by Fritz Galt
Harry paused a moment. What terrorist links? Had the military really found him on an al-Qaeda ship as Caleb Perkins had said?
“You can’t be serious,” he said.
“Oh yes,” the lieutenant colonel said. “We’re very serious.”
“Then let me at him. I’ll find out what you need to know.”
Rodriguez wavered, but held firm. “I’ll have to order you to stand down until further notice. You won’t interrogate the detainee today.”
Harry glared at the man who stood flat-footed, a huge obstacle to his plans to obtain a deposition.
Was the Pentagon onto him? And what was with the terrorism links and treason charges? Everybody knew that Cooper was just a glorified accountant.
“I’ll go back to my quarters and wait this one out,” he said at last. “But I am not a patient man.”
He left his mobile phone number with the sergeant. “Here’s my office number. Call me as soon as I can go to work on the prisoner.”
The two men watched him leave the office in a huff, their faces a blank wall.
As he stormed down the paved road back to the guard booth, Harry wondered if he had played it all wrong. He had come to Guantánamo expecting to find dusty cages and prisoners with heatstroke under 24-hour arc lights. Instead he found air-conditioned cellblocks, recreation areas, paved streets and traffic lights. Interrogators probably even read prisoners their Miranda rights these days. His bluster seemed out of step with the times.
Was the war on terrorism being waged by lawyers in pinstripes?
Like his dinner, Sean’s lunch was also on the dry side, but the quiche did offer a robust mixture of cheeses. He did note the lack of ham, but considering that most prisoners were Muslim, it was understandable. The chef had done a wonderful job of substituting pepper and other fresh vegetables. And the flakey crust was nothing short of superb.
Eating with a plastic spoon, however, did detract.
He pushed the tray aside when he was finished and turned to the dense crisscross pattern of wires that formed his window.
Were they going to hold him there forever? So far, nobody had come to see him. He had not even seen an officer. Did anyone in the outside world know he was there?
As he studied the deep blue sky, his mind turned to thoughts of freedom. Say he was released from prison. Say he spoke before a special prosecutor, then an impeachment committee, and the press finally left him alone to start a new life. How could he get back to China? He had no money.
His money in the Caymans was no longer flowing into his VISA account. His luggage was presumably still waiting by the taxi stand at the resort in Hainan. Without his papers, he wasn’t even sure what his bank account number was. Only what’s-his-name, the State Department officer might know that.
The name “Merle Stevens” came back to him. Merle could help him, but Merle could hurt him, too. That was it! The only person who could have possibly cleaned out his account was someone who knew the secret account number. And that was Merle!
How could that angel of mercy, who had helped him through trying times in Beijing as his family was swallowed up by a SARS ward, have done such a slimy thing to him?
He remembered back to Nigerian con games whereby unwitting dupes transferred their money into the conmen’s bank accounts thinking they were participating in a get-rich-quick scheme.
How could he have fallen for that?
Or was there more to it than that? From the moment he had met Merle, his life had gone into a death spiral. From his desperation to his family’s supposed death, to his life on the run, to his sudden financial ruin, Merle had been there coaching him every step of the way, guiding him through unfamiliar shoals and offering shady financial advice.
Had Merle set him up and made him disappear? Had Merle taken his family?
Merle had magically appeared at the airport as his family was whisked away, conveniently leaving him behind. Merle had used his position to obtain news from hospitals about his family. Merle had handed him their remains. Merle had moved to Shanghai where he was trying to start a new life. Merle had given him a secret account in which he could stash his own money.
He had set Sean up! But maybe not just for the money. Was something more involved?
Perhaps Merle was leading him astray for some darker purpose. Maybe he wanted him to be on the run, to disappear from the scrutiny of the media and the Chinagate special prosecutor. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Merle was a government agent trying to make him disappear. And Merle had held his hand throughout the entire process. How could Sean have been so gullible?
The prison guard was just entering the cellblock to collect the remains of his lunch. Sean angrily shoved his tray out the slot.
The young soldier didn’t leave until he had picked through the remains to account for everything.
If Merle was trying to railroad him into a life on the run, he had succeeded. However, people like Sandi, the lawyer in Hainan and on the radio in Manila, were busy trying to track him down. She wasn’t trying to hide him from the public eye, like Merle was. Instead, she was trying to bring him out into the open. And that was just what he needed, someone to hear the tiny voice locked away inside the iron cage at Guantánamo Bay.
Then he remembered Sandi’s business card that he had carried in his wallet. She had been reaching out to him.
He stood up irately and addressed the MP. “Don’t I have a right to an attorney?”
“Do you see any lawyers walking around here?”
“I’m not trying to be funny. Don’t all prisoners get at least one phone call?”
The MP merely laughed. “They barely even let me make phone calls from here.”
“Well, tell your superior,” Sean said, his voice trembling. “I want to make a phone call.”
Where was his wallet with the business card? Oh yes, the guards had taken that with his fake passport and the rest of his clothes. His fake passport!
