Falk didn’t want to hand it over, but by now they were at the security gate at the mouth of the concourse, and the man was gesturing for him to place it onto the conveyor belt.
Almost before he knew it, the plane was taking off. Falk scanned the ticket again and saw that the price was about three times what he’d actually paid. A special deal, Paco had said. En route he began expecting the worst. He was certain there would be a welcoming party from the Cuban Army—Falk led away in handcuffs while the flashbulbs popped for the Commie newspapers. Castro’s prize Marine, bagged like a chump.
But there was nothing of the sort, and by the time the taxi reached the hotel he had begun to relax. Sure, it was a shady arrangement, doubtless involving kickbacks and bribes. There would probably be extra charges from the hotel now that they had a captive audience. So what? He had already seen other Americans here, along with about half of Europe. None of them were talking about Castro, and none seemed the least bit troubled.
As he strolled around town he occasionally got a creepy feeling that someone was following, but otherwise he had a fine time despite the terrible food, which reminded him of Marine chow. Instead of local fare, all the hotels and restaurants offered a bland version of Anglo cuisine.
He quickly got used to being called Mr. Morris. It seemed to fit with the methods he had used for shedding his family. Just put a few words on an official document and they magically came true. What better way to hide yourself? He decided he could be quite comfortable being Ned Morris for a while.
Then he met Elena. He smiled at her at breakfast from a few tables away, and that seemed to be the end of it, because the next time he looked up she was gone. He was disappointed at first, thinking he had been onto something. But that night at the Amigo Club he saw her walk by while he was speaking pidgin French to a reasonably attractive woman who had been speaking pidgin English. There was that smile again as she headed for the bar. A few moments later she passed in the other direction.
“’Scusé moi,” he offered clumsily to the Frenchwoman, then muttered something about “visiting the loo,” figuring that from time to time he ought to sound British.
He found her at a corner table with two friends. No dates in sight. Her English was basic, but seemed to get better the more she practiced. He bought her a drink. They danced. Her face tilted toward his, full of promise, her perfume like something that a blossom offered to the night air after a full day in sunshine. She moved against him on the dance floor, a perfect fit. When they returned to the table her friends were gone.
Later, in his room, the possibility that a camera might be behind the mirror never occurred to Falk, nor did it for any of the next five nights, all of which they spent together. He would not learn of that little trick until the photos arrived a month later, by which time she had already convinced him of her sincerity with letters sent via relatives in Puerto Rico. She said that she worried that anything mailed directly from Cuba might get him into trouble.
She did not write to Ned Morris, of course. Because by the third night Falk had been smitten enough to confess all and to tell her his real name.
Elena, too, eventually confessed her duplicity, although not until months later, in a letter stained with her tears. So she said. But by that time the damage was done. The photos had arrived, wrapped inside a typewritten letter posted from New Jersey—sent by pals of Paco’s, Falk presumed. It included blunt instructions that Falk should visit Gitmo’s machine shop next time he was in the neighborhood—after destroying this letter, of course. Failure to comply would result in copies of the photos being sent to Falk’s commanding officer, along with a photostat of Ned Morris’s passport.
That was when he met “Harry,” the commuting handyman extraordinaire, a Cuban who came to work each day from his home in Guantánamo City. Harry set up a schedule for once-a-month verbal reports. The Cubans never asked Falk for much, and he often wondered why they bothered. Everything he told them they doubtless already knew. Perhaps someone in Havana simply liked being able to say he had an insider at Gitmo. He forwarded small items about ship arrivals, base scuttlebutt about transfers and troop strength, all of which they could see for themselves from their watchtowers. Just as well. This way he needn’t feel guilty. Well, not too much. At least not for a while. Because by the third month his conscience got the better of him, and he decided to come clean.
The last person he would have told was his sergeant. No sense in rewarding the very man whose practical joke had helped push Falk over the line. Instead he shelled out for a long-distance call to Ted Bokamper, who by then was an up-and-coming young star at the Department of State, already working for one of the better-connected undersecretaries.
“We have to meet next time I’m stateside,” Falk said. “I have some information that might help you, depending on what your boss thinks of it.”
He didn’t say more because even then OPSEC was a concern, although it went by a different name. A month later they met at Bo’s house in Alexandria, his first kids already crawling on the wall-to-wall carpet. Bo took the news calmly enough, and they agreed to discuss it with his chief, Saul Endler, who Bo said had long-standing connections to the intelligence community.
They spoke briefly at the office, Endler maintaining a poker face and offering little comment. Then they reconvened the next night at Endler’s town house in Georgetown, discussing their next move between wall-to-wall bookshelves while Stravinsky played at a discreet volume on very pricey speakers and Mrs. Endler served them iced tumblers of bourbon.
“Latin America and the Caribbean are a special part of my bailiwick,” Endler explained, “and Cuba is my particular passion, so I can certainly understand how it so quickly became yours.”
