The Prisoner of Guantanamo (30 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

F
ALK DID SLEEP WELL,
at least for a while, thanks mostly to exhaustion, a couple of beers, and the hypnotic drumming of the rain.

Besides, what else could he do? After Fowler left he looked out the front window and saw a sentry on the porch and a Humvee at the curb. At the rate Fowler was going there would soon be a Humvee and a sentry on every block. Maybe the Pentagon would have to call up another Reserve unit, just to tend to all the misfits and security risks.

Falk awakened to a knocking and scratching sound, as if a giant rodent were trying to come through the wall. Sitting up in bed, he realized it was coming from the window. He thought first of Pam. A return visit? His second thought was to wonder if he would let her in. Instead it was Bo, soaked to the bone in a T-shirt and shorts as he forced back the screen. Falk unlocked the sash. This was becoming Gitmo's preferred method for social calls.

“Easy,” Falk said groggily, raising the sash. “Don't tear it off. I'll pop it loose.”

Once again, the security of Fowler's “house arrest” had proven quite porous. But, again, it wasn't as if there were anywhere they could go.

Falk fetched a towel from the bathroom, and by the time Bo was drying off he had remembered all the reasons not to offer a warm welcome.

“What's the occasion?” he asked. “You here to bug my bedroom, too? Or have you already taken care of that?”

Bo shook his head. “Did the living room instead.”

“When, if I may ask?”

“While you were gone. After Whitaker left.”

“So you must have heard Fowler's little visit?”

“Most of it. You did well. After kind of a rough start, anyway.”

“Let's see what you say tomorrow, after he's stuck me in Camp X-Ray.”

“Relax. He's bluffing.”

“Easy for you to say. Why doesn't he just run you in?”

“Maybe he thinks you're calling the shots.”

“Wonder who gave him that idea.”

“Maybe he just knows I'm better protected.”

“If it's true, why are you sneaking around at—what time is it?”

“Half past midnight.”

“Jesus, Bo. Well, as long as you're up, how 'bout getting rid of the goddamn microphone? I don't want to waste the whole morning looking for it before the Inquisition arrives.”

They padded down the silent hallway toward the living room.

“Just keep your voice down,” Bo said in a stage whisper. “The sentry's on the porch, staying out of the rain. Don't turn on any lights.”

Falk answered in a normal tone of voice.

“You think I'm actually worried about you getting caught?”

Bo reached under the dining room table and, with a small popping sound, tore loose a device much like the one that had been wired to Falk's car radio. Then he actually grinned, more impish than embarrassed.

“So I guess you're really pissed off, huh?” he said.

“Wouldn't you be?”

“Definitely. I plead guilty with an explanation.”

“Let's hear it.”

“First I need a beer.”

Falk found himself oddly ambivalent as he stepped toward the fridge. Yes, he was angry. Bo's cavalier attitude was especially infuriating. But maybe their friendship still counted for something if Bo was here now. And if Bo had helped back him into a corner, at least Bo seemed to be in the same tight space.

He grabbed the beer, plus a glass of water for himself. Bo turned on a radio and jacked up the volume. More salsa from across the fenceline. Nonstop, like a heartbeat.

“You were sleeping pretty soundly for a condemned man.”

“Is that what I am now?”

Bo shrugged, finally seeming a little unsure of himself. In a way, it was the most encouraging sign Falk had seen yet, so he pressed the advantage.

“You're not exactly flying with the angels on this Cuban mess, are you?”

“I'm flying with Endler, period. I work for people, not causes. I trust the Doc to get it right, and usually he does.”

“Except this time he threw in his lot with the zealots. It makes me wonder why you didn't try recruiting me from the beginning. I certainly had all the right qualifications: Talks to Yemenis. Gets results. You could have lied to me just like you did anyway and gotten exactly what you wanted.”

Never mind that Falk already had exactly what Bo and Endler wanted. But he would rather have shared Adnan's bombshell with Paco than with this bunch.

“Believe me, you would've been first on the list. But Endler came late to the game, and by then his sponsors were using Van Meter and Lawson. Those guys didn't think you were ready for prime time. They said you weren't their style.”

“Best thing I've heard about myself all week.”

“I agree. Dumb and Dumber, those two. Why do you think I wanted those sign-out sheets? I needed to see how much of a trail they'd left.”

