Jack hadn’t thought of that.
Haber said, “Maybe someday you’ll want to go to Prague to check it out.”
“And while you’re there, look for black sites,” said Neil.
“Don’t waste your time,” said Haber, his expression turning serious. “Even former detainees can’t locate them. About the only thing my client could tell me about the one in Kabul was that it was underground and close to the airport. Everything else was nondescript or utterly black. The place was known for its absolute lack of light. Detainees even called it the Dark Prison.”
Jack froze.
Haber looked at him curiously. “Did I say something wrong?”
“The Dark Prison?” said Jack.
“Yeah, why?” said Haber. “Does that strike you as particularly inventive?”
“Inventive, no. But incredibly coincidental.”
Jack told him about the informant he was supposed to have met at the Lincoln Mall on Saturday night, the man falling over dead, and the handwritten message Jack found on the napkin when he returned to his table.
“ ‘Are you afraid of The Dark?’ was what he wrote,” Jack said. “It was a curious message. And I thought it was interesting that the T and the D were both capitalized.”
Jack looked around the table, and suddenly it was as if the wheels in their heads were all turning in the same direction.
“But why would you be afraid of a secret prison in Kabul?” asked Haber.
Jack thought for a moment. “Maybe it wasn’t actually directed at me. Maybe the threat was intended for someone else—someone who’s sure to read it and who has reason to be afraid.”
“Afraid of what might become public about the black sites,” said Neil, “like the Dark Prison.”
“Or afraid of the things he had done there,” said Jack.
“You mean afraid of being held accountable for what he’s done,” said Neil.
“That may be,” said Jack. “But people who inflict torture on other human beings—especially under orders—can pay a heavy psychological price. Being afraid of the dark could be, as you say, the fear of criminal prosecution. But it could also be the nightmares that haunt them for having crossed the line—for having literally and figuratively traveled to such a dark place.”
Laughter drifted over from the old men drinking large cups of kahawa at the bar, the smell of freshly ground beans in the air. Finally, Neil spoke up.
“Well, gentlemen, that’s one more thing to look into.”
“One more thing,” said Jack, his gaze drifting across the room and coming to rest on the Somali flag hanging on the wall. “Just what we needed.”
Chapter Twenty
From the backseat of a cab, the lighted monuments of the capital were a blur as Jack and Neil rode in silence to their hotel.
Stan Haber had lined up several meetings for them in the morning, including one with a representative from the International Committee of the Red Cross, who had presented the “ICRC Report on the Treatment of Fourteen ‘High Value Detainees’ in CIA Custody.” Jack had read the report and had found it interesting that detainees were held in as many as ten different black sites before their arrival in Guantánamo. The Red Cross was careful to point out, however, that “this report will not enter into conjecture by referring to possible countries or locations of places of detention beyond the first or second countries of detention,” and that “the ICRC is confident that the concerned authorities will be able to identify from their records which place of detention is being referred to and the relevant period of detention.” All of that was code for the fact that sometimes the only way the Red Cross gained access to prisoners was by promising to keep certain things confidential, which was just fine for the “concerned authorities.” Probably not so fine for Jamal Wakefield and his lawyers.
Jack went back to the Internet on his smart phone.
“What are you, a teenager?” asked Neil.
Jack looked up from his display, his face aglow from the Web site. Behind Neil were the illuminated stone columns of the Treasury Building, lending an oddly weighty tone to his question.
“What do you mean?”
“I can see what you’re up to,” said Neil. “My daughter does the same thing about every five minutes. Updating your Facebook status.”
Busted. It was the international obsession for people half Jack’s age: logging onto Facebook and telling the world in real time what they were doing. “Having pizza at Casola’s with my BFF.” “In my room, bored out of my mind.” It was such a compulsion that two girls had made headlines around the globe by getting lost in a stormwater drain and updating their Facebook status rather than calling for help. Crazy thing was, help had arrived.
“I’m sort of into it,” said Jack.
“Sort of?” said Neil. “That’s the tenth time you’ve done it since we left Miami.”
Jack couldn’t argue. It was probably double that.
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel, and the cold winter air reminded Jack that they weren’t in Miami. They were traveling with just their laptops and a change of clothes, which made check-in a breeze.
“I’m going to turn in,” said Neil.
Jack glanced toward the lounge. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next.
“I’m going to hang here for a while,” he said. “Get a little work done.”
They said good night, Neil headed to the elevator, and Jack found a cozy leather sofa in the lounge. He ordered from the waiter, and then updated his Facebook status: Alone in the lobby with a glass of port.
Jack was halfway through his drink and rereading the ICRC detainee report when the lights went out—or so it seemed. Her hands felt warm over his eyes.
“Guess who,” said Andie.
He smiled, jumped up, and held her tight. It felt beyond good, and her hair still smelled the same, even if it was an unfamiliar shade of undercover blond.
