The Prisoner of Guantanamo

by Dan Fesperman

“C’mon, Bo. You’re too old to start being a toady.”

  Then a pause, a few beats longer than necessary. From their long years of acquaintance, Falk knew that something significant was likely to follow.

  “Sorry, but I can’t say more. Doctor’s orders.”

  It was all Falk needed. Bokamper’s longtime benefactor at the State Department was Saul Endler, an aging sachem of high policy who had accumulated so many PhDs that Bo simply referred to him as the Doc. One part Kissinger and two parts alchemist, Endler seemed to get involved only when political conjuring was required and stakes were at their highest. Even then you hardly ever saw his name in the press, except in those obscure journals that published inside accounts months after the fact, in lengthy footnotes that no one but the experts read.

  “Got it,” Falk said.

  “Thought you would.”

  “So you’re not really here for the secretary.”

  “Oh, I’m doing his bidding, all right. Officially, anyhow.”

  “But it’s also some kind of cover?”

  “Officially? Not at all.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “Unofficially? Because I need your help.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “With any number of things. Maybe even the Ludwig matter, depending on where it leads. As for the rest, we’ll both have a better idea by the close of business tomorrow.”

  “Arrests? That’s the rumor.”

  “Just keep your eye on Cartwright.”

  “And what will you be doing? Keeping an eye on Fowler?”

  Bokamper shook his head, not in denial but in apparent refusal to offer anything more.

  “Think OPSEC, Falk.”

  “Very good. You learn fast.”

  But Bokamper’s attention had abruptly moved elsewhere. A look of appreciation creased his brow, an expression Falk had seen often enough to know that a woman must be approaching. Falk was on the verge of turning to make his own appraisal when a hand brushed his shoulder, followed by a familiar voice.

  “Knew I’d find you here. Looks like your new friends have all gone to bed.”

  “All but one,” Bo said, rising to his feet.

  “This is Pam Cobb,” Falk said. “Captain Cobb to you. And this is Ted Bokamper, who’s also here for the sleepover. So watch what you say. He’s very official.”

  “Just as well there are only two of you,” she said. “It gets old being the only woman at a table for six.”

  “From what I’ve seen that’s pretty much the norm.”

  “You told him how the Gitmo rating system works?” she asked Falk.

  “It’s the old ten-point scale,” Falk explained. “Except the moment you step off the plane the rating for every male drops by three, and every female goes up by three.”

  “Which makes you what?” Bokamper said to Pam. “About a twelve?”

  “See, you’re already warped by the inflation. I’m a stateside six and a Gitmo nine, yet I still ended up with this guy,” she said with a smile. Fortunately she no longer seemed peeved by this morning’s news of the perfumed letter. Falk was about to offer to buy her a drink, but saw that she already had her usual, bourbon on the rocks. No umbrella.

  “So what do you do here, besides keeping him in line?” Bo asked.

  “Interrogator. Saudis, mostly.”

  “She’s regular Army. Fluent in Arabic, so they sent her to the Intelligence School at Fort Huachuca.”

  “Ah,” Bokamper said, “a ninety-day wonder. I hear it’s been a struggle for some of you.”

  Falk winced, but Pam seemed to take it in stride.

  “There’s always a learning curve. But you could say that for the pros, too. I’d bet no more than five or six of them had ever dealt directly with Arabic speakers, much less Pashto or Dari, which is most of the Afghans. You could do a whole joke book on some of the cultural blunders.”

  “Except in the case of our friend here, Mr. Arabist,” Bo said. She smiled for the first time since introductions. Falk wanted to seize the common ground and hold it, but Bo was already bolting for the next hill.

  “I wasn’t referring to cultural blunders as much as some of the other horror stories,” Bo said. “Rookies losing control of the interview. Facing their interpreters instead of their subjects. Even being intimidated. I hear some of the hard cases were practically laughing in your faces.”

  “That must have been before I got here.”

  “Maybe so. But what’s up with the sex stuff?”