Oh, God. This didn’t look good.
Okay, concentrate. Without the business card, he’d have to recall the number by heart. It had a lot of sixes and ones in it.
As the guard’s boots padded down the cellblock, he closed his eyes and tried to visualize the number on her card.
Chapter 26
So Sean Cooper wanted to make a phone call.
Lieutenant Colonel Rodriguez, the Commandant of Camp Delta, had to chuckle when the guard relayed the prisoner’s request.
Not long after Rodriguez dismissed the guard, however, he got to thinking. Was he denying the prisoner a right “consistent with the spirit of the Geneva conventions?”
He’d have to check with the legal shop.
Within a minute he was on the line to Ivan Nemroff at the General Counsel’s office at the Pentagon.
Before relaying Sean Cooper’ request, he needed some guidance on what to do with the interrogator on special assignment for the Pentagon.
Ivan’s voice conveyed an expansive mood, as if he had just enjoyed great sex with a terrific broad. “What interrogator?”
“His name is Harry Black.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a private contractor, former marine. What’s he doing interviewing prisoners?”
“I’ve never met him before,” Rodriguez said. “But he talks tough. And Intelligence has been running short of interrogators lately.”
“Actually, this could be good. Let Harry talk to the prisoner, only I want you to tape record their meeting. I want to hear what both men have to say.”
“I doubt if Harry Black has much to say,” Rodriguez said. “He’s from the old school of hooking people up to car batteries and the like.”
“Maybe so, but you know about contractors. I want to make sure he’s looking out for our best interests. So send me the tape.”
“Sir, ever since Iraq, we don’t allow cameras or any other kind of recording equipment in cell blocks.”
“Then find some place else where they can talk and you can record
them,” Ivan suggested.
That sounded reasonable enough. Camp Echo came to mind, a set of buildings where prisoners could talk to their attorneys just before being sent to a tribunal. He’d have to get his electronics security team to rig up some unobtrusive eavesdropping there.
“And I’ve got another question,” Rodriguez continued. “The detainee has expressed a desire to make a phone call.”
“What else does he want? Television?”
“I know, sir. It sounds funny. But I just want to adhere to our policy, so I’m relaying his request to you.”
“Let him make it.”
“What?”
“Let him make the call, but listen in. I’d be interested to learn who the detainee calls and what they discuss.”
Lieutenant Colonel Rodriguez sucked in his breath. These Pentagon types certainly played hardball.
“Roger that, sir. I’ll send you a tape.”
He set down the receiver. Now he was going to tap his own phones.
His stomach was growling, but before heading off to lunch, he spent fifteen minutes discussing eavesdropping arrangements with his engineers. It was fascinating to hear how they could make use of the limited materials they had on hand. They were simply going to install the web cam from the Internet café in a knothole in the ceiling of Camp Echo’s visitation room. As for the telephone bug, they would simply tape record the conversation on an extension line unbeknownst to Cooper.
Satisfied that all would work according to plan, he pulled Harry Black’s mobile phone number closer and dialed him. He would let Harry interrogate the prisoner that afternoon.
If the Pentagon were going to put up roadblocks, then Sandi would have to approach Sean Cooper from a different direction. Say, the White House.
Sitting in her car with the engine idling and the heater on full blast, Sandi tugged off her ski cap, rubbed some feeling back into her raw cheeks and headed downtown to the YMCA for a quick shower and to change into her business attire.
She shifted her car into reverse and spun the tires on the icy parking lot. Pulling into the flow of cars that crept cautiously down the slick parkway, she tried to visualize Lori Crawford.
At Columbia, she and Lori had attended many of the same history classes, even competing head to head with her on grades. Beginning college as serious students, Lori and Sandi were cut from the same cloth, and the two attended movies and explored the city together, methodically selecting a different district each weekend.
But one fall term, Lori had returned from a wild summer love affair, and the prim, bespectacled scholar had undergone a magical transformation. For one thing, Lori had let her hair grow out into a bushy frizz. Her clothes changed dramatically from the embroidered blouses, argyle sweaters and pleated skirts to men’s shirts and vests and baggy trousers. She hung around guys and even lit up a cigarette on occasion.
From that point on, competition increased between them, driving each to spend more time flirting with different boys than studying with each other. But it had always been a low-key rivalry, and Sandi owed much to her friend for drawing her out into the social scene, where she had remained stuck, spinning her wheels, to that very day.
Now Lori had raised the bar considerably. Marrying the President of the United States took their competition to a whole new level.
Pulling into a public garage down the street from the YMCA, Sandi reflected on how Lori’s life was changing from paying parking lot attendants to whistling for the chauffeur. It was a life she could get used to, herself.
She slogged down the sidewalk, her gym bag drooping from one hand. She hadn’t talked with Lori Crawford in several years. Thinking back, it might have been as long ago as the Commencement Exercises at Columbia’s Low Library.