“You need to be careful with those Facebook updates,” she said. “You never know what kind of derelict is going to track you down.”
It was their way of communicating under rules that prohibited Jack from contacting her directly. “Neil thinks I’m a teenager.”
“Well, you did have the stamina of a nineteen-year-old the other night.”
That triggered some nice memories. “How long can you stay?”
“Just a few minutes. Sorry. My sexually deviant boyfriend is around the corner waiting in the car.”
“Not the kind of thing your fiancé wants to hear.”
She sat beside him on the couch, and Jack felt that empty silence that was becoming too much a part of their relationship. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was there whenever Andie worked undercover: the hesitation as Jack checked his train of thought, knowing that he couldn’t even ask how her day had gone, much less what the hell was up with the “sexually deviant boyfriend.”
“Did you get my phone messages this morning?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course I knew it was you.”
She took his hand, but her touch was a little stiff.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not between us,” she said. “But there is something I need to tell you.”
Jack braced himself for another one of those FBI-agent-to-lawyer lectures. “Please don’t try to talk me out of representing Jamal. I’m more committed than ever.”
“I know, and that’s your business. But . . .”
“But what?”
She created some separation on the couch, positioning herself so that she could look him in the eye as she spoke. “What I’m about to say . . . you can never tell anyone that you heard it from me.”
He hesitated. “Andie, I don’t want to hear anything that puts you in an uncomfortable position with the bureau.”
“I’
m fine. This isn’t classified. Some of it’s even been in the newspapers. All I’m doing is helping you put two and two together so that you can make the right decision about Jamal Wakefield.”
“I think I have made the right decision. Everything I’m learning about this case tells me this guy is innocent.” It was the first time Jack had said it aloud, and it rang so true that it actually surprised him.
“That’s what I want to talk about,” said Andie. “Obviously, you know about certain black sites run by the CIA. But have you heard anything about the insurance policies?”
“No. What kind of insurance?”
“After it became public that the CIA had these black sites, some CIA officers started to get nervous about it.”
“Imagine that,” said Jack.
“Just listen. They were worried that they would need lawyers to represent them in civil or criminal lawsuits, or maybe even congressional hearings. So the government set up a private insurance plan that they could buy in to.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying that while the administration was denying the existence of these black sites, the Pentagon was setting up an insurance plan to protect the interrogators in case they were accused of torturing the detainees?”
“Stop editorializing—but, to answer your question, yes.”
The waiter came by. “Another port, sir?”
Jack was massaging the pain between his eyes, still trying to get his head around Andie’s news. “Got any aspirin?” said Jack.
“I can check,” he said.
Andie waited for him to leave, then continued. “The important thing here is that the insurance is private. Which means you have people outside the CIA involved—people who, theoretically, you could talk to.”
“You mean people who could confirm that there was a black site in the Czech Republic?”
“I mean theoretically. Because here’s what I’m really trying to tell you. That guy who died at the Lincoln Road Mall on Saturday night, Ethan Chang.”
“The man who said he had photos of Jamal in a black site in Prague.”
“I told you to stop editorializing. If you were to talk to the right person in the private insurance industry, she would tell you that Mr. Chang approached her about insurance.”
“So he was CIA?”
“No. That’s my point. He wanted to know if the same insurance that was available to CIA interrogators was being offered to private interrogators.”
Jack knew exactly what she was saying, but he was thinking aloud: “The site was run by one of those private contractor security firms,” he said, “like a Blackwater.”
“Blackwater is now called Xe Services, but there are others. ArmorGroup North America, Inter-Risk, to name just a couple.”
“That makes things even tougher.”
“Jack, I’m not telling you this so that you’ll go the extra mile and prove the existence of a black site run by a private security firm. Don’t you get it? The CIA has deniability—there was no Czech facility run by the CIA. Your chances of getting the CIA to admit that it had a black site are slim to none. The chances of proving a privately run black site are less than zero.”
“I don’t care what the odds are. It’s his alibi.”
“Jack, sweetheart. As a former CIA director once said on his way to the White House, ‘Read my lips.’ There is no way in hell you are going to establish this alibi in a criminal trial in Miami-Dade County, Florida.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
“No, but do it anyway. And say it so I believe it.”
She leaned closer, looking him in the eye. “Find another way to win your case, Jack. Or your client is looking at the death penalty.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Vince squeezed the trigger and caught his breath. He’d been at it for almost forty minutes. Since losing his sight, this was the first time he’d discharged his Glock 9-millimeter pistol without a sound beacon attached to the target.
“Nice shot,” said the firearms trainer.
