The Prisoner of Guantanamo (13 page)

Last night the Lizard had surprised him, even scared him a little, by coming for him at the worst of hours. It had thrown him off balance and made him want to hasten their conversation along. Perhaps that was what had jarred loose one of his deeper memories from his days in Yemen, an item that until then had been irretrievably buried. It was the name of Hussay, the man who had paid Adnan's way across the seas. Both travel agent and sponsor, Hussay had been yet another foreigner with a bad accent.

But Adnan's revelation seemed to have no effect. The Lizard seemed to think Hussay was just another Yemeni, and he infuriated Adnan by insisting on asking for a family name, as if people such as Hussay ever gave them. To make matters worse, one of the snakes of old then burst through the door. Adnan immediately recognized the reptile grin, the gray coat that had always been shed like an old skin whenever the squeezing began, peeled off against the chairback to stay in place as the snake rose from his seat, preparing to strike.

So Adnan refused to say anything more, even when it seemed that the Lizard was as angry at the snake as he was, an oddity that he wasted no time in reporting to his neighbors once he had returned to the burrow.

Adnan was still contemplating the implications of the matter as he rose from his bed at the hour—by his reckoning—of about 10 p.m. It was time for a journey, a walk through his hometown of Sana. These walks were another recent addition to his schedule. By pacing back and forth in his cell, he dreamed his way back home, step by step. If he shortened his stride just a little, he could squeeze in four steps for each trip across the floor, then make four more crossing back. It generally took about ten minutes before he left this place behind and found himself upon the streets and alleys of home, where the odd and timeless architecture made every building look like an iced layer cake of pale stones and white paint, with adornments on every door and window. Where to go today, then, on this late afternoon with the sunlight creeping low across the mountains, a cooling butterscotch that softened every corner and roofline. He crossed cobbles, and then pathways of packed mud, working his way east through the alley of the qaat parlors, where everyone chewed the intoxicating leaves and spit gobbets of brown juice onto the floor. Men crouched on their haunches upon wooden platforms raised before every storefront along the way. Onward he walked, climbing now, first up a hill and then up some stairs, to a third-story roof and its view across the city, Sana spread below him with its marketplace sounds clanking up to him across the rooftops. The smells came, too, of cardamom and of clean mountain air. His bare feet were cool upon the plaster. Then down to the bazaar he went, passing Ahmed's butcher shop, where the severed heads of five goats dripped blood into a plastic tub by the door. Ahmed sang as he skinned and trimmed the carcasses, shooing flies with each whisk of a long, glinting knife. Then came a voice calling out from far away. Adnan stopped in his tracks and saw himself facing the wall of his cell.

“Adnan!” It was one of the hawks. The door of his burrow unlatched, and a flurry of words came at him, all of them incomprehensible except the last, which had become a countersign that meant it was time to see the Lizard.

“Get moving, Adnan. They want you in interrogation.”

His first stop was at another burrow, a bare one where he always waited for the cart that took him to the lairs. But this time the routine was different. They bundled him onto a truck, a big green one like the ones that armies used on the march, with canvas flaps across the back. They bolted him down, then drove on. And, wonder of wonders, they drove through one gate, and then through another. He could see their progress through a space between the flaps.

Was it really possible? Was he leaving this place? Was he going home, back to the airplane that would fly him away to freedom, and to his mother and his sisters?

The ride proceeded into blackness, his first experience of true nightfall in ages. This natural darkness was like a balm, not frightening at all, and it was cooler out here as well, the air smelling like plants, like dirt, a world where your feet would feel the ground instead of concrete. In his growing excitement he allowed himself a sigh of relief. The bus climbed a hillside, and when the driver paused to shift gears, Adnan thought he heard the chorusing bugs of the night desert, which stirred him even more deeply.

His hopes sank, however, when the bus stopped at yet another gate, where hawks in smaller numbers circled with flashlights and shouted to one another, ushering the truck inside. He knew this place, he realized. It lived in his vaguest, most muddled memories from his arrival. It was where he had stayed for months before winding up in his current burrow. This was the place where the cages had been stacked from end to end. But now, even in the darkness, he could see they were empty and overgrown with vines that had spread across them from the adjacent hillside, this hated old home given over to the jungle.

They took him off the bus, his steps shortened by the irons around his ankles, and they shoved him toward a trailer like the one that contained the lairs. A door opened onto a lit room with a table, two chairs, and a mirror on the wall. But this time the Lizard was nowhere to be found.

Then the snakes arrived. There were two, both unfamiliar to him. One wore the mottled green plumage of the hawks. The other was in more typical snake's clothing, although not in the gray skin that some of them liked to shed. It was frigid in here. It felt about forty degrees after the heat outside, and the box in the wall blowing the cold air seemed to be turned as high as possible, wheezing loudly.

