The Prisoner of Guantanamo (20 page)

Falk cupped his hand at Bo's ear and shouted back.

“I tried to find you at your place. Endler was right. Paco wants a meet.”

“In Miami?” Bo yelled.

Falk nodded.

“I'll be staying at the same fleabag as before.”

Bo reached into his pocket and pulled a card from his wallet, nearly losing it in the wind.

“Call this man as soon as you're stateside.” It was like having a conversation in a wind tunnel. “Use a pay phone.”

The card had a State Department number and title, but Falk didn't recognize the name. His immediate reaction was outrage.

“I thought only you and Endler knew about this. How many people have you told?”

“He doesn't know the details. He just knows you're a player. I can't run this from here.”

“And Endler can't bother to get his hands dirty?”

“It's not like that, believe me. Just call him. Keep it as vague as you like, but call him. I'd have thought you of all people would understand a little confusion after everything that's come down this morning.”

Had there been another arrest?

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bo gave him a hard stare, hair blowing wildly as the shrieking engines revved another notch. The nearest MP stepped forward, reaching to tap Bo's shoulder.

“Jesus, didn't you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Pam. She was arrested.”

The bottom dropped out of Falk's stomach. The noise and wind became a huge ringing in his ears. The MP tugged Bo by a sleeve, and then shouted toward Falk.

“Sir, you've got to board the plane. We have to pull away the steps. It's time for your friend to leave the runway.”

Bo took a step back, but Falk held his ground, still too stunned to move. He felt like a bull in a ring that had just taken a sword between the shoulders. Faces stared down from the small windows of the jet, everyone watching him crumple, the engines roaring like a crowd calling for blood.

“For what?” he called out, but Bo either didn't hear or didn't know, and just shook his head.

“On the plane, sir. Now!”

Falk turned dumbly, and as the MP nudged him in the small of the back he wasn't sure whether to feel enraged or betrayed, so he settled for both, and a knot of impotent anger exploded from the base of his throat.

“Enough, goddamn it! Take your fucking hands off!”

He plodded up the steps, the MP on his tail.

Falk turned at the top of the steps. “I'm going!”

The MP retreated at the sight of his face. A stewardess with a worried look stepped from the cockpit to take him gently by the elbow and steer him aboard, shutting the door behind him. That put a lid on the noise, and Falk found himself bewildered and staring at the head of the aisle, every face looking forward, soldiers and their families wondering what the hell all that had been about.

They were rolling almost the instant he buckled his seat belt. Then another thought brought a fresh burst of rage. No wonder Trabert wanted him gone. So they could arrest his girlfriend without protest, question her all weekend without fear of interference. Within the past twenty-four hours, two of the three people he was closest to at Gitmo—it was odd admitting to himself that one of them was a detainee—had been moved beyond his reach, one of them dispatched to Agency oblivion, the other to points unknown.

Then there was Bo, who may or may not have been lying about having kept Falk's involvement with the Cubans a closely held secret all these years. He looked at the business card again, and read the benign-sounding title. “Special assistant to the undersecretary.” Him and how many others? How many files out there now had Falk's name in them, and how widely did they circulate?

The plane accelerated, then tilted upward as it left the ground. Two rows back a baby began to wail. You and me both, kid. He glanced out the window for a last look at Gitmo as the jet banked over the glittering sea, and he wondered if he would see this place again. If he'd been faced with that prospect a few days ago, he might have said good riddance and opened a cold beer. Now it seemed like the most important thing in the world that he somehow make it back, welcome or not.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

F
ALK FELT WATCHED
and harried from the moment he landed. He checked his flanks as he waded through the crowd of relatives waiting outside the Navy terminal. Then he caught a base shuttle bus to the Yorktown Gate on Route 17, where he had arranged for a rental car to be waiting.

Barely pausing, he headed straight for southbound I-95. But once he hit the open road he realized how shaken he was and pulled off at the first exit, then sat for fifteen minutes in the parking lot of a convenience store, sipping overbaked coffee and chewing a stale doughnut.

Between the shock of Pam's arrest and his nervousness over what lay ahead, he felt like a man on the run who had lost a step, a magician without his props. All through his life he had kept a place of refuge within easy reach, whether it was the clapboard library in Deer Isle, some mossy nook in the woods, or, in Washington, a quiet bar just off the Metro's Red Line, a dim and musty place in Northeast with no Bureau people, no lobbyists, and no staffers from the Hill. At Gitmo there was the relative freedom of the bay. Here, not even the miles of flat, open countryside and the thousands of passing cars could convince him that he had blended into the scenery. He felt exposed at every turn.

As for Pam, where the hell must they have put her? A cell at Gitmo? Or might she already be en route via charter to a Navy brig in Norfolk, or South Carolina? Perhaps they had only confined her to quarters. Bo had said “arrested,” but he hadn't said “charged.” It was a distinction to cling to, the only item of hope still afloat in the wreckage.

