The Prisoner of Guantanamo (15 page)

“Been saving it for you. Soon as you give the go-ahead we'll send his things home.”

“This afternoon's fine with me for anything I don't decide to keep. His hometown's Buxton, Michigan?”

“Yeah. About a hundred miles from Lansing.”

“Most of the people in your unit from that area?”

“For the most part.”

Posted above the bed were the photographs he'd expected to find. A pretty wife, a healthy-looking daughter who was maybe four or five, and a baby not more than a few months old. Ludwig himself was in one shot, and Falk was momentarily taken aback. He recognized the face from some of his nocturnal rounds in Camp 3, Adnan's area. He supposed that made perfect sense, seeing as how Ludwig had been on the 8 p.m.-to-4 a.m. shift. And none of the JIG people like himself were supposed to know the guards by name, or vice versa, lest anyone mistakenly utter a name within earshot of a detainee. That was why the guards used fake nicknames, often Arab ones, just for kicks.

The footlocker was about half full. On top was a battered Tom Clancy paperback, but that was the only book. If you didn't read much here, then you didn't read much anywhere. There were some civilian clothes, another uniform, some shaving items, a few music CDs and a portable player with headphones. Celine Dion and Garth Brooks. Banker music for the new millennium. Some blank stationery for letters home and a couple of pens. A towel, a softball mitt, a pair of running shoes. But there were no swimming trunks, nor was there anything resembling a diary or a notebook. He dug to the bottom, expecting to unearth a cache of letters from his wife. But there was no evidence of that, either. Maybe Ludwig communicated only by phone and e-mail. Plenty of others did. He'd have to ask to see those records as well, although that would mean more hoops to jump through.

“What were his regular duties?”

“The NCOIC for his shift in Camp Three.” Meaning noncommissioned officer in charge. Falk would need to see the duty roster, check with other soldiers on his shift.

“Has anyone said anything about his state of mind? Was he upset? Depressed?”

“Ludwig kept a lot to himself. But I've asked, and everybody says there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Private Calhoun here was probably his best friend.”

Falk turned to see a moon-faced private seated three bunks down, cap in hand, as expectant as a job applicant.

“Corporal Belkin told me about you the other night on the beach,” Falk said.

“Told me about you, too,” Calhoun responded, in a tone suggesting he hadn't liked what he heard. Jesus, but these guys were touchy.

“These questions have to be asked, private, even if some of them are unpleasant. I'm told you were the last to see him. Is that still the case, as far as you know?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where might that have been?”

“Dinner. Seaside galley.”

“Remember what you talked about?”

Calhoun shrugged, looking off toward the corner. Either he was hiding something or he didn't give a damn what Falk thought.

“Well? Football? Women?”

“Yeah. Something like that. Small talk.”

“What time you finish up?”

“Around six thirty.”

“And afterward?”

“A couple of us went to watch TV. He said he was going for a walk. He did that sometimes after dinner.”

The banker taking his postprandial constitutional, just like on Main Street. Only this one never returned. There would have been a few hours of daylight left. Maybe he spent them on the beach, watching the sunset while he sank into a wallow of depression.

“And no one saw him after that?”

Calhoun shook his head, now looking at his feet.

“Were you guys friends from Buxton?”

“Yes, sir. Used to hunt together. Double-dated before we were married.”

“How was his marriage?”

“Happy.” Now he was looking up, an expression of defiance.

“What did he like to do down here in his spare time?”

“Same as the rest of us. Movies. Go online.” Yep, an e-mailer for sure.

“He do any boating?”

“None of us did. Not much water around Buxton. This place is kind of wasted on us.”

“Did he swim?”

“He'd go in the ocean.” A tad defensive, it seemed to Falk.

“Just wondering, because it doesn't look like he had any trunks.”

Calhoun shrugged. Not his problem.

“Sorry to be indelicate, private, but did he have anything going down here? A woman on the side, maybe?”

Parker reddened—in anger, not embarrassment.

“No, sir. He was straight as an arrow. A banker.” As if that clinched the deal.

“What was the name of his bank?” Falk should give them a call.

“Farmers Federal. He'd been promoted to branch manager a month before our deployment. You don't get promoted at a place like that when things are funny, or you're having some kind of personal problems.”

“Understood, soldier. Tell me one last thing. Even before those last few days, did he ever seem at all depressed? Uneasy?”