A hawk shackled his leg irons to the ring in the floor. Then the snake in mottled green muttered an order, and the hawk pulled Adnan's shirt up over his head. He knew better than to struggle, but it was freezing without his shirt. There seemed to be some confusion about what to do next, until finally the hawk unlocked his leg irons just long enough to strip off his pants, then his shorts, before hastily locking him back into place. When Adnan made a move to climb into the chair, the gray snake shoved him in the back until he fell to the floor. The hawk then handcuffed him and produced a chain, which he looped through the leg irons, pulling it tighter until the second snake barked a command. Adnan was hunched and chilly, a tickle rising in his throat and his sinuses clogging. A hood went over his head, and now he began to resist, but it was too late. Some sort of rope was pulled around his neck, just tight enough to keep the hood from slipping free. Then he heard furniture moving and chairs scraping the floor. A few moments later music began to play, like the screech of something electronic and rasping, a throbbing sound like a heartbeat, and all of it blended in a way that hurt his ears. Then it was louder still. He could barely hear the voice of the snakes over it all.

This went on for what seemed like hours until finally the music abated. His ears rang, aching from the noise and the cold. Then he felt one of the snakes leaning closer, the breath upon his ear, almost welcome if only for its warmth.

The snake spoke in its own tongue, then one of the jackals offered the words in distorted Arabic: “Tell me about Hussay, Adnan. Tell me about him and everyone else he worked with. Where was Hussay from, Adnan? You know, don't you? Where did he come from? Where was his home?”

Adnan didn't even bother to shake his head. The snake waited a while and then asked the same questions a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. And when Adnan still did nothing he sensed the snake easing away from him. Then the music resumed, louder than ever. And someone took the chain bolted to the floor and wrenched it tighter. The aching in Adnan's bent joints and arched back made it feel like someone was wringing him like a wet rag, and the coldness made his bones throb.

What was it that he had called this bit of information about Hussay, this memory that he had offered up to the Lizard only yesterday? His great gift. Yes, a gift that he now wished he had never offered. One of the snakes, it seemed, must have figured out exactly how great, even if the Lizard hadn't. If that were true, there was probably no way they would be stopping this treatment anytime soon. Not until they had the rest of his secrets.

But he made up his mind that they would never have it. Not now. None of them, neither the snakes nor the Lizard. Even if they killed him. He was no longer the mouse. He was the mole, blind to their lights and to this world aboveground.

And with every passing minute he dug deeper.

CHAPTER TEN

Our adversaries attempt to elicit information from us every day using all types of means. At times, they may even directly question you after you've spoken … . If someone other than another service member approaches you and questions you about our mission, units, or anything regarding our overall operation, you have an obligation to report it immediately. In the meantime remember that your conversations are never confidential in public or on the phones, especially in our environment. So do your part to eliminate our adversaries' ability to elicit information. “Think OPSEC.”

—From “OPSEC Corner,” a regular feature
of JTF-GTMO's weekly newspaper,
The Wire

T
HE FIRST ARREST
came before breakfast, when a grumbling convoy of Humvees arrived on the doorstep of an apartment at Villa Mar. The target was a translator, Lawrence Boustani, an Arabic linguist employed by one of the two big contractors, United Security. They handcuffed him in his pajamas while his housemates watched from the kitchen, blinking sleepily.

Boustani worked regularly with Pam's tiger team, so she immediately drew a crowd that morning at the mess hall. Everyone wanted details, but no one seemed to have them.

“His father's Lebanese, maybe that's the link,” she said. The breakfast regulars, Falk among them, leaned closer to catch every word. Heads were hunched at every table across the room, and conversation was muffled. Everyone seemed convinced this was only the first of several such actions.

“Isn't he a Navy guy?” Whitaker asked. “Retired or something?”

“Army,” Pam corrected. “Eighty-second Airborne. Bragg and a few overseas postings. Got out in '99. He's a good guy.”

“Plenty of good guys have done us in before,” said Phil LaFarge, a member of Falk's tiger team, an analyst from Army Intelligence.

“So we're assuming guilt now?” Whitaker said. “Remember, this is a Pentagon operation.”

“Well, I know Tyndall never trusted him.”

“Tyndall didn't
like
him. Never heard him say anything about trust.”

“Maybe 'cause he doesn't trust
you,
being from the Bureau.”

“Then I guess I'll be next.”

Nervous laughter. Gallows humor. You could easily predict how the day would unfold. By lunch there would be newly minted jokes and a fresh set of suppositions. By dinner some of the jokes would have already been e-mailed to colleagues in Washington and at various military bases in the States. In some quarters Boustani would be deemed the greatest threat to national security since Osama bin Laden. In others he would be a scapegoat, the new Dreyfus.

“Guess this knocks you off the front page,” Whitaker said to Falk, referring to the previous day's sensation over Ludwig.