Falk found himself wondering how he would approach her as an interrogator, knowing what he did of her wants and weaknesses. She had grown up on a farm, self-appointed peacekeeper between a strict father and a weary mom. The constant between then and now was the call of duty or, from Falk's point of view, the rituals of obedience. The military's itinerant lifestyle demanded plenty, but in return you were freed from making many of life's toughest decisions. If they needed something from her it would be pretty easy to get it simply by threatening her way of life. Just tell her that they were going to pull the plug on her career, withdraw support of the one institution she relied on. Then show her how its needs were the same as hers, and appeal to her loyalty, her deep need to make things right.

Those same factors made it unlikely she would have done anything to jeopardize all that. Had she unwittingly colluded with a detainee? Even that seemed out of the question. If true, then she had fooled everyone—but hadn't Falk already done that for years? Maybe they were well matched in ways he hadn't fathomed.

He thought back to their recent conversation at breakfast, when she had warned him about a tale making the rounds inside the wire. Falk had been so preoccupied with other matters that he'd barely given it a second thought—something about a Syrian babbling about an ex-soldier and Cubans. Impossible, yet there it was—a thread of truth somehow plucked from his own life by a jailed Arab.

So maybe all they wanted from her was information, secrets she would otherwise be reluctant to give up. Involving him? Boustani? Her notes?

Falk turned the key in the ignition, then sat a moment longer. He fished out his wallet and retrieved the business card Bo had given him on the tarmac. Chris Morrow. An unknown. This had always been his worst nightmare about the setup with Endler and Bo—that they would widen the loop. Or maybe Bo had told the truth, and this fellow Morrow didn't know any details. The only way to find out was by calling, as Bo had instructed, so he shut off the engine and walked to the pay phone at the corner of the parking lot.

He called collect, and Morrow picked up on the first ring. It was a young voice, mid-twenties at the most, Falk guessed, feeling insulted. Morrow's damn-glad-to-meet-you enthusiasm made him sound like just the sort of fellow who would be talking about this over lunch.

“I was expecting you,” he said. “Bo said you'd call.”

Bo. Like they'd been friends for ages.

“You spoke with him?”

“Got an e-mail. All I know is that you're to be looked after once you reach Miami. The boss is making the rest of the arrangements.”

“Endler?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did Bo say anything about Pam?”

“Pam? Was he supposed to?”

“Guess not. Next time you hear from him, tell him I asked.”

“P-A-M? Like the cooking spray?”

Jesus. “Yes.”

“Will do. And he, uh, he said I should ask you for the latest. See if you had set up the meet. Get your whereabouts.”

“The meet with who?”

“He didn't say.”

“Good. My whereabouts are Florida. I expect to be in Miami in six or seven hours. I doubt I'll know more 'til then.”

“He mentioned some fleabag motel where you're supposed to be staying?”

“That's right.”

“Got a name?”

“I'll get back to you.”

“A forwarding number?”

“Like I said, I'll call later. And, Morrow?”

“Yes?”

“Next time I want to speak with Endler. Him or nobody.”

“I'll pass it along.”

Before Falk even shifted into reverse, he began to worry about the rental car. He had phoned in the reservation yesterday, which left plenty of time for someone to have arranged for a bug, or a homing beacon. An outlandish idea, perhaps, but the conversation with Morrow bothered him enough that he checked the map for the nearest Hertz office. When he saw it was only ten miles away, he turned the car north. He would backtrack a little, demand a new car, and then watch the attendant to make sure there was no funny business.

The move cost him forty minutes, and the counter clerk eyed him like he was crazy. But by the time he was again headed south for Miami he had regained at least a semblance of peace of mind. Maybe all he had needed was to begin taking action, no matter how minor. Gitmo had a way of smothering such impulses, but here on the mainland he needed to think differently.

         

D
ESPITE ITS NAME,
the Mar Azul Motor Court was nowhere near the ocean. It hadn't changed a bit, except that rooms now cost thirty dollars more per night. Otherwise there were the same watermarked walls, the same stale smell of cigarette smoke, and the same rubbery shower curtains. There were even the same palmetto bugs—Florida's chamber-of-commerce name for cockroaches—running for cover when he switched on the bathroom light.

Falk hadn't even unzipped his bag when the phone rang. If it was Morrow or Endler he was going to go ballistic. Instead it was a husky voice with a Cuban accent—nothing unusual here—but it definitely wasn't Paco. Even after all this time, he'd have known.

“Mr. Falk?”

“Speaking.”

“Tomorrow. Twelve thirty, for lunch. You have a pencil?”

“And a notebook.”

“Café Casa Luna, 100 block of Northeast First Street. It's downtown. Sit at a table out front. Carry a Walgreens bag with a bottle of water. If there are others in your party, even those who might not be with you at the table, place the bag beneath the table. If you are unaccompanied, put the bottle on top. Here is what you will wear. Blue jeans, a white oxford shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow, sunglasses, and a blue Miami Dolphins cap. It won't be hard to find one.”