  “You mean the taunts? The ‘Hey, big boy, how ’bout a good time’ stuff some of the women were told to try out?”

  “I heard it was a little worse. Rubbing their boobs against them. Painting the poor little pious fellows with nail polish and saying it was menstrual blood. Really freaking ’em out.”

  Pam’s cheeks colored. Exactly what Bo intended, if Falk had to guess. It made him a little ashamed of all the times he’d tried for the same effect.

  “That was never my department,” she said tersely. “There was some of that, but it’s been phased out. It was a disaster, which I could have told them after spending ten minutes with these guys.”

  “Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you haven’t batted your eyes now and then. Or wouldn’t if they gave you the right signals. A come-on is a come-on. And if it makes ’em talk, why not?”

  “You’re not shooting for a come-on when you’re trying to become their mom. Or their sister. Even if I did, I’m not into offering blow jobs for a few names in the network.”

  “Easy, sister. Or should I say mom? No need to bring blow jobs into it. I’m just pulling your chain.”

  “And where’d you learn all about interrogation?”

  “Talking to people like this guy. Reading stuff.”

  “A ninety-page wonder. Pretty ballsy coming in here talking like a pro, don’t you think?”

  “‘Ballsy’?” He smiled with apparent relish. Falk cringed in anticipation. “I know you’re military, but you’d be doing yourself a real favor by toning down the tough-gal act just a notch.”

  Falk could tell from Pam’s eyes that the remark stung and that she was itching to strike back with a quick “Fuck off.” But she must have realized that would be playing right into Bo’s hands. So instead she took a deep breath, turned to Falk, and said with forced calm, “Is your friend always such good company?”

  Bo answered first.

  “Falk’s too polite to ever say this in front of me, but you’ve got to take everything I say with a grain of salt. Maybe even a whole box.”

  She didn’t reply, but her nostrils were flared, and a glint in her eye warned that she was still seeking an opening for a counterattack. Awkward as it was to watch his two friends spar, there was another emotion behind Falk’s uneasiness. He’d seen Bokamper get into these sorts of immediate confrontations with other women, and they always led to either lasting enmity or passionate affairs. Neither prospect would promote much happiness in Gitmo’s close quarters. Blessedly, Bo seemed to back off a bit, lowering his shoulders and easing down in his chair. Then, as if reading Falk’s thoughts, he turned to him and said in a stage whisper, “Don’t worry, man, I am married. Besides, I don’t poach.”

  “Did he really just say ‘poach’?” Pam asked. “Unbelievable. So you’ve got an ego to match your big mouth.”

  “Easy,” Bo said, chuckling now. “Don’t take it personally. It’s the way I was trained.”

  “Another Marine?”

  “That, too,” Falk said, “but he’s referring to his family. If you’d met them you’d know. Six brothers and sisters and an argument every minute, with their dad egging ’em on like a pit bull trainer.”

  “Constructive engagement,” Bokamper said. “That’s what Pops called it. He was an old infantry sergeant, and it was his version of the Socratic method. Throw out a topic at dinner and let the offspring rip each other’s lungs out. If you weren’t the biggest mouth you got knocked off the podium. Sort of a verbal king of the hill.”

>   “So did you ever tell your sisters to cut it with the tough-guy act?”

  “Oh, far worse than that.”

  She smiled in spite of herself, then quickly shook her head, as if trying to take it back.

  “So what have you come here to do?”

  “I’m the new liaison to the task force from the secretary of state.”

  “I didn’t ask your title. I asked what you’re doing.”

  “See, you’re getting the hang of it. But mum’s the word. I’ve already told Falk more than I should have, so maybe you should ask him later.”

  Falk was relieved Bo hadn’t used the words “pillow talk,” and felt that the worst was over. A few moments of relative calm seemed to restore the table’s equilibrium, and Falk seized the opportunity to fetch another round from the bar. If he wasn’t around to provide an audience, Bo would probably play nicer, and he was eager for this cease-fire to hold.

  “SO HOW’D YOU GUYS MEET?” Pam asked Bokamper, once Falk was out of earshot.