“As if any of this stuff would ever make it into
The Wire.
”

“Think OPSEC, fellas,” Whitaker chirped. “Hey, speak of the devil.”

There they were, the three members of the team, striding into the mess hall, fresh from the kill. Bland as ever, they certainly didn't look like spy hunters. Cartwright's uniform seemed to have gotten an overnight starch-and-press job. Fowler wore a gold polo and khaki slacks, looking like a real estate salesman. Bokamper lagged a few steps behind—intentionally, Falk presumed. He was sockless, wearing loafers, and he nodded across the room to Falk as they headed for a table in a far corner. Business breakfast.

“Plotting their next move,” LaFarge said. “Whitaker, if you're lucky you can catch the ten-ten to Jacksonville.”

“I'll hire some ambulance chaser and plead the Fifth.”

Falk caught Pam's eye. She wore an expression like the others, one part worry and two parts excitement. It was like upheaval in any office or big organization. Even when the news was bad, it produced a shot of adrenaline, a burst of energy that spent itself on gossip, hand-wringing, and manic fascination. Productivity would be down the toilet for the rest of the week, which was probably exactly what Trabert feared most about this task force. Falk wondered if the prisoners would notice the difference, the subtle change in air pressure. The thought reminded him of Adnan. Somehow he had to find time for a follow-up session, even if other items were higher on his crowded agenda. He was already backlogged on the Ludwig case. Then there was the nagging matter of “Harry,” who would have to be visited.

He looked up to see Pam still watching him. After leaving the Tiki Bar last night he had stopped by her place to pick her up, and they'd made a late night of it. They drove to his house, opening the front door to hear Whitaker's snores competing with the drone of the repaired air conditioner, which made the place as chilly as a hospital. They had another drink on the couch, then spent a pleasurable hour in bed. Falk found that he missed the heat, the usual slickness of their bodies, although fooling around in the cold reminded him of parking on a fall night in Maine—owls hooting in the trees while you kept an eye out for Deer Isle's one overnight cop.

Afterward he took her home. It was part of the charade here. Everyone back in his own bunk by dawn. They drove the narrow, twisting lanes past cactus plants beneath a deep, starry sky, headlights offering glimpses of a transplanted American suburbia.

When they pulled up outside her apartment at Windward Loop—no lights on, roommates presumably asleep—she leaned against the car door and stretched like a cat. She still smelled like the bed, and he knew that when he got back to his room the whole place would be heady with her perfume. The night air breezed through the car's open windows, a dry grassy scent baking off the land.

“So is it true what they say?” Pam asked with a mischievous grin. “That you love 'em and leave 'em? A girl in every deployment?”

Falk had a pretty good idea where that had come from, but given his track record he supposed the question was fair enough.

“It's been true at times. A few weeks ago I might have said it was going to be true here. But lately it doesn't feel that way. I find it hard to believe we'll just say good-bye once our posting's up.”

“Me, too. That would be too painful. The kind of pain I like to avoid, if at all possible.”

He supposed that was his cue to bow out gracefully if he was at all weak-kneed about a possible future together. He smiled, but at first said nothing.

“Are you uncomfortable talking about this?” she asked. “We can always do it later.”

“No. Just out of practice. It's been years.”

“It's okay to be out of practice. I was more worried you've had too much practice, that this was just another part of the routine.”

Falk shook his head.

“It is funny, though, when you think about it, us having this conversation. Considering what we're doing down here. Asking questions for a living. Prying out information. I mean, it's not like we don't have the skills to get to the heart of it. But we're just sitting here, waiting for each other to make the first move.”

“Maybe I'm just watching your nonverbal clues.”

He smiled wryly. He supposed both of them were wondering how much scrutiny they could stand at this stage of the game. Whenever an interrogation reached a delicate point, the paramount rule was trust. Falk wondered if they were yet willing to test that trust by revealing all their feelings, and he flashed on the old advice from Quantico, the bit about “overcoming resistance through compassion.” But would either of them admit to offering resistance just now?

“Well, seeing as how we're a couple of professionals,” Pam said, “am I allowed one more prying question?”

Falk nodded.

“Is there anybody else I should know about? Either back in Washington or, well, any other place?”

Her way of asking about the perfumed letter, he supposed. Maybe that's what had triggered the conversation.

“No one who matters,” he said, holding her gaze. “How 'bout you?”

“The same.”

“So what else did Bo say about me while I was getting drinks?”

“That you were engaged once.”

He blushed, thankful for the darkness.

“A mistake of my youth.”

“Never to be repeated?”

“It can't be repeated. I'm no longer a youth. Any future mistake will be the fully informed error of an old pro.”

“I can live with that.”

“Of course, you do realize that now I'll have to ask Bo for a full scouting report on your end of the conversation.”

“Feel free.”

“Good. 'Cause I'm seeing him first thing in the morning.”

Pam frowned.