“Look around you, sir.” Calhoun gestured to include the other three soldiers. “Do any of us look thrilled? We've been here ten months, with two to go. Anybody who doesn't get a little depressed about that is the guy who needs his head examined. But none of us thinks about killing ourselves. This is the last place we'd want to end our lives.”

“I get the message, private.” Falk shut his notebook, then the footlocker. “Send this home whenever you like, colonel. But I'd like a copy of his personnel records.”

“Some of that I'll have to get faxed from unit headquarters, back in Michigan.”

“Good enough. I'll just have a last look around, then.”

The colonel nodded and left. Two of the other soldiers followed, but Calhoun stayed, as if keeping a vigil over his buddy's possessions. Falk glanced at the photos again. Posted next to them was a faded Christmas card. He checked under the bed, but there was nothing on the floor or beneath the mattress. He was still bothered by the absence of letters. There should be
something
besides e-mail, especially for a guy who had hung on to a Christmas card for more than seven months.

“You guys get much mail from home?” he asked Calhoun.

“They already came for his letters.”

Falk looked up.

“Who did?”

“The security people. They said it was authorized.”

“Was your CO with them?”

“No. But they had the key to the footlocker, so we figured it was cleared.”

The
key? Or some kind of universal key? Footlockers like this one were a piece of cake to open if you knew what you were doing.

“What do you mean, security people?”

“The security task force for J-DOG.”

Van Meter's people. Falk should have been told.

“You catch any of their names?”

Calhoun shook his head.

“One was a captain, though. Saw his stripes.”

Maybe it was Van Meter himself.

“Tell you what, Calhoun. Next time you see him around town, how 'bout you look for his name and jot it down. Then call me.” He scribbled down his number.

This, at least, seemed to get Calhoun interested, perhaps by making him feel like a part of the process. Maybe that's why he offered his next bit of information.

“You might check the P.O. All they took was his old mail.”

“You guys don't get delivery at the barracks?”

“No, sir. We have to pick it up. Earl checked every day. A lot of us do. If the line's long enough it kills a whole half hour sometimes.”

Two days of mail had arrived since Ludwig's disappearance, so it was worth a try. Maybe a captain like Van Meter, accustomed to delivery straight to his office, wouldn't have thought to check.

“Thanks, private.”

Calhoun nodded, sullen again. He stayed on the bunk while Falk exited.

         

C
AMP
A
MERICA'S “POST OFFICE”
was a converted panel barracks, and there was indeed a long line. Falk ducked past it to the counter.

“You looking for something?” a sergeant demanded.

He flashed his Bureau ID.

“I'm here on the Ludwig case. I need any of his uncollected mail.”

“You'll have to do better than that if you want to see it, much less take custody.”

“Would General Trabert's word be good enough?”

That at least tempered the sergeant's attitude.

“You got a written order?”

“No. You got a phone?”

“Not for unauthorized personnel.”

Falk checked the name on the uniform. Keaton.

“All right, have it your way. I'll just drive over to the Pink Palace and tell the general that some goddamn Sergeant Keaton made me come over and interrupt whatever he was doing just to get a letter of authorization. Works for me.”

“Phone's at the desk,” Keaton said.

Not only was the general in, he'd been trying to reach Falk for more than an hour.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Damned near good afternoon, but I'm satisfied to hear you're walking the beat. The quicker you conclude this, the better, given the day's earlier events. Guess you heard.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which brings me to the point of this call.” As if the general had phoned him. “One of the team members has been trying to reach you. They need an audience with you, and seemed to think I'd know how to get in touch.”

Falk glanced toward the officious Sergeant Keaton, who had picked up a clipboard and was trying to act as if he weren't eavesdropping.

“Any particular reason?”

“He didn't say. It was your buddy, Ted Bokamper.”

Falk relaxed. Just like Bo to try and reach him through the general. Managing to stir up both of them while getting what he needed.

“You're to meet him at thirteen hundred hours, at the marina.”

He checked his watch. Just enough time to stop by the house for a quick bite and a change of clothes for sailing. Bo and he would have their private chat, after all, and he couldn't imagine a better place for it than the deck of a sailboat, out on Guantánamo Bay. It was a good thing the general couldn't see his smile.

“Yes, sir. I'll be there.”

