.

“Yeah, Dad. It's me.”

He crossed the linoleum floor on rubber legs, approaching the aluminum rails of the bed. A breathing tube led to the man's nostrils, a second tube dripped clear liquid into his right arm from a suspended bag, and a third tube snaked from beneath the sheets into a plastic bag that was half filled with yellow fluid.

“Son,” his father said, the voice more familiar now. “You must have heard, then.”

“Haven't heard anything, actually. Just decided it was time. Past time, really.”

“Well, I'll be damned, then. I'll be damned.” That weak smile again. His father raised a bony white hand and tried to reach across to him, but couldn't quite clear the railing, so Falk met him halfway, clasping it near the wrist as they grasped awkwardly. The palm was warm, the back of the hand chilly. The skin seemed as brittle as rice paper, as if it might crumble under pressure. At the wrist Falk felt the tiny bounce of his father's pulse. He squeezed at the palm and his father squeezed back. Falk cleared his throat.

“Saw Bob Holman at the co-op. Borrowed his truck to get out here.”

“What? Big fella like you don't own his own car? And to think of all the junk I've been telling 'em.”

“Mr. Holman told me. Living in Europe. Working for the government. Actually you weren't that far off.”

He nodded, as if of course that would be the case.

“You got children?”

“Not married. Like you figured.”

“Where you living?”

“Washington.”

Gitmo was too complicated to explain. Besides, he didn't want to say the word aloud, as if it might make him detectable on some radar.

“Government job?”

“Yeah. FBI.” He had already said too much for his own good. But the old man had earned at least that much of the truth. “I'm a special agent, Dad. I speak Arabic, do a lot of interrogations. I'm pretty much in demand these days.”

“Knew it.” He beamed. “Damn well knew all that reading would pay off. You were too smart to keep going out on the water 'til you drowned.”

If he only knew. But that was a story for later.

“I take it you're not doing much fishing anymore.”

The old man wheezed, the laugh shortly turning to a cough, which he was able to master by bending slightly forward, subduing a rattle deep in his chest.

“Not in years.” He was hoarse again. “You seen the boat?”

“Yesterday, when I got in. Grass is growing up through the hull.”

He nodded, not surprised.

“She hasn't been out since '98. You were right to leave like that, you know, taking off when you did. I was a mess, no help to anybody. I just wish you'd told me later. Just an address, you know? A note to let me know you were okay.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“No.
I'm
sorry.” Then his dad nodded again, an acceptance of the way things were, an absolution, done with a grace and dignity that had always resided in the man, but that Falk had forgotten after witnessing so many moments of rage or stupor.

“So where are Henry and Lucy?” Falk asked. It felt strange saying the names of his brother and sister, as if they were speaking of the long dead, or quoting some tale of ancient history. His father shook his head, and the tears came in earnest now, rolling slowly down the stretched cheeks.

“Don't know, son. All of 'em's gone. Your brother, your sister, your ma. Drove 'em all away, me and my drinking. You're the only one that's ever come back.”

“It's okay, Dad. I'm not leaving again. Not for good anymore.”

Falk reached across the railing and took hold of his hand again. The old man seemed to settle back against his pillow.

“I tried. I know you never thought I did, but I did try. Just never hard enough.”

“I know, Dad. It's okay. All that's over now.”

His father nodded, sinking deeper into the pillow, now that they were both absolved. A certain ease crept into his features. He squeezed Falk's hand, then relaxed his grip.

“So how long have you been in this place?”

“Oh. Three years, a little longer. They'd know for sure out front. Wasn't so bad for a while. But once I stopped walking, well … things haven't been too good lately, is all. And the weight, I'm practically down to nothing.” Then he grinned inexplicably. “You know, when I was born, the doctor out here used to charge for his deliveries by the pound. My mother always used to complain about it, because she said I was an eight-pounder, so I was extra. Maybe if they charged by the pound here I could save the state some money?”

The laugh returned, and with it the slight wheeze. But he never took his eyes off Falk, and Falk was pretty sure he knew why.

“You're dying, aren't you?”

He nodded, no tears this time, the mariner facing the storm head on.

“Bob tell you that?”

“Didn't need to.”

“Cancer. They say it's moving pretty fast. They don't figure it will be too much longer.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Falk.” They both looked up in answer to the nurse's voice, but she had come for his dad, strolling into the room with a rustle of white cotton.

