Falk could detect no telltale bulges of weaponry in Paco’s clothing. He supposed there must be a gun somewhere on board, but the man seemed too preoccupied with handling the boat to have made any sudden moves in self-defense if Falk had decided to rush him.
But why spoil the afternoon? He decided instead to relax and let events unfold at their own pace, so he took a seat toward the stern and stretched his arms along the gunwales of the starboard side, turning his face to the sun. He would let Paco break the ice.
Overhead, the grumble of a single-engine plane caught their attention. Surveillance? No, it was headed straight for the beach, towing one of those long advertising banners, red lettering aflutter: “Best party on the Beach. Sex@Crobar. Come and get it 2nite.” Now what would a good communist make of that? Falk wondered, but Paco had already turned his eyes back to the water.
“You know,” Paco said, “I’ve considered just spending the next hour cruising, without saying a word to you.”
“Fine by me.”
Paco actually smiled.
“I thought it would be. Unfortunately, I have my orders.” Falk sat up a little straighter. “You see, I don’t really believe in you. I’m not sure I ever have. And when you joined the FBI, that clinched it for me. You’re damaged goods, that’s what I think.”
“Is that why I never heard from you again?”
Paco nodded.
“And it’s why we put on the little show for you today. In case you had company.”
“Did I?”
Paco shrugged, shaking his head.
“You would know better than me. But they weren’t doing their best, that’s for sure. In a way I was hoping they would try harder.”
“You wanted to be caught? Not that anyone was necessarily following you.”
“I wanted them to show they were more interested in me than in whatever it is I had to say.”
Interesting. He’d read them perfectly.
“Then why am I here, if you think I’m worthless?”
“Because my superiors still think of you as a great catch. A well-placed asset. Or, at worst, a risk worth taking. I gather that opinion is divided.”
“They sound desperate.”
“I think your assessment is correct. Which is why I’m not sure I believe in them anymore, either. Or in their capabilities.”
“Anything you do still believe in?”
“Oh, yes. I believe that long ago a young soldier did something very stupid. A mistake of youth. He betrayed his friends, his officers, his country. A small betrayal, really. Some weekend foolishness in Havana. But he knew that it was a crime that would only grow larger with time. So he told someone. Not his officers. They would have thrown him in the brig. We would have known. Not the CIA. They would have overreacted, run amok. Not the FBI, either, because he never could have gone to work for them later with that item on his résumé. So it had to have been someone outside the usual community. Someone closer to his circle of friends. How am I doing so far?”
He was batting a thousand, but of course Falk couldn’t say so.
“Interesting story. But I think you’re giving the stupid young soldier more credit than he deserves.”
“Or maybe he’s giving me less credit than I deserve.”
Falk studied Paco’s face while wondering how he had pieced it together. Not so hard, he supposed, if you had a dozen years to work on it.
“Please, have something to drink.” Paco gestured toward a small cooler near the stern. Falk rooted through the ice and found two Cokes and two Piñas, a pineapple soda the Cubans liked.
“Get you one?”
“Coke,” Paco said, so Falk went against type as well, taking a Piña.
“Nice day for it, huh?” Paco said, popping the top and taking a long swallow, looking for all the world like a fellow enjoying his day off.
“This your boat?”
“What, you think I’m crazy?”
“I did notice the fake numbers. A friend’s, I guess. A rental would be too easy to track down.” Paco didn’t answer, just sipped the Coke. “So you were saying earlier that you have your orders.”
“I am supposed to deliver a message.”
“But don’t want to.”
“Correct.”
“So don’t.”
“I have no choice. I am not like the foolish young Marine. When I am duty bound, I follow orders.”
“Whenever you’re ready, then.”
Paco shook his head, scowling, and when he spoke the words came quickly, as if he wanted to get the chore out of the way as soon as possible.
“There is a prisoner at Guantánamo. Adnan al-Hamdi. You are to either silence him, by whatever means, or see that he is sent home. End of message.”
Falk nearly choked on a swallow of Piña. He couldn’t have been more floored if Paco had informed him that Pam and Bokamper were married and double agents. He thought right away of Adnan’s “great gift,” the name “Hussay.” Could that be what the Cubans wanted, or were worried about?
Falk’s bewilderment must have showed on his face, but for the first time Paco misread him, saying, “If you are not familiar with this prisoner, I am told he is a Yemeni.”
“I know who he is,” Falk said, realizing as he spoke that he probably should have remained silent. He was at a loss for what to do next, having reached the impasse that everyone trying to play the double game must eventually come upon, especially rank amateurs such as him. Should he try to lead them on—even if Paco wasn’t buying it—by vowing to do his best? Or would it be better to play it sphinxlike, accepting the message with a mere nod? There was also a third option: Throw them for a loop by coming clean and admitting that, yes, you’re right, I’m blown, and now your people are really up the creek. Endler had offered no instructions.