“The way I remember it is that you wanted me to steal them. To erase the trail altogether.”

“Did you?”

Damned if he'd say so now.

“Couldn't. The MP was right there the whole time. But I saw their trail, all right. I guess you must already know they killed Ludwig.”

“Suspected it, anyway. They'd said all along they had an insider, somebody to cover their tracks and keep their names out of the books. Then he got cold feet, so they were going to strong-arm him, put the fear of God in him.”

“They did that, all right. Fucked around with his bank and then took him for a little boat ride.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Met him on the beach. Then probably rode him toward the boundary just to shake him up. Only I guess they didn't know he tended to freak out in small boats, so they must have lost him overboard. Or maybe they pushed him. Either way, like you said, Dumb and Dumber. Is that why they sent you down once Endler signed on? To clean up the mess and keep Fowler's hands out of the pie?”

“Only because the Doc told his people he had an insider who could help.”

“Meaning me. But they still didn't have the information they wanted. So you decided to get Pam involved.”

“Pam?” Bo initially looked flabbergasted, then seemed on the verge of laughter. “For that last interrogation at X-Ray, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Falk wasn't smiling.

“Sorry. My little prank.”

“What do you mean?”

“That happened my first night here and—how can I put this nicely?—she hadn't exactly made a good impression. So when we needed a crash interrogation I just told Van Meter to use her number.”

“Nice guy.” Falk tried not to show his sense of relief. At least someone hadn't lied to him. “So how'd you get her number? Tyndall?”

“The Agency? They're out of the loop on this.”

“The Pink Palace, then. I guess as chief of security Van Meter had the connections.”

“Believe what you want. I've said enough already. I'm just sorry it came to this.”

“Why? You're getting exactly what you want. You even got Adnan moved into Camp Delta.”

“That was Fowler's move, to keep him away from us. They've been pumping the poor bastard to find out what we're after. Hasn't worked, of course.”

“So you piggybacked on me to get inside Echo. And now, let me guess, Endler's the one who pulled a few strings to make Adnan a rendition. Let the Yemenis do the dirty work for you.”

“Sorry, Falk. No more explaining.”

“Until after you get your war. Or whatever it is everybody's hoping for. That'll be a huge public service.”

“Getting rid of Castro? Damn right it will be. And if some Cuban operative strayed from the leash long enough to crawl into bed with an al-Qaeda recruiter, why not make the most of it? It's like I told you, it's not the information, it's who controls it. If we get it before Fowler, we own it.”

“Castro will probably die soon anyway. I thought you worked for people, not causes.”

“I am working for people. You included. You know what Endler wanted? He was getting worried about your reliability, so he wanted you arrested as soon as you were done with Paco in Miami. A trumped-up charge that would let him stick you out of sight until we finished our business. The only reason he didn't was because I talked him out of it.”

“Out of loyalty, of course.”

“Hell, yes, out of loyalty.”

“But that's not how you sold it to Endler.”

“Of course not. I told him I still needed you to get to the bottom of things on Van Meter.”

“You sure that wasn't your real reason?”

“Believe what you want, but you're here and not in jail.”

“Yeah, I'm much better off. Under house arrest, and about to be drawn and quartered.”

“Endler will do what he can. Just don't expect it to happen right away.”

“So as long as the Doc gets his war, I'm a free man. Otherwise, nice knowing you.”

“You might have to stay under wraps for a while, that's all. It will all be explained to the Bureau.”

“And Van Meter? He gets away with murder?”

“He'll be dealt with.”

“I'll bet. What'll it be, another boating accident, or killed in action in Iraq?”

“Look, if you really need someone to blame, then blame the stupid young Marine who decided it would be just great to go down to Havana for the weekend. Everything goes back to that. But Endler won't write you off, because I won't let him. You know how it works in the Corps.”

“Yeah, we never leave our dead behind. I guess that's me right now.”

Bo shook his head, as angry as Falk had seen him since basic training.

He departed shortly afterward, leaving a disconsolate Falk on the couch to ponder his future. The choices seemed clear. Tell everything to Fowler and be swept up in the net by the other side, and possibly face espionage charges in the bargain. Or keep his mouth shut and hope that a splendid little war would come along to save his ass. Nothing like having that on your conscience, even if matters never came to it. The thing that rankled most was that Bo's last comment had been true: The only person he could really blame was himself. Falk had struck the bargain, and he was still making payments.