“Oh, you've got a visitor today! How nice. Sorry to interrupt, but it's time for your bath and your medication.”

“This is my son, Revere. Works for the FBI, so watch yourself.”

Falk smiled, glad to have supplied him with one little boast for the day.

“I'll come back later,” he said, as the nurse wheeled the bed from the room while an orderly towed the IV stands. Entering the hallway they looked like attendants to a barge headed slowly down a river.

“Make it tomorrow,” his father said. “I won't be worth too much by the time they're done with me.”

The nurse nodded knowingly from the opposite side of the bed, affirming the wisdom of his father's advice.

“Okay, then,” he answered. But by that time the wheels of the bed were clattering down the hall.

Falk strolled numbly back to the reception desk, not quite convinced the moment was real. He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the bed disappear around the far corner. Then he swallowed hard, collecting himself. He was already wondering how he would pass the time until tomorrow morning, and he stopped at the desk to leave the name of his B&B in case they needed to reach him. The receptionist looked up, as if she'd almost forgotten something, and said, “Oh, and Mr. Falk, there's a man here in the lobby to see you.”

“To see
me
?”

“Yes, sir, right over there.” She pointed shyly, as if it were impolite, keeping her hand below the counter, but Falk didn't dare turn around. Maybe he should say he'd forgotten something and head straight back down the hallway. Climb out the window of his father's empty room. Peel back yet another screen to dash off into the woods. Steal yet another boat to strike out for God knows where. Isle au Haut, maybe, or Swans Island. But what would be the point, now that they had him in their sights?

So instead he took a deep breath, turned, and saw the round face of Paco looking up from a magazine, smiling like a mischievous old friend.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

W
E ARE BOTH, AS
they say in your military, absent without leave, yes?”

“I can only speak for myself,” Falk said. “But how did you know where to … ?”

“Please.” Paco thrust out a hand like a traffic cop. “Don't ask me to reveal trade secrets. And let's order some food. It would be uncivilized to discuss these matters on an empty stomach.”

They were seated in a corner booth at the Fisherman's Friend. Paco had insisted on buying lunch before “doing any business,” as he put it. He had then climbed into his rented Ford and followed Bob Holman's noisy truck back into Stonington.

On the way Falk decided that Harry must have tipped the Cubans to his escape. So much for keeping a lid on gossip at the base. But how had Paco known he would come here? And if a Cuban in Miami could figure it out, then surely the Americans would.

They were sprawled across the booth's vinyl seats like two laborers on lunch hour when a waitress approached with pen and pad.

“Aren't fried clams supposed to be good?” Paco asked, chattering away as if he did this all the time. His mood was contagious, and Falk decided to enjoy it while he could.

“That or the lobster roll. Can't miss, either way.”

“The clams, then.” Paco snapped shut the menu.

“Make it two.”

Unreal. First, a conversation with his dying father whom he hadn't seen in twenty years. Now a chatty lunch with the little Cuban who had turned his life inside out.

“It must have been nice growing up here.”

“We didn't eat like this very often.”

“I mean the forests, the coastline. It's very beautiful. But I guess the winters can be pretty bad.”

“Sometimes it was pretty bad all year long.”

Paco mulled that a moment.

“Is that why you lied to the Marine recruiter and told him you were an orphan?”

“Please. Don't ask me to reveal trade secrets.”

Paco smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

“So what do you want from me?” Falk asked.

Paco first took a long sip of iced tea.

“I think that is a question we should both be asking, because we are in position to help each other.”

“Help each other? My next stop might be Canada. After that, who knows? But if you're on the run, too, maybe you'd like to come along.”

“No. No more running. I meant help so we can both stay. Do you remember our conversation on the boat? Giving a little to get a little?”

“Yes.”

“That would be a good start. Except this time you would go first.”

“I seem to recall going first last time. Maybe you could start it off by telling me a little more about who you're working for.”

“Since yesterday? The day I came home to find a couple of spooks from Havana snooping around my apartment? Since then I have been working for myself. I am a Nation of One. But you're certainly welcome to apply for citizenship.”

Somehow, Falk believed him. Maybe because Paco's concept of nationhood sounded all too familiar, not just with regard to himself but everyone he had been working with at Gitmo—an entire archipelago of entrepreneurs in business mostly for themselves; a struggle of agency versus agency, plotter against plotter, and may the best scoundrel win.