Paco maintained his silence, and Falk eventually decided to discard all three approaches. He would instead play the role of himself—the confused man in the middle, half in and half out, not trusted by either side as he groped his way through the dark, a man who, like Paco, was still looking for answers. He would give a little in hopes of getting a little.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Falk said. “Adnan’s been moved beyond my reach, and I can tell you for certain he won’t be going home anytime soon. Believe me, I already tried to get them to do that.” Foolishly so, it would seem now, if that was also what the Cubans wanted.
“I will pass that along,” Paco said, turning the wheel as they skidded against the wake of the ferry. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. How’d they come up with that name? If it came from someone inside Camp Delta, then they shouldn’t have needed my help.”
“Even if I asked them these things, they wouldn’t tell me. And if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Did you ever consider the possibility, then, that I’m just as much out of the loop as you are? That I’m only following orders for whichever side, maybe both, but really have no idea what any of this is about?”
Paco looked at him long and hard as the engine droned, as if trying to figure out why Falk was suddenly so talkative.
“Our situation reminds me of an old joke in Cuba,” Paco said. “A political joke. You’ll like it. It’s about two old friends who haven’t seen each other since before the Revolution. Then one day in Havana they walk into the same bar. Neither of them wants to mention politics, of course. They’re too scared they’ll say the wrong thing. But they’re both dying to know where the other one stands, so finally the first one gets up his nerve and says, ‘Tell me, amigo, what do you think of our socialist regime?’
“The second guy is also cautious, so he answers, ‘Why, the same as you, of course!’ So the first guy frowns, and says, “Then I will have to arrest you for being a counterrevolutionary!’”
Falk smiled.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty much like us. So maybe we should level with each other.”
“What, pool our secrets and sell them to the highest bidder? T
hat would be a very American solution, letting the market decide.”
“I’m just saying it might be in our own best interests to be better informed.”
“In theory. The problem is that one of us has to go first.”
“True.”
“After you, then.”
Falk laughed.
“I thought it was up to the host to break the ice.”
“To quote that culturally sensitive expression of yours, ‘No way, José.’”
Falk smiled again, figuring that was that. But Paco’s words had snagged on a shard of memory. Not the words, he realized now, but the pronunciation.
“Say that again?”
“What? ‘No way, José’?”
It was the “José.” Anglos, himself included, always pronounced the “s” like a “z.” Paco gave the “s” a quick hiss, winding up with a name that sounded more like Ho-SAY. And that’s how you would hear it in Arabic as well.
“All right, Paco,” Falk said slowly. “I’ll go first, as long as I can start with a question. Have you got any field men out there—out toward Yemen, for example, say, two or three years ago—who go by the code name ‘José’?”
Paco glanced over a little too quickly.
“Interesting question. What made you ask it?”
“No, no. Your turn.”
“Like I said. Your plan works only in theory. So you are back where you started.”
“Not really. You’re forgetting what I’ve been doing for a living. Interrogations, day after day. Your reaction said plenty. Didn’t have to say a word ’cause it was all over your face. We call ’em nonverbal clues.”
“You mean the same way you gave away so much with your choice of questions?”
“True. That’s always a risk for the interrogator. That he’ll give up more than he gets. Either way, I think we both know more than when we started.”
Paco smiled ever so slightly, as if in appreciation. Then he turned the wheel slightly, the boat banking to starboard. They were beyond Lummus Island and curling toward the northwest. The Miami skyline loomed before them like a postcard, brilliant in the midday sun.
About then a helicopter buzzed overhead, circling a little lower as it passed. Paco looked up in irritation, probably thinking the same as Falk. He couldn’t tell if it belonged to a local television station or was private.
“Friends of yours?” Paco asked.
“Who knows?”
Then it kept on going, speeding down the bay toward Coconut Grove, passing too quickly for anything beyond a cursory glance at this tub plying the waves. But the interruption was jarring enough to throw them back into silence. It seemed clear there would be no further revelations. Or maybe they had both said too much.
From the look of their course, Paco was headed toward Bayside Marketplace. You could already smell the grease and hear the canned music.
“I’m going to drop you at the Miamarina,” Paco said. “From there you’ll only have to walk a few blocks to your car.”
“Very accommodating of you. Will I hear from you again?”
“That’s not my decision.”
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to reach me.”
When they arrived at the dock, Paco didn’t even bother to tie up. He held on to a cleat as the boat rocked while Falk stepped onto the planks. Falk turned to say good-bye, feeling awkward once again, but Paco spoke first, and for the first time in their conversation he sounded uncertain, tentative.
“Maybe you are right. Maybe we should maintain, for lack of a better word, an open channel of communication. Unofficially, of course.”
“I thought you considered this a case of good riddance.”
Paco looked around quickly. The only person nearby was a hired hand swabbing the deck of a yacht four slips down, radio blaring. At this location, with the right equipment, almost anyone could have snapped their photo or recorded their words.
“Operationally, yes.”
“But?”
“But I have a feeling we may yet need each other’s help.”
“You and me, or our employers?”
“The two of us. Because of the positions we are in, being outside the conventional community. In your case more than mine. Tell me, don’t you have a sense that something is about to run off the rails?”
“Yeah. I suppose I do.”