He got up, prowled the kitchen, opened then closed the refrigerator without making a selection. Now he really was sleepless. Pacing back to the living room, he gazed up at the nautical chart Ensign Osgood had given him. A thing of beauty, a blueprint for a lifetime on the water. Maybe he should have toughed it out and stayed in Maine all along. He might have ended up drunk or drowned, but it was a kind of life that came with a refreshing clarity. Success and failure were measured by the weight of your traps, and every day that you made it home safe was another small victory.

The palm frond scratched again at the window on a fresh blast of wind, and Falk was struck by an inspiration, an idea. It was downright foolhardy, yet it seized him like a powerful current, just the sort of idiotic plan that you would expect from the son of a drunken lobsterman after a few cups of courage, except that by now Falk was stone-cold sober.

Pulling the thumbtacks from the wall, he carefully took down the chart and placed it on the table. Then he slid the other two charts from the tube. It was just after 1 a.m.

He strolled down the hall to pack his gear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
T WAS SLOPPY GOING
once Falk climbed into the storm. He had half a mile to cover through the brush, heading downhill toward Sherman Avenue. The route wasn't steep, but the wet ground seemed to move beneath his feet. Once he lost his balance and slid feetfirst into the base of a big cactus. As he lay in the muck the sound of pelting raindrops was deafening. Fortunately none of the needles pierced the soles of his shoes.

While scrambling to his feet he thought he heard someone approaching from behind, so he remained still a moment longer, on edge, the Marine back on patrol. He concluded it was the noise of the storm playing tricks on him, and he continued downhill as the water popped off his hat brim, the whole night wild with wind and rain.

The duffel bag slung across his shoulder didn't make the journey any easier. He had spent half an hour preparing, first by packing, then by charting a rough course at the kitchen table.

The heaviest part of the load was a pair of one-gallon milk jugs that he recovered from the recycling bin in the kitchen, then rinsed with hot steamy water before filling them from the tap. He also threw in a change of clothes, a second pair of shoes, and all his notes from the past week, along with the stolen sign-in sheets and the two letters to Ludwig. He wrapped everything in a plastic garbage bag, which he tied off before dropping it into a second bag for extra protection.

He put the British passport, his wallet, and the cash from Florida into double Ziploc bags, then made a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and grabbed two bananas from the kitchen counter.

Before wrapping the tube of nautical charts in plastic he spread one of them on the table and fired up the laptop. They had cut off his phone, but apparently forgot about his data line, another sign of their overconfidence that he had no way out.

He went to the Web site for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration for the latest information on the storm. An update had just been posted. Clifford was weakening, thank goodness, still just barely a tropical storm, with its highest sustained winds at about thirty-five knots (or forty miles per hour) and falling. The radar image showed its cyclonic motion disintegrating as its whirling arms raked southeastern Cuba. As of 1:25 a.m. the center was at a latitude of 19.3° north and a longitude of 74.5° west, moving west-northwest at about twelve miles an hour.

Plotting the projected path of the storm, Falk figured that by the time he was under way it would be about thirty miles southeast of the mouth of Guantánamo Bay. For the first few hours he'd be braving the worst winds on the upper or right side of the storm's counterclockwise pinwheel. It wasn't what he would have preferred, especially in the type of boat he'd be using. The alternative was to wait another few hours, but that would cut deeply into his head start, and would offer calmer seas and skies to any pursuers. With luck—and he would need plenty—by leaving early he would have nearly reached his destination by the time anyone knew he was gone.

The last thing he did before clambering out the window was to write down some waypoints he hoped to hit. He put those into a smaller Ziploc and stuffed it into a jacket pocket next to the handheld GPS.

It took about ten minutes to reach Sherman Avenue, and from there he kept to the shoulder, ready to dash off into the brush or a drainage ditch if a security patrol came along. There wasn't much cover, but at this hour the roads were empty.

From the few fishing trips Falk had taken at Guantánamo, he was familiar with the selection of powerboats. The pickings were slim—a few Bayliners and Sea Chasers. The Bayliners were your typical pleasure craft with sleek lines and a small cutty cabin, built more for speed than for battering the waves. His preference was the twenty-four-foot Sea Chaser, with an open deck that drained quickly and a hull that rode better in rough weather, although he'd obviously never piloted it in seas like tonight's.