Nor would the rest of the wardrobe. Except for the cap, it was exactly what he was wearing now. He leaned toward the window from the bed and flipped back a curtain to scan the parking lot. Nobody in sight with a cell phone, and no one in the phone booth. His car was still the only one parked.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Come alone, or put the bag beneath the table. Otherwise the meeting is off.”

After hanging up, Falk found the location on his city map, then went for a stroll, taking his briefcase as a precaution. Before he knew it he was back on the route into Little Havana, just like old times. He stopped at the next pay phone and punched in Morrow's number.

Endler answered.

“What happened to the errand boy?”

“Easy, Falk. He's not in the know. Just a facilitator.”

“Anyone who knows my name is in the know as far as I'm concerned. I'm on for twelve thirty tomorrow, by the way. Lunch date.”

“Paco?”

“That's what Harry said. Someone else just phoned to set it up.”

“Got a location?”

“A café downtown, Casa Luna on Northeast First. A block north of Flagler.”

“Got it.”

“I won't wear a wire.”

“We're not asking you to. It's the first thing he'd check for.”

“They said no babysitters.”

“Of course they did. What's the all clear?”

“Water bottle in a Walgreens bag on top of the table. Goes underneath if I've got company. Said they'll take a pass if they spot any lookouts.”

“Which is why we're going to be extra careful. You won't even know we're there. Anything else?”

“There's a dress code. Jeans and a white oxford, sleeves rolled, plus a Dolphins cap.”

“They told you what to wear?” Endler chuckled, the reserved patrician laugh of a cocktail guest. “If I didn't know better I'd say that he's forgotten what you look like. Maybe he's not as good as I thought.”

“You sound like you know all about him.”

“We've heard plenty over the years, but no one has ever gotten his name, address, or photo. Every time we stake out a mailbox he leaves it alone. He's careful, he's good, and he's pretty much a lone wolf. This is our one chance to blow his cover.”

“Or blow mine.”

“Which is why I'm torn. I'd very much like to gig this frog—that's what they call them, you know, these autonomous operatives like Paco. Las Ranas del Árbol, the Tree Frogs. But I also want to protect you, and I'd certainly like to know what he has in mind for you. One last thing. We have a parcel for you. A cell phone, which would do you some good anyway. Save you a few quarters.”

“I'll stick with pay phones.”

“You don't have to use it, or even turn it on. Just carry it.”

“A locator beacon?”

“In case he's cleverer than we think. Where do we make delivery? The No-Tell Motel, is it?”

Falk hesitated, but figured they'd be on his trail tomorrow in any event. And if they got what they needed, maybe this would end the affair, a welcome conclusion.

“The Mar Azul Motor Court.”

“You travel in style. Room number?”

“Twelve.”

“It will arrive in a pizza box. Hope you like pepperoni.”

“It better not be Bureau people making delivery, or doing the babysitting tomorrow. I know about half the Miami field office.”

“We have our own resources.”

“Yours or the Agency's?”

“I'll sweat the details, Falk. You just show up. And bring the phone. If this works out, it's your curtain call. I'd expect you'd like that.”

“Understatement of the year.”

Falk returned to his room, and the pizza arrived cold twenty minutes later with a knock at the door. The delivery man was mid-twenties, blue and red Domino's uniform and a face that Falk didn't recognize, thank goodness. The phone was taped inside in a Ziploc bag. He was hungry enough to eat a few slices right away, and then he went shopping for the hat, which indeed was easy to find. Afterward he drove up Calle Ocho and stopped off for dessert at the Versailles. Its mirrored walls were just as garish as he remembered. The babble of Spanish was all around him, and he scanned the room as he dipped into his flan, half expecting to spot Paco lurking in a corner. In his current mood Falk wouldn't have been all that surprised to see the shaved head and sunburned face of his younger self seated at another table—the eager explorer with a thousand questions but, when push came to shove, none of the right ones. And now Paco was about to reel him in a second time. Maybe this time he would pull the fisherman out into the deep with him.

He returned to the motel at dusk, needing a drink. He tore the paper cap off a motel glass, then filled a plastic bucket with ice from a humming machine down the breezeway. The minibar was chock-full, and he began working his way through the selections, starting with a gin and tonic. Except for the occasional beer, Falk generally avoided drinking alone. He had witnessed far too much of that earlier in life. But as he drained the gin, and then a bourbon, and then the first half of a Scotch, he began to get an inkling of just what had driven all those blurry sessions by the woodstove for his dad. At some point, he thought, propped against a pillow, the only place left to hide was within. So you worked your way deeper inside, a swallow at a time.

He reached for the remote, which was bolted to a swivel on the bedside table, in the manner of all cheap hotels. After flipping through a few channels—no news of more arrests at Gitmo, thank goodness, either in the headlines or on the crawler—he turned off the TV. Then he took the remains of his fourth drink to the bathroom sink and poured it down the drain with a clatter of ice cubes. There was no refuge, after all. Nothing but confusion and worry. It was time to get some sleep, uneasy or not. See you in my dreams, Paco.

But his last waking thoughts were of Pam. Chin up, he told her. And sleep well, wherever you are. He hoped it was someplace where they actually turned out the lights.