He relayed all this in the calm, superior manner of a professor who has agreed to extend office hours, just this once, for a wayward scholar. The words “betrayal,” “treason,” and “espionage” never came up. Between those tactful omissions and the bottomless supply of food and drink, Falk was soon hanging on the man’s every word. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Ned Morris might have said.
“Let’s play them a bit longer, and you can start reporting directly to me,” Endler proposed, pleasantly making it sound as if the whole arrangement with the Cubans had been Falk’s idea. Then he poured a final round of bourbon, one for the road. Falk sensed the guilt lifting from his shoulders along with his sobriety. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that a flushed Bo was beaming. Perhaps the intimacy of the occasion signaled some sort of ascension for him, up another rung on the Foreign Service ladder.
Well, if so, what were friends for?
“Will you tell anyone else?” Falk asked. It was the last worrisome question on the checklist of his conscience.
“Based on what I’ve heard, there’s really no need. The information you provide will help inform my own judgment on certain matters. As long as Havana doesn’t escalate its requests, there’s certainly no need for anyone else to know.”
“Not even the Agency?” Bo asked. It was his one faux pas of the evening. Endler scowled.
“The Agency,” Endler said, assuming a lecturing tone, “would only screw it up for all concerned. Our friend here might even face charges.”
“But what if, like you said, they escalate their requests?” Falk asked.
“A reasonable question.” Endler nodded, again the old mentor. “Should that ever occur, we’ll deal with it accordingly. Even then I wouldn’t foresee an immediate need to reveal your name. The Agency expects us to have some of our own sources. You might have to carry out a few extra favors, of course. But nothing more. Don’t worry, it’s not likely to become an issue.”
Bless me, Father, Falk felt like saying. It must be the way devout Catholics felt upon receiving absolution, and for the rest of the evening he levitated in a tipsy state of grace.
Soon afterward they said good-bye. Bo stayed behind for further consultation, while Falk offered a soulful handshake and wobbled down the brick
walkway to a waiting taxi. As the cab pulled away he turned in his seat for a parting wave, but the door and the curtains were already shut tight.
The meetings with Harry continued a while longer, each request as mundane as the last. But after Elena’s tearful apology arrived three months later, the requests stopped. Had they figured out he had told someone? All Falk knew for sure was that his next visit to Harry produced little more than a shake of the head.
“Our business is finished, señor,” Harry said curtly, looking up from a workbench where he was filing down a hunk of metal in a vice.
Endler sent word to try one more time, but Harry wouldn’t even let him in the door. During his next leave to the States, Falk returned to Little Havana on the State Department’s tab and visited the dance bar for three nights running. But there was no sign of Paco.
There was no more Endler either, in Falk’s world, and Bo never mentioned the man’s name when the two of them met, usually either at a D.C. sports bar or at Bo’s house, where conversation was inevitably swamped by the noise of the children.
The topic came up directly only one more time, when Falk was undergoing the FBI’s background security clearance. Bo was one of his references, and when the Bureau called Bo for an interview he, in turn, telephoned Falk to suggest a meeting at a swank restaurant on K Street.
The surroundings made Falk uncomfortable from the start. It was more of a lobbyist haunt than the raffish sort of joint where they usually met, and Bo only added to his unease by getting straight to the point while they were slurping down a dozen raw oysters.
“You sure about this gig? I mean, the Bureau. Are you really the type?”
“Hell, no. I’m not the type at all. But the work sounds interesting, and with my Arabic skills I’m actually a hot commodity.”
“Still.”
“Still what?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
“Havana, you mean.”
“Obviously.”
“That’s been over for years.”
“That kind of thing is never ‘over,’ not when you’re taking this kind of job.”
“So you’re going to tell them?”
“Of course not.”
“Is Endler the one with the problem?”
“No. We’re both uneasy. It’s just awkward, that’s all.”
“As long as the two of you keep your mouths shut, like you promised, why should it be a problem? But just say the word, and I’ll withdraw my application.”
Falk’s stomach sank as he said it, but he knew the offer was necessary.
“You’d really do that?” Bo said, and for a moment Falk was sure his friend was going to leap at the chance.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I suppose I would. You guys bailed me out, so it’s the least I could do.”
“Forget it. I’d never ask you to do that.”
“Endler would.”
“But he’s not here, is he? Look, I guess I just wanted to remind you that by giving you a clean bill of health I’m putting my ass on the line every bit as much as yours.”
“Understood.”
It would later occur to him that Bo’s choice of restaurant, with its hushed tones and starched tablecloths, had been his way of tipping Falk to the seriousness of what lay ahead, a signal to let him know that, if Havana ever got back in touch, they might not be the only three players in on the secret. His new job was raising the stakes, by pushing him—and any future entanglement involving the Cubans—into the thick of the Washington power establishment.
It was a sobering thought, but until yesterday morning when Elena’s letter had arrived, it had never seemed like one he would have to take seriously. Now, out here on the turquoise waters of Guantánamo Bay, the matter was an angry cloud on the horizon.