Falk heard the marina before he saw it, from the almost manic sound of the halyards pinging wildly against the masts of the sailboats, a noise that at any harbor was like the pealing of tiny warning bells, telling you to stay off the water. The rental office was dark and silent. He easily broke in by punching out a pane of glass on the front door. On the mainland the office undoubtedly would have been armed with a security system. Police would have arrived within seconds. Yet, for all of Gitmo's security on the perimeter and at Camp Delta, there was little concern over petty theft and burglary, especially on this side of the base. He had heard once that when Gitmo was measured against American towns of its size, the crime rate here was by far the lowest.

Falk groped through the darkness toward the back of the shop, where Skip, the marina manager, kept the keys for powerboats hanging from a board behind the counter. Falk found it on the floor, propped against the counter just beneath the cash register.

He would have to fill the fuel tanks on the way out, a tricky proposition with the way the waves were rocking the docks. The Sea Chaser's 140-gallon tank should give him more than enough to make his destination, even if its usual rate of 1.5 nautical miles to the gallon were reduced considerably by the pounding of the storm.

What else? He looked around in the gloom of the shop. A life jacket, of course—never the first thought of a lobsterman but a necessity for Falk. He took a coil of extra line so he could tie himself a lifeline. Then he grabbed another line and searched among cleaning supplies in a broom closet for a pail to use as a sea anchor.

But as he shut the closet door the lights flicked on, and Falk looked up in astonishment. There stood Van Meter at the front door with a gun leveled at him.

“Little rough for a boat ride, ain't it?”

“Where'd you come from?”

“Did a little check of your perimeter and saw that a back screen was off. From there it was easy. I've seen wounded deer leave less of a trail than you did.”

“So where are the flashing lights and the siren? The big show for the boss?”

“That comes later. Those dumbshit MPs of Fowler's don't even know you're gone.”

Falk didn't know whether to be pleased or alarmed by that bit of news, but it certainly fit Van Meter's style.

“Still the Lone Ranger, huh?”

“Fewer people to fuck it up.”

“Is that what happened with Lawson along, out on the raft with Ludwig?”

Van Meter momentarily betrayed himself with a wide-eyed look of astonishment. Then he broke into a grin.

“All the more reason to take care of this on my own.”

Falk checked his flanks for anything usable as a weapon. Van Meter's last remark made immediate action mandatory. Would he really be stupid enough to plug a special agent? Oh, yes. And Falk had already provided plenty of evidence to suggest a provocation: an escape from house arrest and a break-in at the marina, with the key to a boat in one pocket and a GPS in the other, plus all the supplies and a plotted course. It wouldn't be hard to convince the authorities Falk had made some sudden or threatening move.

But no move came to mind that seemed likely to succeed. Throwing the bucket wouldn't do much good. A few feet to the right was a spare anchor that might have come in handy in medieval combat, but it was no match for a semiautomatic 9 mm Beretta pistol, the standard sidearm of an MP.

Van Meter stepped toward him, never lowering the gun as he moved to within about six feet—just out of reach but well within the can't-miss range of the gun. Perfect technique, in other words. Van Meter may have been a dumb cowboy, but he followed his training.

Falk was about to sling the bucket when he saw movement at the doorway. His eyes must have betrayed it, because Van Meter flinched.

In walked Bokamper.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Bo said, as relaxed and cocksure as ever. “The mystic mariner, heading back to his roots?”

Falk saw the disappointment in Van Meter's face. Obviously he'd hoped to finish the job before witnesses arrived.

“Should've called me on the radio, Carl. Lucky for you I must have been making the same rounds. And lucky for all of us the MPs are half asleep back there. Fowler's a trusting soul about some things, I'll give him that. You weren't just about to do something you'd regret later, were you, Carl?”

“Nothing I'd regret, I'll guarantee that.”

“Thought you'd say that. How 'bout if we de-escalate a minute and figure out what to do next?”

“What's to figure?” But Van Meter lowered the gun, which finally allowed Falk to breathe. “Your friend here was about to blow town on a stolen boat, not to mention he seems to know everything we've been up to. If you want that kind of knowledge running free, that's your funeral.”

“Yours, too,” Bo said.

“In that case, I've still got a job to do.”

