“She’ll cool off in a minute,” said the Sergeant cheerfully, “once we get some air flowing.” He was wrong, of course. The helo stayed hot. Ferociously hot, and James and Bobby were soaking wet by the time they reached the compound and landed next to the red-brick wall surrounding the white granite slab that proclaimed in big letters: CAMP JUSTICE—Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
This guarded the entrance to the high-security courtroom, where both pre-trial hearings and military tribunals had been held for many years. Only very rarely did a man walk free from this building—unless he truly was just a school teacher or a wandering naturalist who somehow managed to be caught up in the general panic of Baghdad, Basra, Kabul, or the Hindu Kush mountains.
Tom Renton’s father, as a judge advocate general, had spoken and advised in here, almost always in cases where non-military illegal combatants were trying to plead they were as much regular army as Hitler’s Panzers or the Coldstream Guards. Colonel Renton had both thought and said this was nothing more than pure rubbish, and treated it with the contempt it deserved. He always quoted directly from the Geneva Conventions, instructing the presiding officer that no one could be permitted to hurl a bomb into a supermarket or a hotel, kill several dozen people, and then plead they were some kind of a quasi-explosives officer to a modern-day Islamic General Patton, in order to be treated with honor, like a bona fide prisoner of war.
It represented, of course, the most profound irony, that Colonel Renton, a true-blue old school military lawyer, determined to incarcerate all enemies of the United States, should have an attorney son, right down here in Cuba, trying his best to liberate them.
“Times have changed,” was the often-stated view of Renton Junior. His father would undoubtedly have kicked him straight in the ass had he known where young Tom was, which he most definitely did not.
Sergeant Ransom walked the two lawyers straight to the office of the Joint Detention Group commander, Colonel Andy Powell, who greeted them cooly, and offered iced tea. Right now, either overheated lawyer would have settled for iced swamp water, and they sat back to hear the restrictions that would be placed on them during their stay.
“First of all, since we do not judge you are here to act in our best interest,” said Colonel Powell, “you will stay in the Guantanamo Hotel. The place is surrounded by bars and restaurants, and I’ve booked you a couple of rooms. Do not, however, go out looking for a cheap native fuck, or you’ll probably go home with mould growing out of your pecker.”
James Myerson nodded sagely. Renton laughed. “How do we get to the hotel, sir?”
“Same way you arrived. Helicopter.”
“Thank you, sir. We intend to stay two nights if that’s okay, and then return directly to Washington.”
“No problem. I will have two armed guards accompany you at all times, and escort you into the prison block. I have no doubt the men you wish to see are on our highly dangerous list.”
“Sir, can you assist us in identifying them, by name I mean?”
“I cannot deny you that. I am ordered by the Pentagon to grant you total cooperation, and despite my natural distaste for your operation, I will help you as and when I can.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Myerson.
“I have a suspicion that you have no idea how dangerous these people are. Stay alert, if one of them should ever get his hands on a knife he would not hesitate to slit your throat. My guards are under orders to shoot to kill should anything like that ever break out.”
“And has it ever broken out?” asked Tom.
“From time to time, counselor. But we try to discourage it. I expect you intend to file an application for a writ of habeas corpus,” continued Colonel Powell. “I should just remind you that application will not get out of here under my signature, unless the prisoners are properly identified, names and addresses.”
“And will you wish to have those names and addresses verified by a third party?” asked Renton.
“Damn straight I will,” retorted the Colonel. “I don’t sign off on fucking ghosts. And they don’t leave here until I’m good and ready.”
“No sir,” replied Myerson.
SHAKIR KHAN had called an emergency meeting in the courtyard of his home in Peshawar. In attendance were Kaiser Rashid, and the somewhat mysterious Sheikh Ali al-Sabah, bin Laden’s chief of staff, and the mastermind behind the suspect tape recordings released to al-Jazeera, the Arab television network based in Qatar. It was believed that Sheikh Ali was the only man who knew for certain whether bin Laden was dead or alive.