“Now. You must have called for a reason.”

“Ludwig's mail. I'm at the Camp America P.O. and need authorization to pick it up. There's a cooperative sergeant here who says that a verbal is all he needs.”

“Put him on.”

Falk handed over the phone and watched as Keaton nodded rigidly, saying, “Yes, sir,” three times in succession. After the third one he handed the receiver back.

“He wants you again. I'll get the mail.”

Falk took the phone while Keaton disappeared.

“Sir?”

“One more thing, Falk. As you make your rounds, keep my wishes in mind. Whatever you're hearing, I want to know it. Before they do. In fact …”

You could hear papers being shuffled, a hand covering the mouthpiece while Trabert consulted with someone else. “Why don't you stop by my office this evening? Let's say eighteen hundred hours, for dinner and a debriefing. Just you and me. Better that way.”

“It'll be my pleasure, sir.”

That was one lie. Falk wondered how many more he'd have to tell before the day was out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
HE MARINA, NOT
the Tiki Bar, was Falk's preferred means of escape at Gitmo. He tried to find time to go sailing once a week, having settled on a twenty-seven-foot Hunter as his favorite therapy. It was a little banged up, but the rental was cheap. And there was nothing further removed from the confinement of the interrogation booth than cruising the open water of the bay—salt spray in your face and sun at your back, perhaps with a manatee as an escort, a brown bulge beneath the waves. After the iron chill of Maine's rocky shoals that Falk had grown up navigating, Guantánamo Bay seemed like a big swimming pool, bathtub-warm and punch-bowl green. With a few beers aboard he could spend hours tacking and running, hauling the sheets until the sails were set to the edge of the wind.

It was where he took Pam for their first real date, impressing her with his easy seamanship. On a later weekend they piled camping equipment onto a skiff and motored out to Hospital Cay, a slender spit of land where they stayed overnight. It was the only time during the posting when Falk had felt like he was somewhere else.

Recently the authorities had eased up on the rules by letting boaters exit the bay, a concession mostly to fishermen eager to troll the ocean. Even then, you were pretty much restricted to an eleven-square-nautical-mile area known as the Tackle Box, to keep you from straying into Cuban waters. Up to now Falk had stuck to the bay, but today he had other ideas. This would be a working cruise.

As Falk prepared for sailing, he glanced again at the haul of Ludwig's mail from the post office. It was disappointing—one stamped letter with a handwritten return address in Buxton, Michigan, and a metered mailing from Ludwig's bank, Farmers Federal, also postmarked in Buxton.

Pushed for time, he tossed them on his bed and changed quickly into shorts and a T-shirt, grabbing a cap, a rain jacket, and a handheld GPS on his way out the door. The chances of foul weather were virtually zero, but Falk never underestimated the sea.

Bokamper was waiting at the marina snack bar, reading a week-old newspaper at a picnic table while a radio played the sort of public service announcement typical to Armed Forces broadcasting: “Your fingernails, use them in good health!”

“How'd you manage to shake the rest of the team?” Falk asked.

“The better question would be how I managed to hang around as long as I did. Fowler and Cartwright asked me to take a hike for a while.”

“Off planning their next move?”

“With their new friends.”

“Van Meter and company.”

“Guess you saw the conclave at breakfast.”

“Who could miss it? Was that intentional?”

Bo nodded. “Fowler wanted to show a united front with the locals, and they were his choice. Didn't put the troops at ease, huh?”

“Oh, the troops probably loved it. It's the Joint Intelligence Group that's spooked. Especially considering Fowler's taste in friends. Not Rieger, the other two.”

“Van Meter and Lawson. Exactly who I wanted to talk about.”

“On the water,” Falk answered, nodding toward Skip, the marina manager, who was also reading a paper but was close enough to hear every word.

“Think OPSEC,” Bo said in a stage whisper.

“Fast learner, but still a smart-ass.”

On the counter, Falk unrolled one of the charts he'd picked up from Ensign Osgood and laid out his proposed float plan for Skip, a big fellow in his forties who wore cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He smelled like motor oil and suntan lotion.

“I'll be pushing the envelope a little,” Falk said, amusing himself by borrowing the general's favorite term, “but I won't get anybody in trouble.”

Skip frowned, then nodded slowly.

“You ought to take one of those Sea Chasers. You can get five-foot waves out there in a heartbeat.”