Falk told Bo about Elena’s most recent letter, then about Harry’s secondhand request for a meeting.
“Harry’s still the postman?”
“Yes. Unbelievably. I’ve always wondered how he kept his job.”
“Endler thought about getting him fired. But it would have tipped them that you were blown. As far as the Doc knows, you were his only client. Besides, Harry is searched every day, coming and going. It’s not like he can leave with the crown jewels. And it’s not like he’s in position to see or hear anything they wouldn’t already know.”
“And it’s not like I ever gave them much. I always wondered why they bothered.”
“I guess we’re about to find out. Maybe they think of you as some kind of sleeper agent. Well placed and moving nicely up the food chain.”
“Great.”
Bo chuckled.
“Why do you think I had the heebie-jeebies right before you joined the Bureau?”
“I saw him one day, you know. Harry. My first week back here.”
“Where?”
“McDonald’s.”
“I thought he hated McDonald’s. Didn’t you take him once?”
He had, as a gesture of normalcy, a halfhearted attempt by the naive Marine to justify his friendship with the little handyman, in case anyone ever asked about his regular visits to the machine shop. Harry had eaten only a few bites of his burger before rewrapping the rest and tossing it in the trash.
“Cuban food is better,” he had said, sitting in silence through the rest of the meal while Falk’s embarrassment grew.
“Yeah, he hated it all right,” Falk said. “Which is why I figured the only reason he was there was to get a glimpse of me. Or to let me get a glimpse of him. Show his face so I’d know he was still around.”
“How’d he know you were coming?”
“Good question.”
“You’ve had no other contacts? From anybody on their side?”
“C’mon, Bo.”
“A simple ‘no’ will do.”
“No.”
“Sorry. It’s the business we’re in. If this got out, all hell would break loose.”
“You’re telling me. So how did you know I’d heard from them?”
“I didn’t. It was Endler’s hunch.”
“Based on what?”
“You’ll have to ask Endler. But it’s one of the reasons he sent me.”
“What difference would it make? Unless Fowler’s work has some tie-in to Cuba.”
“Well, he’s Homeland Security, and Cartwright is Pentagon. Not to mention that those two travel in administration circles that are sticking their noses into everything else these days, so why not Cuba?”
“You’d think they’d be a little preoccupied with Iraq right now.”
“Mission accomplished, as far as they’re concerned. They got their war. Maybe now they’re looking for the next target. Fowler’s one of the new breed, part of the bunch that think they can make up reality as they go. Their work is easier to understand if you think of them as mergers-and-acquisitions specialists. Only it’s countries, not companies. The minute the ink’s dry on the next set of papers they’re looking for something new. They don’t concern themselves with aftermath. They just want to be the first to broker the next deal.”
“But with Cuba?”
“Or Iran, Syria, North Korea. Wherever opportunity knocks first.”
“So this whole security investigation is a front?”
“Not at all. They definitely think of themselves as being here to break up a spy ring, make a few friends at Gitmo, score some points in Washington. I’m just saying maybe there’s also more to it. Some tie-ins we don’t know about yet.”
“But would like to.”
“With your help, of course. It’s one reason I want to see those interrogation schedules. And it’s why I want you to meet Harry. Find out what he wants. Who knows, maybe the other side has heard something, too.”
“I’d planned on visiting him tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect. Just keep in mind that this isn’t the old days. Don’t count on it being quite as easy.”
“That’s occurred to me. Van Meter’s little witch h
unt would have a lot of fun with a guy like me. Unless Endler intervened on my behalf, of course.”
“It would be a possibility.”
“But not much of one, I guess you’re saying. Meaning I’m on my own.”
“No. You’ve still got me. You might say we’re literally in the same boat.”
They chuckled, Falk somewhat uncomfortably.
“So what else does Endler think? About Harry and me, I mean.”
“You really want to know?”
Falk nodded.
“He thinks Harry’s going to suggest a little reunion in Miami.”
“With Paco?”
“Yeah. And Paco is someone who Endler would very much like to get a look at.”
“And how am I supposed to find time for this little reunion?”
“Things have a way of working out.” Bokamper nodded toward the bow. “Isn’t it time we came about?”
They were well up the bay, heading toward Hospital Cay.
“Better get back to the dock if I’m going to make my date with the general.”
“I’ll get the jib sheet.”
“The old Bo would’ve called it a rope.”
“Easy, Falk. We’re still friends.”
He sure hoped so.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SPREAD FOR DINNER at General Trabert’s office was nothing special—beef stew, rice, salad, and a square of yellow sheet cake, all of it straight from the mess hall. Some generals were like that, sharing meals with visitors only when it was the common fare of the enlisted man, as if they ate that way all the time.
“They’re doing a better job down at the seaside galley every day, don’t you think?” Trabert said.
“The food? It’s not bad.”
“When I first got here the men were barely past MREs. Nothing hot unless you heated it yourself. Now they serve three squares a day to more than two thousand soldiers, with no single menu repeating for a three-week period.”
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 17