Shakir Khan himself, on a thousand fronts, was operating in the dark. He knew that Yousaf and Ibrahim were incarcerated in Guantanamo. And he knew that, as a general rule, the policy of the true hard-men of the jihad was to say absolutely nothing to their American captors.
Khan was extremely knowledgeable about the ways of the world. He was self-confident and not easily deceived. He had earned a degree in finance from the University of Karachi and done post-graduate work in politics and economics at Brown University in Rhode Island, where he had relatives.
Khan had guessed that the Americans would use the lack of names and addresses to detain anyone they so wished. The trouble was, neither Ibrahim nor Yousaf any longer had a proper address, and that could hold up their deportation from the United States for months. Where would they go if they were released? As far as Shakir Khan was concerned, they would have to provide their proper names to the lawyers, and to the Guantanamo Bay military authorities. He would provide two addresses, one for Ibrahim and one for Yousaf, where there would be people in residence who would vouch that the men had indeed lived there before their capture.
There was a “safe house” on Flower Street in Kabul over the border in Afghanistan where Shakir could install a field operator and use it as an address for Ibrahim. Yousaf, who had been born in Pakistan, could have an address on Saddar Road, right here in Peshawar, where there were a million friends.
A house servant brought out a silver tray on which was a selection of delicious smelling chappli kebabs, a Pashtun classic, with flat spicy bread and jugs of ice-cold fruit juice. The three men sat on heavy wooden chairs around a stone table and each gave his opinion on how the new addresses should be forwarded to the Washington law firm.
Shakir was always wary of any electronic transfer of information from Peshawar because of the known presence of U.S. agents and Israeli eaves-droppers from the hated Mossad. Sheikh Ali’s view was that both addresses should be punched into his cell phone and texted from the high peaks of the Hindu Kush, directly to Riyadh where the clerics would take over and find a track into Washington.
Kaiser Rashid also favored this route, and since none of the three men knew the text-message number of the lawyers on the case, Sheikh Ali was elected to make the transmission. Shakir’s private government helicopter would take him home, up and over the Afghan border, later this evening.
Thus, through the quivering communications of cyberspace were the hopes and needs of the jihadist terrorists and Josh Epstein married together.
JAMES MYERSON and Tom Renton awakened in their hotel rooms the following morning at 7 a.m. It was 5 p.m. of the same day in the Afghan mountains, and Sheikh Ali had long since fired in the two addresses to Saudi Arabia. In fact, they were already on both lawyers’ phones—Ibraham, 103 Flower Street, Kabul, Afghanistan. Yousaf, 58, Saddar Road, Peshawar, North West Frontier Province, Pakistan.
Myerson understood immediately what they were for. Renton was about two beats behind him. “Beautiful,” he said to himself. “No fucking ghosts. Proper guys, proper addresses. Okay, Colonel?”
At 7:30 on the button, the four-seater army helicopter landed on flat, rough ground near the Bano River. Five minutes later James and Tom were once more under the resentful eye of Biff Ransom, who marched them straight into the Camp Five Detention Center where all fourteen of the high-security terrorists were held, almost entirely in solitary confinement.
Cell by cell they were led
past the prisoners, asking each in turn if his name was either Yousaf or Ibrahim. Through the wire of the fourth cell, Tom Renton could see the prisoner was still sleeping under his standard-issue blue blanket. His instinct took over and he suddenly snapped out a command in a firm but measured voice: “Ibrahim! Get up right now.”
Instantly the prisoner swung around to see who was speaking, and Tom Renton asked Sergeant Biff to open the door to allow him and James to conduct their first interview.
“Ibrahim Sharif, I am here to help you, to take you into an American court, which will grant you your freedom. I am here to get you and Yousaf home. My payment is coming directly from your friends in Afghanistan. But, if you do not confirm your name, I can do nothing for you.”