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing.”

  “But I was first.”

  “I’ll bet you always are.”

  “Do I get an answer?”

  “I was his drill sergeant’s CO. Parris Island.”

  “Not exactly the way most friendships get started.”

  “You got that right. But I was pretty new to the job, and he was fighting us. He needed some help getting over the hump.”

  “A father figure?”

  “No, but that’s what my sergeant kept telling me, only because everybody kept misreading the poor bastard. Falk was such a stubborn cuss they were sure he was never going to make it. Any kind of father act only got his back up. What he needed was a big brother, somebody to teach him how to deal with authority by example, not by layering on more.”

  “Sounds like somebody who’d had enough of his parents.”

  “He ever talk about them?”

  “A couple of drunks, from what I gather. Died when he was in his teens. Pretty bad when your father names you out of spite.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He never told you how he got his name?” Pam’s face flushed with the joy of a minor victory.

  “Sure. He was named for Paul Revere. His dad was a big Red Sox fan pushing for any Boston connection, and his mom had already nixed ‘Yaz.’”

  “That’s part of it. But it also had to do with some Maine connection. It seems that during the Revolution Paul Revere led this disastrous naval expedition up the Penobscot. Lost a bunch of ships and fled through the woods like a coward. So that’s how he was known around Deer Isle, at least among the old-timers. Nice little joke to play on your son, huh? Of course, Falk got that from his mother, so who knows.”

  “Interesting. He told you all that?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I guess he also told you about his engagement?” Her jaw dropped. “Didn’t think so. Don’t worry, it was ages ago. He was barely out of college. Would have been a huge mistake, which I guess finally occurred to him. Ever since then he only seems to get really close to women when he knows he won’t be around for that long. Like during his posting to Yemen during the Cole investigation. Or to Sudan after the embassy bombings.”

  “Or to Gitmo. Not that you were going to say that. How nice of you to warn me.”

  “Not saying it’ll happen to you, of course. But you do know the three most important factors in relationships? Location, location, location. Just like real estate.”

  “So now I’m a piece of waterfront property?” She offered a smile carved in ice. “A perk of the current posting?”

  “Weren’t you the one just telling me about Gitmo’s point system? Another variation on the theme, that’s all. I’m just saying you should keep your options open, because he always has.”

  “Some friend. I thought it was all Semper Fi with you Marines.”

  “Oh, it is. I’d do anything for Falk. Even if he was over there robbing the bartender right now, if I saw an MP raise a gun to shoot him, I’d drop the guy. No hesitation.”

  “That loyal, huh?”

  “Forever and a day.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’ve never been on opposite sides when something really mattered.”

  Before Bo could answer, Falk returned to the table, followed closely by Whitaker, who seemed to have rallied.

  “Was just telling Falk that I’m headed back to the ranch soon, if anyone needs a lift,” Whitaker said.

  “You’ve got a car?” Bokamper asked.

  “Falk and I both. Tell Fowler if he’s a good boy I might let him take her out for a spin.”

  “If you think of it,” Falk said, “turn on my window fan when you get back.”

  “With any luck I won’t need to. Repairman was out this afternoon, two days ahead of schedule. He remembered you from your Marine posting. Said to say hello.”

  Falk’s stomach took a tumble. “You catch his name?”

  “Harry. Which is funny, ’cause I’d have sworn he was Cuban, one of the old commuters. Anyhow, he said to come see him sometime.”

  Falk would be doing just that, he supposed. It now seemed clear that Elena’s message was more urgent than he had thought. But with one soldier dead, arrests in the offing, and a team of Washington snoops on the loose, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Gitmo was still shrinking by the minute.

  The last thing Falk wanted to do after that exchange was to look Bo in the eye, so he turned to Pam, only to detect a smoldering anger. He wondered what Bo had said in his absence.

  “I think I’ll leave you boys to talk about guy stuff,” she said, forcing a smile. “Nice meeting you, Bo.” Her tone was perfunctory, but Bo smiled back.