“Okay, then,” he answered at last, biting into a fried clam. A juicy bouquet of brine and grease spurted sweetly onto his tongue. “I'll play along. Let's start with a week ago last Wednesday, with that Yemeni you wanted me to take care of, Adnan al-Hamdi.”

Paco nodded.

“You're right,” he said. “These clams are great. Go ahead, I'm listening.”

Falk told his story of the past ten days, while Paco supplied intriguing details from his own perspective along the way. Once or twice it occurred to Falk that maybe Paco wasn't really on the run; maybe he was still working for the Cubans. But Falk didn't care anymore. It was a relief to get the story out in the open and off his chest. And by the time they had polished off the clams, some fries, and a couple of huge wedges of pie—Falk had coconut cream, Paco apple—he had come to a firm conclusion about their unlikely alliance.

“I've decided,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “that we've both lost our minds.”

“You may be right. But there is also the possibility that we have both come to our senses.”

“I like your version better, but I'm not convinced.”

“A very rational response. Which only goes to support my position.”

At that point they had little choice but to laugh and pay the bill, Falk leaving the tip while Paco went to the register. He wasn't yet sure what to make of this, other than to be relieved that he now had an ally—or a partner in crime, as the case may be.

Confessionals completed, they left their vehicles in the parking lot and walked down to the wharf while discussing their next move. They set off on School Street, moving downhill into town. It was sunny, with a crisp blue sky and temperatures already in the high seventies, but Paco, a creature of the Caribbean, rubbed his bare arms as if to ward off a chill. Falk, on the other hand, was already comfortable here, a chameleon changing back from tropical turquoise to a cool northern blue.

“They'll find you—or us, I guess—within a couple of days, you know,” Paco said. “Our people in Jamaica say that federal agents were all over the docks in some place called Port Antonio. They impounded a fishing boat with a Haitian registry, then started talking to cabdrivers and hoteliers.”

“When was this?”

The news shook him up, although he supposed he shouldn't be surprised.

“Yesterday. Midafternoon.”

“They must have found the Navy's boat over in Haiti. Poor old guy. I guess by now they'll have my cover name.”

“Ned Morris of Manchester?”

“Thanks for that, by the way. How'd you know I'd need it?”

“I didn't. It just seemed like a worthy precaution, considering where you were and what you knew.”

“So you've been in touch with Havana. What happened to the Nation of One?”

“Only with my boss. The one man I still trust. I called and left a message on a beeper in New Jersey, and he actually called back on an unsecured line. That should tell you all you need to know about how desperate he is. He'll protect me as long as he can.”

“And how long will that be?”

“A day or two. Then the ones on the fringes will come looking for me.”

“What will you do then?”

“My boss thinks I should turn myself in. ‘Defect' would be the operative term. He thinks that's the one way to stop this mess that's brewing. Warn your people about the ‘cabal,' as you called it. These people on both sides who are so eager to bring on a little scrap.”

“Insane.”

“It's what always happens when both sides are sure they will win.”

“Then maybe we should both go to Canada. But we'll have to take your car. Take Holman's truck and we'll be deaf by the time we reach the border.”

“Running isn't the answer,” Paco said. “Between the two of us, we have the one thing everyone wants most.”

“Information?”

“And not just about your Arab friend. About everybody who has become part of this, on both sides.”

“According to my supposed friend Ted Bokamper, it's not having the information that's important, it's having it first and then spinning it the way you want.”

“He's right. Which is why we have to act now. But we'll need a paper and pencil.”

“For what?”

“To compose an e-mail. One for a large viewing audience. Or a small one, if you prefer. You will be the best judge of who can make the best use of it. But it has to be foolproof, with no holes, no gaps. As of right now we are the only ones who know everything, and that's our ticket out of this. Our means of international recognition for our Nation of Two.”

“I've got a notebook at the B&B. We could work on it there.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Reaching the bottom of the hill, they turned right on Main Street along the waterfront. By now the tourist traffic was picking up, and Paco seemed to be enjoying himself, peeking in shop windows and smiling at passersby. Halfway down the block Falk stopped, and put out a hand to stop his companion.

“They're here,” he said. “Look.”

A black Chevy Suburban was parked in front of the B&B.

“Now there's a giveaway,” said Paco, all too familiar with the driving preferences of federal agents. “Look. A man on the porch, talking to the innkeeper.”

“And the hell of it is they're almost certainly FBI, probably out of Bangor. Let's get our cars.”