He quickly raised the gun back to firing position, and Falk was about to dive for cover when Bokamper lunged at Van Meter from behind, striking the gun hand just enough to send the shot wide, an explosion of sound that shattered a plate-glass window overlooking the bay. Wind and rain tore through the opening in a rush of noise and water. In the ensuing scrum on the floor between Bo and Van Meter the pistol sprang loose, twirling free in a metallic clatter. Falk stepped forward and picked it up, as easily as he might have retrieved a dropped pencil.

“Break it up, guys,” he shouted over the wind, while the two men awakened to the new reality. Windblown rain sprayed all three of them, and the noise of the storm was everywhere. To Falk, the clanging from the mast tops sounded like applause.

“On your feet, but slowly. C'mon.”

“You can't stop both of us,” Van Meter said, inching forward, still spoiling for a fight.

“Yeah, but he'll shoot you first,” Bo said. “Guarantee it.”

“Whose side you on, asshole? I had him dead to rights!”

“At this point it's not about sides. But you wouldn't understand.”

Marines, he meant. Brotherhood of the Corps. Or maybe just of friends. But Falk, like Van Meter, had a job to do.

“Inside the closet, both of you.”

Bo grinned and shook his head, as if he had been victimized by a particularly clever practical joke and had decided to be a sport about it. Van Meter was another matter.

“You're gonna have to shoot me first!”

“Then hold still, 'cause I'd be happy to. Or else get in the goddamn closet.”

That drained some of the heat from his defiance, and the two men climbed in.

“Now, put your radios on the floor and slide 'em over.”

Van Meter tossed his, clearly aiming for the gun but missing by several feet. It convinced Falk that he should shut and lock the closet right away. The door was industrial strength, and in all likelihood so was the lock. Sometimes government extravagance had its virtues. Falk shoved a rubber wedge from the washroom beneath the door for good measure. As cramped as they were in there they would have a tough time crouching low enough to push it free or, for that matter, applying enough leverage to shove hard enough to snap the lock. They would be out of commission until Skip opened for business at nine. And with this kind of weather, maybe Skip would sleep in.

Falk walked to the front door and flipped off the lights, plunging the room back into darkness, an act that immediately calmed his nerves. The only sounds now were of the storm, moaning eerily through the shattered window. Poor Skip. The whole place would be drenched.

“Bon voyage,” came a muffled shout from Bo. The best Van Meter could offer was an anguished “Fuck!” which was more satisfying than Falk cared to admit. They'd have a fine time in there. He smiled for the first time in hours.

But this had been the easy part of the night. The sea was far more cunning than Van Meter, and it would come at him with everything it had. Evasive maneuvers—every seafaring trick he'd learned as a boy—were his only hope. Flinch once and he was dead.

         

T
EN MINUTES LATER
he had filled the gas tank and was crossing the foaming wildness of the bay, which was sheltered enough for him to hold a speed of nearly twenty knots as the hull banged and slopped against the waves. Channel markers bobbed crazily, red and green lights winking. He turned on the marine radio, and all was silent on the local channel. If his departure was showing up on anyone's radar—doubtful—or if his engine had been overheard by anyone ashore—even more doubtful in this maelstrom—then no one had yet thought to sound the alarm or to try hailing the madman at the helm.

Falk's general strategy was simple enough. The storm was centered just to the southeast, meaning the wind and waves would initially charge at him out of the east as he cut across the upper arc of the pinwheel. The prevailing current also moved in that direction, for a double dose of wave strength. Rather than slam against them and risk broaching—a helpless drift to broadside that would allow the next wave to flip him—he would at first head southwest, pushed onward at an angle by a following sea. Then, as the pinwheel tumbled through, Falk would gradually adjust his course southward to keep the shifting wind and waves coming at him from behind.

It was a harrowing tango, and the first few hours would be the most dangerous. No matter what NOAA said about Clifford's weakening, the storm's upper or right side still packed its sucker punch, with winds blowing in the same direction as the cyclone's progress.

By daybreak, if he was still afloat, Falk should be well into the bottom half of the pinwheel, where wind and wave would be moving in the opposite direction of the storm's progress, softening the blow. By then he planned to be on a southward course running at an angle against the sea. It would use more fuel and slow him down, but as he left the storm behind he could increase his pace accordingly.

He braced himself as the boat cleared Windward Point, and the sea did not disappoint him, slamming home with a high whistling sound as the waves built quickly from foothills to mountains. The next half mile would be the trickiest, until he reached deeper water.