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
THE 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, h
e 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.”
Falk thought back to his own days as a young jarhead. He, too, would have been put off by the prayers and the lectures. If his career had gone in another direction, or toward another language, he might still feel that way. And he knew from his experience in the military that a lot of the soldiers in the security force would never move beyond that point of view, whether out of intellectual laziness or blind loyalty to their own way of life. It was a view easily reinforced when the other side starting flying planes into buildings.
“Didn’t Boustani get one of the MPs in trouble?” Sharp asked.
“Yeah,” Whitaker said. “For tossing a detainee’s Quran on the floor. Chewed him out in front of the detainee, no less. Lot of guys saw it, and it didn’t sit well.”
“Smart. Tactful, too.”
“So were the MPs. The minute Boustani left, a bunch of them called him a ‘sand nigger.’”
“Nice,” LaFarge said. “But it doesn’t mean he’s not guilty as sin.”
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“Fine. Long as you use the same standard for Van Meter. Who, by the way, isn’t charged with anything.”
“Except being a prick.”
More nervous chuckles, everyone beginning to sense the way the aftershocks might rumble through this place for weeks, creating new stresses and fissures, especially if there were more arrests.
“This’ll do wonders for teamwork,” Sharp said with a weary sigh.
“Get used to it,” Whitaker said. “With those six on the loose it’s bound to get worse.”
Interesting, Falk thought, the way some of them had already decided
that all six people at the other table were part and parcel of the same “team.” Another form of guilt by association.
“Well, don’t include me among the naysayers,” LaFarge finally said. “For all we know, those guys are doing us a huge favor. Don’t forget what we’re here for.”
True as well, and Falk nodded along with the others. The prospect of real spies in their midst was perhaps the most sobering possibility of all. Maybe that’s why some of them were so eager to laugh it off or to suspect an overzealous investigation. The consequences of a genuine security breakdown could be horrendous. For a few minutes the only sounds were the clank and scrape of forks against plates. Then Mitch Tyndall approached from the chow line with a steaming plate of eggs.
“Who died?” he said, chuckling. “If it’s Boustani you’re mourning, save it. You should be grateful.”
“Don’t try to reason with ’em,” said LaFarge, relieved to have an ally. “It’s like talking to the Camp Delta ACLU.”
“Sounds like you know something,” Falk said. “Were you out there, Mitch?”
Tyndall shook his head.
“Heard a little, though. He had some strange tapes on him. Audio, not video. Plus some questionable diskettes. And he had a list of detainee names on his laptop.”
Whitaker snorted.
“Then I better erase mine. Hell, Mitch, probably everybody at this table has got something at their place or on their laptop that they technically shouldn’t have. It’s not like you can just drive out of here with a briefcase full of documents.”
“He also had a stack of letters at home. From detainees. You got any of those?”
Whitaker shook his head, seemingly chastened.
“Apparently he’d packed them in his bags for the mainland and was going to mail them,” Tyndall continued.
Falk thought of the letter in his possession. Not from a detainee, and it was written in English, not Arabic or Pashto. But the contents would still raise plenty of eyebrows in this climate, especially if anyone knew the reason behind it.
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 13