  Whitaker, oblivious to everything, started in on the subject of Fowler and Cartwright as soon as Pam left. But a few minutes later he, too, called it quits. Falk was inclined to do the same.

  “Need a lift?” he asked Bo.

  “Better not. Looks like the bus is still waiting. That’s probably how Fowler wants to see me arrive home.”

  “Since when did you worry about appearances? This mission must really be serious.”

  “Now if I only knew what the mission was.” He leaned across the table and said in a lowered voice, “We need to talk again. Soon. Someplace with privacy. Voice and otherwise.”

  “Well, now. How ’bout tomorrow after breakfast, a little walk on the beach?”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’ll show you where Ludwig went in.”

  “Even better.”

  “This really is serious, isn’t it?”

  “Tomorrow, Falk. Tomorrow after breakfast.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ADNAN AL-HAMDI had learned to think of himself as a mouse in a burrow, surviving in a desert filled with hawks and snakes. It was a scorched landscape where the white sun never set.

  The hawks were a constant presence, their shadows flitting across his face at perfectly timed intervals, as if they circled to the beat of a drum. The drumbeat was their footsteps, the boot tread of guards relentlessly approaching, then fading in the corridors of Camp 3. Once per minute. Twice per minute. Every hour of every day.

  Sometimes he watched them from his bunk, the mouse buried beneath the sheets with his nose to the air, twitching just enough to take a reading as they passed—talon, beak, and feather cloaked in military camouflage, gun at the ready—a menacing sight, yet harmless as long as he didn’t cry out or stir, the way he often had at first. Careful observation had disclosed a weakness in their bearing. In the place on their uniforms where their names were supposed to appear, there were instead strips of tape. Apparently they, too, feared this place.

  Adnan wasn’t exactly sure how long he had been here, mostly because those first weeks—months perhaps? years even?—were now a blur, only some of which he could remember.

  He had been captured on the battlefield after only a few months in Afghanistan, having departed his homeland with a sense of
zeal and a spirit of adventure. Off to join the jihad. God’s work was calling from across the seas and deserts. He landed in Pakistan, where holy men from the mountains drove him north from Karachi, and then west, across the barren passes. There were not enough guns to go around, and the snow on the ground at higher elevations had shocked him, numbed him. For weeks they did little but wait or march, and then the bombers came. Half of the men were dead within a week. Huge explosions all around, and then a chaotic journey south. A band of Tadjiks picked them up, packed them on a colorful truck, and then shoved them all into a stinking dungeon in the middle of an orange grove, stuck there for weeks until he was hauled out into the sunlight before two men in pressed pants and sunglasses. They spoke on two-way radios and drank water from clear plastic bottles. One spoke some Arabic, but not very well.

  “You are a leader,” the men told him.

  “I am a soldier,” Adnan replied. “A zealot, yes, praise be to God the most holy, but still just a soldier.”

  “No,” they said. “The men who brought you here say you’re a leader, an organizer.”

  Further questions followed. Where did you train? Who paid you? How did you recruit them? They mistook his ignorance for stubbornness, then drove him north, half a day up a valley, another two days in a hot metal crate at the edge of an airstrip, surrounded by mines. They dressed him in an orange jumpsuit, and then blindfolded him and bagged his head like a chicken for beheading, the sack coming down across his face while someone else shackled his wrists and his ankles. He was duckwalked onto an airplane, its engines already roaring, the floor vibrating beneath his feet. Then more shackles as he sat, binding him to the floor. A door slamming, then only darkness and the lift of take-off before a journey of what seemed like days. Swamped in his own vomit and shit and piss as the plane swayed in the cold skies, ever in the roaring darkness. He shivered, crying, but heard only the shrieks of his neighbors inside the hollow metal tube that carried them onward. At one point someone put an apple in his hands, and he was able to strain into position long enough to take a few bites, the flavor and juices overwhelming. But it was too hard to keep eating, bound as he was, and when the plane bounced through some turbulence the apple jostled loose. He felt it roll between his ankles across the floor.