Ibrahim demonstrated all the steel that had kept him sane for almost seven years, but he then began to come around, as the thought began to flicker that this American might be genuine.
But it was the warrior’s mindset that saved him. If I don’t take this chance I may not get another. I have to trust him because there is no downside. The worse that can happen is they leave me here. The best is that this bastard can get me out.
“My name is Ibrahim Sharif,” he said, finally. “What now?”
Myerson replied, “We have been appointed to act for you in an appeal, which will be made on your behalf in Washington, DC. But first we must hear your story, and prepare our submissions to the chief justice. You will not be required to give evidence in court, and neither will you be subjected to cross-examination.”
Ibrahim shrugged. “Will I be on trial for the crimes I am supposed to have committed?”
“Not as such. We will protest your continued incarceration without trial. We are seeking to overturn the verdict of the military tribunal, which decided you had indeed made the bomb that had blown up and killed a truckload of fifteen U.S. Marines and two Navy SEALs in Kabul.”
“They had no proof,” growled Ibrahim.
“And did you commit the crime?”
“No. I have always been innocent. I’ve hardly ever been in Kabul.”
“Do the Americans have your documents, passports, credit cards, and such?”
“I have no documents.”
“What evidence is there you were anywhere near the exploded truck?”
“I don’t know. It was never shown to me.”
“Were you represented at the tribunal when they heard your case?”
“No. I was all alone. Just Americans, judges, and officers. And in the end they said I should serve a sentence right here in Guantanamo for the rest of my life.”
“Where did they arrest you? Obviously not in Kabul.”
“No. I was in my home village up in the mountains, hundreds of miles away. They just charged in and took me prisoner.”
“Did they take anyone else?”
“Yes. My friend, Yousaf Mohammed.”
“Is he a terrorist? A jihadist or some kind of freedom fighter for al-Qaeda or the Taliban?”
“Yousaf! He couldn’t fight his own grandma. But they beat him around and then put him in the helicopter with me. They shipped us both together, right here in Guantanamo.”
“Did they find evidence against you in your home village?”
“Just a few boxes of dynamite. The Taliban guys leave explosives around all over the place. I’ve never even touched dynamite. I’d never even been in the house where they found it.”
“Where’s Yousaf now?”
“He’s three doors down from me.”
“Was there evidence to convict him of anything.”
“I don’t know. He had a separate tribunal. Just found him guilty of something. Same as me. Locked him up for life.”
“Ibrahim. From now on, we are your lawyers. We’re being paid to get you home.” Tom handed him a piece of paper on which was written the Kabul address. “This is where you live,” he said quietly, out of earshot of the guards. “You’ll need that for the court papers. Meantime, we’ll see you later. Right now it’s important for us to talk to Yousaf.”
Ibrahim took the paper and nodded. Biff Ransom unlocked the cell door, bolted it shut again from the outside, and led the way down to the cell occupied by Yousaf Mohammed.
James Myerson could see the lean, hook-nosed murderer standing up at the far end of his cell, and the mere presence of the man made him uneasy. He decided to ask his preliminary questions from the central corridor, just to establish identity and charges.
Yousaf had heard the talking in Ibrahim’s cell and had already figured he might as well cooperate. Nothing else could happen to him, nothing much worse than the things that already had. Like his al-Qaeda buddy, there seemed to be an upside, with no downside.
“Are you Yousaf Mohammed?” asked Tom Renton through the wire.
“I am.”
“Then take a look at this piece of paper and tell me if you recognize the address.”
Yousaf looked at Tom, who smiled and surreptitiously nodded, at the same time signaling friendship and urgency.
Yousaf replied, quick as a flash, “Yessir. That’s where I live. In Peshawar, North West Frontier Province.”
The trained mind, which had won the Pakistani a degree in chemical engineering, and then gained him entry into the University of London, was still functioning. Almost as well as the intuition that had saved him from death over and over.