How could she let so much water go under the bridge? Was she as fickle with her female friends as she was with her male friends? She didn’t have many lifelong pals to draw upon if she ever did have a wedding. Her empty half of the church would be a sad sight indeed.
She pushed into the front door of the public-smelling YMCA and headed upstairs to the locker room. A quick shower would put things right. And for a while, the hot steam soaked her skin and soothed her soul.
She returned to her locker and slowly drew on her panties and stockings. She reached into her bag for her bra and felt the phone. Damn it, she needed to call Lori and get back in touch. If not for the sake of Sean Cooper, then at least for the sake of their friendship.
She checked the number on the RSVP line of the invitation and punched it in.
“This is the White House. How may I help you?”
Lori already had a telephone receptionist.
“I’m trying to reach Lori Crawford to accept her wedding invitation.”
“One moment please…”
It didn’t take long for Lori to pick up the phone. “This is Lori.”
An unexpectedly sweet voice floated over the line, summoning back Sandi’s memories of her college years—her days spent with Lori loafing around art galleries in SoHo, looking for John Lennon’s apartment building, exploring the hidden chambers of St. John’s Cathedral. From the soft, girlish sound of her voice, Lori had either regressed all the way back to freshman year, or purposely jettisoned the sultry sound for that of the ingénue.
“Hi Lori, it’s me, Sandi.”
“Sandi! I was hoping you would call. Where are you?”
Sandi looked around her. She was sitting half-naked in an empty locker room, while the rest of the world was at work.
“I’m here in DC.” That was as specific as she would get. “And I understand that you’re getting married.”
“Isn’t that so exciting?” She could have sounded stuck-up or flighty, but she didn’t, and that was appealing.
Sandi picked at her fingernails. Was it too early in their reunion to take advantage of Lori? What the hell…
“Say,” Sandi said, as if on a whim. “Would you like to get together and talk?” She held her breath.
“I sure would, but I hope you don’t try to give me wedding advice,” Lori said. “I’m getting it from all sides, all the way from my Mom to Dear Abby.”
“Hardly. I’m the last one to talk about marriage. I live in self-imposed spinsterhood.”
“Good. Then why don’t you come over here for lunch?”
Sandi nearly dropped the phone.
“Here? As in the White House?”
“Sure. We’ve got lots of great food.”
Sandi let out her breath. “Why not? That would be great.”
She turned off her phone, slid on her watch and checked the time. She had just enough time to drop by the Edward Bennett Williams Law Library at Georgetown and pick up a few books on military tribunals.
She couldn’t get over the feeling that it was just like old times. Hitting the books and having lunch with her old buddy Lori Crawford.
Harry was looking over the abundant, but mediocre, buffet offering at the battalion-sized mess hall when his mobile phone rang.
It was Lieutenant Colonel Rodriguez from Camp Delta.
“Word just came down from Washington,” Rodriguez said. “In their infinite wisdom, the Pentagon has authorized you to interrogate the prisoner. “
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You will report this afternoon at 15:00 hours to Camp Echo.”
“Roger that,” Harry said.
Lieutenant Colonel Rodriguez went on. “You are not permitted to bring a camera, video recorder, tape recorder, writing instrument or any other recording device, electronic or otherwise. Do I make myself clear?”
“I am here to elicit information from him.”
The commandant stood firm. “No recording. No writing.”
“Fine. Have it your way. And when will you allow my men here to assist me?”
“I haven’t determined if and when they can gain access to the base. If they show up, they show up. Comprendo?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
&nbs
p; He clicked his phone off, mystified. Maybe his bluster had gotten through to the commandant after all.
But how do you take down a deposition without a pen?
Sandi walked the short distance from a cab to the White House for lunch with Lori. Police restrained loud protestors who were hurling abuse at the White House from behind a barricade across the new, brown, crushed rock pedestrian plaza that covered the stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue between 15th and 17th Streets.
When she was just steps from the White House gate, her cell phone rang.
Distracted, she picked it up.
“This is Sean Cooper.”
“What? I’m sorry. I’m at the White House and I can’t hear you.” She hustled behind a quaint old light post that could shield her call from the noisy protesters. “Sean?”
“I’m calling from a prison cell, and I want to report to the authorities that I was set up.”
“Set up? By whom?”
“By an American diplomat in Shanghai named Merle.”
“Merle Stevens? I know him.”
“These guys aren’t playing fair,” Sean said. “I don’t even have the right to an attorney.”
“No kidding. You’ve been denied your Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Amendment rights.”
It was amazing that Sean had called her at all, after she’d spent all morning searching for some legal means to reach him. Had he been sprung free?
“Aren’t you still in the military prison at Guantánamo?”
“Yeah. The MPs let me make this one call. I don’t know who you really work for, but I decided that you could help me the most. Actually, you’re the only one I can turn to.”
“Well, you called the right person. Now I want you to listen to me carefully. I have some good news to tell you. Your wife and kids are still alive. They never died from SARS. Merle Stevens told me that they are being held against their will somewhere in China.”