“Well, if that day comes, I’ll want to be able to step out of the way of the oncoming train, and so will you. And it never hurts to have someone else to call on.”
Was Paco suggesting a possible defection to the United States, or was he offering Falk safe passage elsewhere? It made him more curious than ever to learn what Paco must know.
“Fair enough. We’ll always have Harry, I guess.”
“Speaking of damaged goods. But sometimes you have no choice.”
Paco looked around nervously, still holding on to the cleat as the boat bobbed.
“And now, my parting gift to you for the afternoon. My secret to match yours. You are right about the operative named José. Yemen? That I can’t say for sure. But somewhere in the Middle East. Our people are looking for him. Or were, as of last week. Now it is your turn to say something.”
“In theory, you’re absolutely right. But I’ll have to get back to you.”
Falk left without another word, not daring to look over his shoulder. He hoped Paco was smiling.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FALK KNEW ENDLER’S PEOPLE would be trying to find him, so he threaded briskly through the weekend crowds of Bayside out to the street for a cab. He had more than a day to kill before his flight to Gitmo, and the last place he wanted to spend it was on the wrong side of an interrogation table, being debriefed by some assistant he neither knew nor trusted. He would save his secrets for Bokamper, who might even be able to make sense of some of Paco’s revelations.
It was time to ditch the rental car. That was probably where they were waiting for him, sitting patiently in the shade of the parking deck with their two-ways and their sunglasses, watching tourists come and go. He would have to leave behind his clothes, shaving kit, and briefcase, but the rental company could forward them.
“Airport,” he told the cabbie, who, as luck would have it, was an Arab, worry beads dangling from the rearview mirror. It reminded him first of Adnan and then of Pam. Their world, our world, Paco’s world—all of it mixed up in his head, a jumble of jihadists and Cubans and misshapen secrets. The odd thing was that for the moment he felt as much kinship with Paco, a man whose real identity he didn’t even know, as with anyone else. Paco was willing to give something to get something. Unlike Endler and his people, who only demanded. Paco was like him, groping his way forward without a map.
At least now he felt he had solved the puzzle of Adnan’s “great gift.” If Adnan’s financial sponsor back in Yemen had indeed been a Cuban—and one who had now slipped the leash, no less—no wonder Adnan was such a hot property. The question was whether he had yet revealed the secret to Fowler and Company now that he had disappeared into Camp Echo. Falk felt sorry for the young man. God knows what sort of tactics he must have faced by now. “Robust action.” That’s how they would characterize it, the new euphemism for quick and dirty. He doubted it would do them any good with Adnan. The harder they pushed, the further he would retreat from sense and sanity, and this time he might never return.
Falk turned in his seat to scan the traffic. The Cubans knew the drop-off point at Miamarina and might still be on his tail. The windshields behind offered nothing but the glare of the afternoon sun, each vehicle seemingly as aggressively in pursuit as the next.
“I changed my mind,” he told the driver. “Head south, toward Coral Gables. Use Dixie Highway.” The cabbie nodded, turning the wheel without a word as the beads clicked and swayed. Minutes later they were whipping down Brickell Avenue, past brightly colored high-rises lined up like giant crayons along the bay. Falk was still pondering his next move as they eased onto Dixie Highway when
he spotted the Metrorail tracks merging from the right, towering overhead on concrete trestles. A mile or so later a stop loomed up on the right.
“This is good. Pull over.”
He flicked a twenty onto the front seat and bolted from the back, making it through the turnstiles just in time to catch a northbound train heading back toward downtown. Lucky timing, but he would take his breaks where he found them. He rode the train another twenty minutes, all the way through to Brownsville. By then hardly anyone was left on board, and his was the only white face to exit. He had to walk six blocks before he could find a taxi, then he rode to the airport, finally confident he was on his own even though he had gone about it sloppily, strictly on the fly.
Inside the terminal he checked the departures board and bought a United ticket on the next flight to Jacksonville, making it a round-trip to minimize attention. Then he handed over the car keys at the Hertz counter and told them where they could pick up the car.
“I was in a hurry to make a flight and had to leave behind a few things,” he said to the puzzled clerk. “Could you forward my bag and briefcase to your office in Jacksonville? I’ll pick them up early tomorrow. It’ll need some gas, too.”
The service charges would be horrendous, but he would let the Bureau’s bean counters sort it out. No one would raise a red flag for at least a few weeks. Besides, after today he’d be paying his own tab as he moved around, and by cash. He withdrew three hundred dollars from an ATM and bought a change of clothes at an airport shop, keeping an eye out for a tail as he went. With two hours to spare he caught another taxi, this time to a nearby bank, where he withdrew an additional twelve hundred in cash advances off his personal plastic. Might as well get what he could now, he reasoned. If they bumped him off the Gitmo flight out of JAX he might have to lay low for days longer, and he wouldn’t want them tracing his movements by a trail of credit transactions. He also had a gut feeling that it was time to prepare for the worst, like a sailor securing his supplies belowdecks before a storm. He sensed that he was being pushed toward the middle in a struggle between powerful but unseen adversaries, so why not start scouting for an emergency exit?
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 23