“You want some advice? Let the professional take over. I'm used to dealing with your people from the other side. Do as I tell you and we'll make it out of here.”

Another insane twist of events. Letting the Cuban run the show so he could duck colleagues who had been trained the same way as Falk.

“Lead the way.”

“The first thing we need to do is get you off the street. We might not even make it back to the cars before they start cruising. For all we know they already have a description of your truck.”

They turned steeply back uphill, Paco in better shape than Falk would have guessed. One of the first places they passed was the town's barnlike Opera House. A narrow alley ran down the right side, just wide enough for a car.

“Go down there and wait,” Paco said, glancing around. “Stay behind the back of the building. I'll bring the car down the alley to get you. If it doesn't look good, take off, and do what you can. But we'll need a fallback.”

“The library,” Falk said without hesitating.

“On Main Street?”

“Not in Stonington. In Deer Isle, six miles north on 15.”

“Good. Out of town completely. We'll make a real pro of you yet. But one question. How would you get there?”

“I'm local. I'll find a way.”

It was good enough for Paco, who nodded and took off up the hill. Falk headed down the alley, but his luck almost immediately ran out. No sooner had he rounded the corner at the end of the building than a stage door opened, and three laughing teens in black jeans and T-shirts poured into the small lot. They heaved boxes onto the bed of a pickup, then one of them propped open the stage door and shouted, “Okay, load her up.”

It was obvious they would be there a while, and one was already giving Falk a funny look, as if wondering why a grown man was lurking here in the middle of the day. If they saw him get into the Ford they'd have a description of the car, and perhaps also its driver, so Falk walked back the way he'd come. With any luck he would catch Paco driving down the hill.

But he had barely turned around when the hood of the black Suburban nosed into view at the end of the alley. He ducked quickly behind a Dumpster, then watched the big vehicle creep uphill. Paco was right. If Falk had stayed on the streets a minute longer they'd have caught him. The driver was a woman, meaning the man they'd seen at the B&B was probably making the rounds on foot. He wondered if they had reinforcements, or local help. Whatever the case, Falk didn't dare go uphill now. Nor was he letting the kids behind the Opera House get another look at him.

He took off downhill and then turned left in order to avoid Main Street. He was on a driveway that led to a row of B&Bs. Maybe by cutting across a few lots he could work his way to Highway 15, then hitch a ride. No, he'd be a sitting duck. Better to stop somewhere first and calm down, plan his next move. Although if the agent on foot was going door-to-door, he'd still be trapped.

A woman's voice called out from behind.

“Revere? Revere Falk?”

Shit. It was over.

Bracing himself to run, he turned to see the old classmate he'd recognized the night before at dinner, the one with three kids and a few extra pounds, and now her name came to him like a benediction.

“Jenny? Jenny Kinlaw?”

“I'll be damned. You do remember. I thought you were eyeing me last night, but with Jeffrey running wild I never had time to come say hi.”

“It's been a long time.” He glanced past her, feeling the need to get out of sight.

“Tell me about it. But you look great. Where you living now?”

“Washington.”

“Ooh. Sounds important.”

“Not really. What about you?” He had to get moving. An idea popped into his head.

“I'm right up the hill here, behind my mom's B&B. Was just on my way home. Two more hours of freedom before day care lets out.”

“Jenny, I know this will sound weird all of a sudden like this, but I'm in kind of a bind. My car's in the shop and I'm supposed to be meeting someone out at the library in Deer Isle in about five minutes, and was wondering …”

“If I could give you a ride? Sure.” Something in her eager tone suggested she was taking this as a come-on, but in any event it had worked. Her red pickup was just down the lane, and he climbed in with a sigh of relief, while hoping he wouldn't have to duck under the dashboard if the Suburban passed.

“So,are you married?” Jenny asked as they turned north on Highway 15.

“No. Guess I don't have to ask you that, huh?”

“Well, you do now. Divorced two months now.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don't be. Steve was a rat.”

“Okay.”

“I put the kids to bed around nine, if you want to come by later.”

“Sure.” Anything for a ride, as long as he could last another four miles. Maybe by then they'd be engaged. But she seemed to sense his nervousness, and perhaps she attributed it to her forwardness. Whatever the case, she steered the conversation back to small talk, and filled him in on the fortunes and misfortunes of classmates he hadn't seen in twenty years. When she ran out of names, she zeroed back in on Falk.