“Be careful with him.”

“Bo? Hell, I've known him for years. He's like a …”

“Big brother?”

“Yeah.”

“He told me that, too.”

“Well, there you go.” Although now he felt a little trumped by his friend, which Pam seemed to notice.

“Don't feel bad. He was probably just trying to get in my pants.”

“Gimme a break.”

“Why, 'cause he's married?”

“For starters.”

“Means nothing to guys like him. Neither does ‘poaching.' Believe me.”

“He's just a big flirt. Always has been.”

“And has always followed it up, I'll bet. Not that he'd want his little brother to know. So don't be naive. Especially not until we know what those creeps are really up to. Remember, he's one of them.”

“Bo says he's out of the loop.”

She rolled her eyes, flashes of white in the starlight.

“Another likely story,” she said, but with less of an edge. She reached over to caress his cheek, luring him across the vinyl seat, springs creaking. They were high schoolers again, locked in a prolonged smooch by the curb. Falk half expected an angry dad to shout from the porch.

“So is this just another part of my ‘tough-gal' act?” she whispered, coming up for air.

“That really got under your skin, didn't it?”

“You're the only one who does that.” Another nuzzle, a whiff of sweat and jasmine, so Falk let it rest. But he still wondered, because he'd seen this reaction before with Bo—the initial anger, the women claiming to loathe the man. Then they did a 180 and fell for him, crossing the line between anger and passion in a single nimble step.

A few hours later, when Falk was sleeping soundly, the phone rang. Whitaker knocked at the bedroom door to say that the call was for him. It was 6 a.m. He'd been dreaming of old Havana, he realized, Elena's perfume mingled with Pam's. A hotel room with a ceiling fan, the sound of congas drifting in from the streets. All of that played in his mind as he stumbled to his feet. Muddled, he plodded down the hall, reproaching himself for not yet having seen Adnan. Too preoccupied with women and friends. The kitchen was freezing, the linoleum floor icy against his bare feet. Bokamper's voice fairly shouted over the line.

“Gotta cancel our beach trip, buddy. Urgent war party to attend.”

Falk came instantly awake.

“So it's starting. Got a name?”

“Like I said, I'm just here to observe.”

Now, as Falk sat at the breakfast table in the mess hall, he wondered if Bo had been leveling with him. Pam certainly wouldn't believe it, but Pam didn't know the man, nor did she know their history, the storms they'd weathered, the trust they'd built. Whatever the case, Fowler must have decided overnight to take immediate action, or else Bo wouldn't have set up their beach appointment to begin with. Maybe all the irreverent chatter at the Tiki Bar had convinced Fowler that he had to act right away.

“Well, would you look at that,” LaFarge suddenly marveled.

Three new arrivals to the mess hall were striding toward the team. Fowler handled introductions while Cartwright pulled up chairs for everybody. By all appearances they were invited guests.

“What do you think?” Whitaker asked. “Victims or collaborators?”

“Captain Rieger's no surprise,” LaFarge said. “Walt's the head of Army counterintelligence for the JTF, so they'd have to include him. Protocol.”

“But Van Meter and Lawson?” Falk asked. He was referring to Captain Carl Van Meter and Allen Lawson. The former was in uniform. The latter wasn't.

“Lawson's corporate. Global Networks.”

“Nothing puzzling about that,” Whitaker said. “Lawson is Boustani's competition. Probably gets a bonus for helping send him up the river.”

“Or maybe he's just doing the right thing,” piped up Stu Sharp, an Air Force investigator. “Van Meter's the one I can't figure. What's his official title?”

“Intelligence officer for the security force,” Whitaker said. “J-DOG's House Snitch.”

“Only when it comes to House Arabs,” Sharp said. “He gets pissed when he sees any of the Arabic linguists praying. Must think they're reciting the Pledge of Jihad or something.”

“I have to admit, it gives me the heebie-jeebies, too,” LaFarge said. “I know it shouldn't, but when you see the detainees doing it all day, then one of your interpreters starts in …” He shook his head.

“Van Meter told me once that he believes we're in a war for the survival of our culture,” Whitaker said with amusement.

“He's right,” LaFarge said.

“But with Boustani?
He's
the enemy? Hell, Boustani grew up in Brooklyn.”

“Means nothing once you get religion. But I'll give you one thing. Van Meter does have it in for Boustani. Thinks he's too nice to the Saudis. Must've filed a dozen complaints about it to Rieger.”

“Looks like it paid off.”

“C'mon guys, none of us know what else they have. Or what they found at Boustani's house.”

“Spoken like a true prosecutor,” Falk said. “You sure you're not a DA, LaFarge?”

“Well, I'll guarantee one thing,” Whitaker said. “This arrest will be a big hit with the rank and file. You should've seen the looks the MPs gave Boustani whenever he started in about the peace and beauty of Islam.”