At first, his supervisors had scoffed at the idea of target practice for the blind, but Vince had made them believers. A series of slow rhythmic beeps from the target worked best for him. He’d learned to measure the pulses in each ear until the sound was equal in the left and right—which meant that the beacon was centered on his nose. From there, it was all about technique, focus, and instinct: Square your shoulders; draw an imaginary line from your eyebrows, heart, and shoulders to the target; raise the gun slowly to check the alignment from your heart to your palms holding the gun; and, finally, using your mind’s eye, picture the gun’s barrel before you and the target beyond, and when you can “see” one last imaginary line from your center of gravity, between your wrists, and along the image of the gun’s sights . . . pow!
Brainport changed the game entirely.
Vince worked as a training advisor on “human issues” with the Academy Detail, but the new Miami Police Training Center in downtown Miami had been built after his accident. He’d never had an actual look at the new Firearms Unit. His role was to teach courses on “mental preparation” and “ethics and professionalism” with the Officer Survival Detail, and to conduct advanced multijurisdictional sessions on crisis negotiation skills, which covered everything from outright hostage takings to convincing an armed drug addict not to commit suicide. Stimulating work, but it was still just the classroom. He longed to get out, and a morning at the Firearms Detail with Brainport was a big step in that direction.
“I never would have believed it, but you could very well get to a passing level on stationary targets at close range,” the trainer said. “Moving targets . . . well, we’ll wait and see.”
Vince focused the Brainport camera lens on a black-and-white target peppered with gunfire. The stated policy of the Institute for Human & Machine Cognition was never to let the device leave the Pensacola campus, but Chuck Mays had a way of making things happen. It made Vince’s heart race with excitement to see—literally—the results.
Vince removed the mechanical “lollipop” from his mouth. “This is so unbelievable.”
He hated to shut down the device, but he was authorized to use it only in controlled environments like the Police Training Center. If he stumbled down the stairs or tripped on the sidewalk and broke it, he’d not only be on the financial hook to replace the prototype, but they’d drop him from the pilot program.
The firearms trainer helped him put the components back inside the carry case. Vince used his walking stick to find the door. Sam was waiting for him in the hallway.
“One day I’ll take you huntin’, Sam,” he said as he folded away the stick. Together they went to the elevator and rode down to Vince’s office. Sam brought them to a stop in the open doorway, and Vince sensed that someone was waiting inside.
“Hi,” said Alicia.
Alicia’s police work often brought her to the department headquarters next door, but even so, unannounced visits from his wife weren’t the norm. “What’s up?”
Vince heard more than one person rising from the chairs in his office. Alicia said, “I have Detective Burton with me from Miami-Dade Police. He’s from the Homicide Division, working the Lincoln Road Mall case.”
Miami-Dade was the countywide force, akin to a sheriff’s office, and it wasn’t surprising that Miami Beach Police would bring them into the investigation once a homicide was suspected. Vince shook the detective’s hand, invited him and Alicia to return to their seats, and made his way to the chair behind his clunky metal desk. For the hundredth time, he nearly sliced open his thigh on the pointy metal corner of the government-issued furniture. Whoever was in charge of procurement definitely wasn’t blind.
“You didn’t mention that you were working with Miami-Dade on this case,” Vince said.
“I’m not,” said Alicia.
“I’m here on what you might call a professional courtesy,” said Burton. “After I interv
iewed Jack Swyteck, it was clear that my investigation ties in pretty closely with the criminal case against Jamal Wakefield. It seemed appropriate for you to be informed, given your—you know, given what happened to you. I thought you might want your wife present.”
Vince didn’t make an issue out of it, but the detective’s actions were so typical. You go blind, and the world thinks you can’t do anything alone. Still, Alicia knew better. She should have told Burton that there was no need for her to tag along.
Why did she come?
“There are a couple of things you might like to know,” said Burton.
“Okay, shoot.”
“One, we’re still waiting on the final toxicology report, but the medical examiner suspects some kind of quick-acting toxin that induced cardiac arrest.”
“I’d heard that,” since Vince. “Detective Lopez from Miami Beach gave me an update before handing the case over to you. Any idea how the toxin was administered?”
“That’s the tricky part. The body shows no puncture wounds—no sign of a needle injection. It’s possible he ingested it. But we also have some footage from an outdoor security camera that raises an interesting possibility.”
Miami Beach PD hadn’t mentioned anything about a videotape. “What’s it show?” Vince asked.
“There are surprisingly few security cameras in the area, but they do have one at every cross street. About an hour before the paramedics arrived, we have a series of frames showing the victim in the crosswalk at Jefferson Avenue, which bisects the mall. He’s headed east. Another pedestrian is headed west, and the two of them collide.”
“What’s wrong with that guy, is he blind?” said Vince, smiling.
“Actually, he is,” said Burton, his tone serious. “That’s the interesting thing. We don’t have an ID yet, but whoever ran into Chang was using a walking stick, and the tip of it jabbed Chang in the ankle. The medical examiner notes a strange discoloration of the skin at the point of impact.”
Afraid of the Dark Page 11
