He turned smartly on his heel to lead the way, everyone silently falling into formation.
FALK LEANED ON THE PORT RAIL as the chunky gray ferry plowed through the luminous chop on its twenty-minute crossing. Sternward, the last of the sunlight bled into the hills, and to the north the distant lights of a Cuban village twinkled on the horizon. Only eight passengers were aboard, which left plenty of room to spread out on the steel deck. Bokamper sidled up on Falk’s left.
“Congratulations on the promotion,” Falk said.
“Not sure I’d call it that.”
“Sounded like one when I heard about it from the general.”
“Do I detect an edge?”
“I’m not that hard to get in touch with.”
“Maybe I wanted it to be a surprise. What with this being your old stomping grounds and all that.”
“Yeah. All that.”
Only they would have understood the freight carried by those words, but Falk glanced around anyway to make sure no one else was within earshot. It was the perfect opening for mentioning the letter from Elena that had arrived that morning, but he decided to wait for more privacy.
“The general’s got quite a bedside manner,” Bo said. “Really knows how to put the troops at ease.”
“Figured you guys would hit it off. So what’s with your bunch? Who are these guys, anyway?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
“How ’bout the top. The guy from Homeland Security.”
“Fowler? If I had to pick his three biggest heroes I’d say George Patton, John Madden, and Dale Carnegie. Hit ’em hard, play to win, and always keep the customer satisfied. Bit of a prude, but a true believer.”
“In what?”
“The Mission.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever his boss tells him but doesn’t tell me.”
“But you’re part of the team.”
“Yes and no. Beyond that, I shouldn’t say too much. They’re already worried I’ll spoil the party.”
“Trabert said there would be surprises.”
Bokamper nodded, gazing at the foaming wake. There was no sound but the rumble of the engines, which sent shuddering vibrations up through the deck. Bo tipped his head to the north.
“Those lights. Cuban?”
“Yeah. Caimanera, I think. Maybe some other village. You’ll get used to it. What about the uniform, Neil Cartwright?”
“Fowler’s errand boy. And considering that he’s got the full power of the secretary of defense behind him, he should be a pretty handy errand boy.”
“What’s he like?”
“The quiet type.”
“Meaning dangerous?”
“Or stupid. I don’t know. Could be a cipher, could be the next deputy secretary. Seems like a good enough guy. About as warm as an undertaker, but that comes with the territory. He’s been designated the chief springer of surprises. The one who’ll light the candles on the cake.”
“When’s the party?”
“Soon. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Am I invited?”
“You better hope not. But I haven’t seen the full guest list.”
It was a little too indefinite for comfort, or maybe Bokamper was just teasing, as someone who knew Falk’s weaknesses all too well.
“What else?”
“That’s the extent of my knowledge. I’ve known Fowler for a while, but Cartwright I hadn’t even heard of until yesterday. Met him on the plane.”
Falk raised his eyebrows.
“Like I told you, I’m not an original member of the Brady Bunch here. Last-minute adoption. The boss wanted me to get my feet wet, and this seemed like a good opportunity.”
“Speaking of the Bradys, how are Karen and the kids?”
“Growing up too fast. Karen’s great, volunteering for everything in sight. Turning into a Democrat, but I guess that’s a hazard of living in Bethesda.”
Bokamper had four children and counting, with each seemingly more contentious and rambunctious than the last, just like dear old dad. He was building a big, noisy brood along the lines of the one he’d grown up in. A visit to their home a year ago had been one of the few times when Falk had been tempted by the idea of being married and having children, of settling in one place long enough to watch your seeds grow and flourish while you pruned and weeded and prayed for the grace of the elements.
In visits to the homes of other friends he often glimpsed quarrels and attitude, the dammed-up pressures of overscheduling, or the bitterness of a wife whose career had been trampled in the stampede of child-rearing. He usually departed with relief, taking deep breaths all the way home. After leaving Bo’s he felt only envy, having witnessed that fierceness of love that develops when every turn of fortune is embraced at full energy, both spouses working at close quarters, too busy protecting each other’s flanks to notice any threats to their own.
It was the children’s bedtime ritual that moved him most. Tiny heads poking from pajama tops as they dressed for sleep. A look of complete trust and comfort on their faces as Bo tucked them in. Falk supposed he could have all that, too, if he worked on it, tried harder. But some people weren’t cut out for that life, even if they wanted it.
They talked a while longer about Bo’s kids, until the ferry bumped the pilings at Fisherman Point, engines churning in reverse. Schools of striped fish hovered in the current below, illuminated by the dock lights.
In the neighboring slip, four members of a Coast Guard crew were putting covers on the deck guns of their Boston Whaler, a tidy patrol boat that Falk coveted whenever he saw it zipping nimbly around the bay. With a boat like that you could make a living out here. A woman, tall and blond, toweled sea spray off the biggest gun, a .50-caliber cannon mounted at the bow.
“Got many of those here?” Bokamper asked.
Falk knew he wasn’t referring to the boat or the gun. The family man had never lost his roving eye.
“Not nearly. But if you want to see the entire field, I know the place. You guys had dinner?”
“They catered one for the flight. Not half bad.”
“Meaning not half good.”
“You know me. Palate of a stevedore.”
“When you’re finished unpacking, come down to the Tiki Bar. The place to be and be seen on the Rock.”
“What’s with the transportation? Do we get cars, or is the general going to have us driven everywhere?”
“I’d guess the official line will be that everything’s rented out, which is true. But also convenient.”
“You think he wants to keep tabs on us?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“If I was a nosy, insecure little hard-ass paratrooper like him, yeah, I guess so.”
The boarding ramp thudded onto the shore. The voice of General Trabert piped up as the new arrivals reached for their bags.
“Gentlemen, I’ve got work to complete, so I’ll be taking my leave.” He gestured toward his office at Task Force Guantánamo headquarters—the so-called Pink Palace—which was just above them atop the facing coral bluff. “Your billets are a few miles from here. That’s your bus waiting with the headlights on.”
“First class all the way,” Bokamper muttered.
“Get used to it, soldier,” Falk said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE 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 a
nalysts—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 look
ing 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.”
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 10