The Sea Chaser was a motorboat. No deal.

“The Hunter will handle it fine,” Falk said. “C'mon, Skip. You know I'm good for it.”

“Fair enough. But I'll have to phone you in to the observation outpost. They're not used to seeing sails out there.”

“We're leaving the bay?” Bokamper said as they walked to the dock.

“Figured I could look at where Ludwig went in from the ocean side.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I'll know it if I see it. Fresh perspective, I guess. The ocean killed him, might as well get the ocean's point of view.”

“Criminal profiling for a force of nature. That the kind of mystic bullshit the Bureau's teaching these days?”

“Easy. I'm captain, you're crew. Any further mutinous talk and I'm cutting your beer rations.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“How 'bout helping with these sail covers?”

A few minutes later they were under way, small waves slapping the hull as Falk steered up into the wind. It was sunny and hot again—another black flag day—but the breeze from the water offered relief, and in only a few minutes he began to relax. He braced against the heeling of the deck, hands on the vibrating wheel as a gust popped the big jib.

“Moves nicely,” Bo said.

“Your tax dollars at work. She's very forgiving. Maybe even enough for you take the helm.”

“No, thanks. Just let me know which ropes to pull.”

“Sheets. Not ropes.”

“Then how 'bout if we put three of them to the wind? Toss me a beer.”

“The cooler's below, swabbie. Watch your head.”

Few ex-Marines were as seemingly proud of their nautical ignorance as Bokamper. Falk had long suspected it was Bo's way of emphasizing that he wasn't one of those Naval Academy snobs. He had instead gone to Officer Candidate School after graduating from the academically rigorous but socially freewheeling University of Virginia.

Bo handed him a beer. It tasted better out here. Maybe it was the salt in the breeze, just like the flavor around the rim of a margarita glass. Too bad they had to talk shop.

“Tell me about Allen Lawson,” Bo said. “The corporate guy. Hell, he's not even ex-military, is he? Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

“He's the type who would have told you if he'd served. Been here six months. Mostly as an interpreter, but also does some interrogating. Point man for Global Networks, meaning he's Boustani's main competitor. Thank God I speak the language, or I'd have ended up in the middle of one of their catfights. Everybody else has. Nobody was surprised to see Lawson getting chummy with the guys who nailed Boustani.”

“So you think they've cooked the books against Boustani?”

“You tell me.”

“A lot of the evidence sounds like chickenshit. But they won't let me close enough to see it firsthand. Complications involving corporate privacy concerns, according to Fowler.”

“That's bullshit. Just an excuse to shut you out.”

“Probably. But do me a favor. I'd love to get a look at the interrogation schedules for the past few weeks. See who Lawson and Boustani have been dealing with. Van Meter, too. How does that work, anyway? You sign up on some kind of dance card?”

“Normally you hand in a list of your targets the day before, which goes up through the intel chain of command for approval. Perfunctory, unless everybody's asking for the same guy. A copy goes to the MP support unit, then when you arrive at the gates you log your ID number and pick up your man at the holding cage, or just go wait in the booth.”

“And all those sign-up sheets will still be around?”

“Sure. But you don't need me to get them. Just check with the MP station.”

Bokamper shook his head.

“Don't want to attract unwanted attention.”

“What is it you're looking for?”

“Yemenis. Or any interrogators showing an undue interest in Yemenis lately.”

“That would be me, everyone else on my tiger team, and about half the members of the Gulf group.”

“Not from your team. Outsiders. People who otherwise would have no business talking to Yemenis.”

“Interesting. Any particular reason?”

“None I can share.”

“Then you can check it yourself.”

“C'mon, Falk. Just take a look next time you're inside. Or do it as part of the Ludwig investigation.”

“I do need to look up Ludwig's duty logs. Not that they'll have anything to do with what you're looking for.”

“You might be surprised.”

“What is it you're not telling me, Bo?”

Bo grinned. It was just like him to tease this way, to lead you to the threshold of a revelation then steer you in another direction.

“One thing I
can
tell you,” Bo said. “Fowler was a very busy man last night.”

“Setting up the arrest?”

“Among other things. Like stopping by Van Meter's place.”

“Another busy man. He collected Ludwig's mail.”