James Myerson turned to Staff Sergeant Biff and requested the cell door be opened. Biff obliged and the two armed guards went in first, rifles raised. Degree or no degree, Yousaf ’s formidable reputation had preceded him into this place. No chances were taken on him, neither would the regime ever relax their unshakeable belief that Yousaf was a terrorist, a killer, a bomb maker, guilty of mass murder in Baghdad, Iraq, and had assassinated a senior U.S. diplomat.
There had been nights when Yousaf had hallucinated and then muttered to himself, partly as a result of extreme sleep deprivation, and partly due to the administration of tranquilizers designed to keep him calm. On these nights, Sergeant Ransom would walk softly in his desert combat boots and stand outside in the corridor with an Arabic interpreter, trying to pick up the gist of Yousaf’s rantings as they strained their ears in the silence of the sweltering hot night.
They have ransacked our land of its riches, plundered our oil fields, killed our people. There will be blood, much more blood. America will bleed again as they did before. I will never put down my sword until the Infidel dies. Allah is great. There is no other God but Allah, and death to the Infidel. Let The Sheik and his followers smash the Americans again and again. . . . Let the towers fall and the blood flow because in the end we must win. Death to the Infidel. Death I say, whatever the cost.
They entered the cell, right behind the guards. The door was slammed shut behind them. Yousaf, standing up now, faced them from the back of the cell, and James asked him if he was prepared to answer his questions. Once more he confirmed that he and his colleague were there to help Yousaf gain his freedom, and that they were in the pay of the Saudi clerics.
The man who had, without question, committed every one of the crimes of which he was accused, had nothing to lose. In truth, the Americans did not know the half of it. Yousaf had been involved in the production of possibly fifty car bombs in the gloomy rubble-strewn cellars of Northern Baghdad.
He had killed and maimed dozens of young U.S. combat troops. He had been a sniper, an assassin, and a rocket operator. Up in the Hindu Kush, he’d been one of al-Qaeda’s top battle technicians, planning assaults on small groups of U.S. special forces. Twice he had slammed a Stinger missile into U.S. helicopters and brought them both down with no survivors.
For two bits, Biff Ransom would have shot him right then and there. James Myerson, however, whose principal duty was to keep the Epstein billing clock running hard, was more kindly disposed toward his bearded meal-ticket.
“Yousaf,” he said, “I have to ask you this. Are you guilty of any of the crimes with which you have been charged?”
“No, I am not,” replied the terrorist. “They have always said I shot some American official and bombed a hotel in Baghdad. I’ve never even been to Iraq. I’ve always lived in Pakistan, around the Swat Valley, or Peshawar, near the border. ”
“Papers? Documents?” asked James. “Passport, credit cards?”
“I’ve never had a passport. I never left the area. And I’m too poor to have a credit card. I’m just a farmer.”
Biff rolled his eyes heavenward. James pressed on. “Did you live in the village where you were arrested?”
“No. I was just visiting Ibrahim. You don’t need passports in the mountains. There’s no checks. It’s hard to know whether you are in Afghan or Pakistan.”
James nodded. “Did the military tribunal find you guilty of any crimes?”
“I think so. But I didn’t know what they were saying. I heard the officer recommend that I could never be let out of here. And I’ve been here ever since.”
“Have you had contact with your family?”
“I’ve lost touch. I’m alone now.”
At this point Biff Ransom could restrain himself no longer. “Speaks pretty good English for a poor mountain farmer. Guys who’ve never been out of the fucking peach groves.”
“I imagine there’s a lot of English spoken in a city like Peshawar,” replied Tom Renton patiently. “He could have learned. The Brits ruled the place for generations, right?”
“Have you read the tribunal report on this guy and his pal?”
“Not yet.”
“May I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Sure, Staff Sergeant, go right ahead.”
“Do you think we’re all stupid? Do you think it was some kind of a fluke that the SEALs went in and hauled out a couple of goat-herders who just happened to speak fluent English in one of the most remote, backward, and illiterate areas in the fucking universe?”
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