“Van Meter strikes me as a guy with his fingers in a lot of pies. Between you and me, he's the one who got the ball rolling on this arrest. His reports to Washington were setting off alarm bells all the way to the White House.”

Falk couldn't help but recall Whitaker's description of Van Meter's grudge against Boustani. In Gitmo's command structure, Van Meter's close working relationship with Lawson made perfect sense, but their cooperation in this crackdown was unsettling.

“So when was Fowler at Van Meter's?”

“Late. Well after midnight.”

“Sounds like you were a busy man, too.”

“Not half as busy as you, I bet.” Bo grinned rakishly. “She's a nice one.”

He had wondered when the subject of Pam would come up.

“Wish I could say she felt the same way about you.”

Bokamper laughed, almost a bark.

“She'll come around. Soon as she decides I'm not trying to lay her.”

“You guys seem to have figured each other out pretty quickly.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” Then his eyes got big. He looked sharply toward the bow. “Was that a manatee?”

Falk had seen the movement, too. “Port side?”

“If that still means left.”

“Dolphin. They're all over the place. Rays, too, up in the shallows. Keep watching. He'll resurface.”

A few seconds passed in silence while they squinted at the glare on the water. Then the gray body glimmered and broke the surface, moving at the same speed as the boat. It leaped gracefully through the air before again disappearing with hardly a splash.

“Beautiful,” Bo said. “You ever miss it?”

“What?”

“Living on the water. Didn't you practically grow up in a boat? Before your parents died, I mean.”

Even Bo, who knew more than most, wasn't privy to the secrets of Falk's supposed life as an orphan.

“Sometimes.”

“Then it must be nice being down here.”

“It's hard to think of this as ‘being on the water,' in a way. Too warm, like somebody's fish tank. I keep thinking one day I'll look down and see one of those divers with bubbles coming out of his helmet, standing next to a fake castle. Real water is cold. It's where work gets done. This stuff is leisure, nonthreatening, like somebody pumped it in from Disney World.”

“I dunno. It was pretty threatening for Sergeant Ludwig.”

“Maybe he wanted to die. What bugs me is how he ended up floating east.”

“Good question. Got any answers?”

Falk shook his head.

“But it's time for you to get to work. Uncleat that sheet and prepare to come about.”

“Translation?”

“Pop the rope free, then move to the other side and crank in the opposite one. Another tack should get us out of the bay.”

As they were leaving the bay, Falk pulled the GPS from his pocket. He wanted to plot some waypoints to check later on the chart.

“What's the gizmo?”

“A GPS. I'm checking our position.”

“Afraid we'll get lost?”

“For fun. It was a gift.”

“From her?”

Falk nodded.

“Nice gift. Not exactly the classic lover's present, but nice.”

Falk smiled. Those were almost the same words he had used to Pam, which had made her blush, especially the word “lover.” He had liked her answer even better.

“Well, I figured you're a sailor, and not the yacht club kind,” she had said. “Besides, you seem like a guy who always wants to know exactly where he is.”

She was right. He was ever conscious of getting his bearings, of knowing the set of his sails, particularly if there was a shoal ahead, whether in the form of troublesome authority or a woman hoping for more than he could deliver. Not that he had explained that part to Pam.

The jib luffed briefly as Falk drifted too close into the wind.

“Hey, lover boy,” Bo shouted, “keep your mind on your sailing. One drowning in a week is enough.”

         

E
NSIGN
O
SGOOD HAD BEEN RIGHT.
It was tough going heading east, once they cleared Windward Point. The trade winds were steady, and the current moved in concert. They tacked their way up the coast, hitting each swell in a burst of spray across the windward side of the hull. Bo looked a little green at first but persevered, and he soon got the hang of scrambling from one side to the other beneath the swinging boom, cranking in the jib sheet as Falk reset their course.

The coral bluffs of Windward Point glared at them from the left, giving way to the tiny crescent of Cable Beach. The shoreline looked more rugged than Falk had expected—rocky outcrops and reefs, with breaking waves revealing other shallow points along the way. A half mile later they passed another opening in the crags, at Cuzco Beach, where scuba divers liked to explore the reef. Falk spotted a few marker buoys on the surface, indicating the presence of divers below.

Hidden Beach, true to its name, was barely visible from the water. But Windmill Beach was impossible to miss. The wide crescent of sand smiled out at them after they'd been heading east for nearly an hour.