Unreal. First, a conversation with his dying father whom he hadn’t seen in twenty years. Now a chatty lunch with the little Cuban who had turned his life inside out.
“It must have been nice growing up here.”
“We didn’t eat like this very often.”
“I mean the forests, the coastline. It’s very beautiful. But I guess the winters can be pretty bad.”
“Sometimes it was pretty bad all year long.”
Paco mulled that a moment.
“Is that why you lied to the Marine recruiter and told him you were an orphan?”
“Please. Don’t ask me to reveal trade secrets.”
Paco smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
“So what do you want from me?” Falk asked.
Paco first took a long sip of iced tea.
“I think that is a question we should both be asking, because we are in position to help each other.”
“Help each other? My next stop might be Canada. After that, who knows? But if you’re on the run, too, maybe you’d like to come along.”
“No. No more running. I meant help so we can both stay. Do you remember our conversation on the boat? Giving a little to get a little?”
“Yes.”
“That would be a good start. Except this time you would go first.”
“I seem to recall going first last time. Maybe you could start it off by telling me a little more about who you’re working for.”
“Since yesterday? The day I came home to find a couple of spooks from Havana snooping around my apartment? Since then I have been working for myself. I am a Nation of One. But you’re certainly welcome to apply for citizenship.”
Somehow, Falk believed him. Maybe because Paco’s concept of nationhood sounded all too familiar, not just with regard to himself but everyone he had been working with at Gitmo—an entire archipelago of entrepreneurs in business mostly for themselves; a struggle of agency versus agency, plotter against plotter, and may the best scoundrel win.
“Okay, then,” he answered at last, biting into a fried clam. A juicy bouquet of brine and grease spurted sweetly onto his tongue. “I’ll play along. Let’s start with a week ago last Wednesday, with that Yemeni you wanted me to take care of, Adnan al-Hamdi.”
Paco nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “These clams are great. Go ahead, I’m listening.”
Falk told his story of the past ten days, while Paco supplied intriguing details from his own perspective along the way. Once or twice it occurred to Falk that maybe Paco wasn’t really on the run; maybe he was still working for the Cubans. But Falk didn’t care anymore. It was a relief to get the story out in the open and off his chest. And by the time they had polished off the clams, some fries, and a couple of huge wedges of pie—Falk had coconut cream, Paco apple—he had come to a firm conclusion about their unlikely alliance.
“I’ve decided,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “that we’ve both lost our minds.”
“You may be right. But there is also the possibility that we have both come to our senses.”
“I like your version better, but I’m not convinced.”
“A very rational response. Which only goes to support my position.”
At that point they had little choice but to laugh and pay the bill, Falk leaving the tip while Paco went to the register. He wasn’t yet sure what to make of this, other than to be relieved that he now had an ally—or a partner in crime, as the case may be.
Confessionals completed, they left their vehicles in the parking lot and walked down to the wharf while discussing their next move. They set off on School Street, moving downhill into town. It was sunny, with a crisp blue sky and temperatures already in the high seventies, but Paco, a creature of the Caribbean, rubbed his bare arms as if to ward off a chill. Falk, on the other hand, was already comfortable here, a chameleon changing back from tropical turquoise to a cool northern blue.
“They’ll find you—or us, I guess—within a couple of days, you know,” Paco said. “Our people in Jamaica say that federal agents were all over the docks in some place called Port Antonio. They impounded a fishing boat with a Haitian registry, then started talking to cabdrivers and hoteliers.”
“When was this?”
The news shook him up, although he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised.
“Yesterday. Midafternoon.”
“They must have found the Navy’s boat over in Haiti. Poor old guy. I guess by now they’ll have my cover name.”
“Ned Morris of Manchester?”
“Thanks for that, by the way. How’d you know I’d need it?”
“I didn’t. It just seemed like a worthy precaution, considering where you were and what you knew.”
“So you’ve been in touch with Havana. What happened to the Nation of One?”
“Only with my boss. The one man I still trust. I called and left a message on a beeper in New Jersey, and he actually called back on an unsecured line. That should tell you all you need to know about how desperate he is. He’ll protect me as long as he can.”
“And how long will that be?”
“A day or two. Then the ones on the fringes will come looking for me.”
“What will you do then?”
“My boss thinks I should turn myself in. ‘Defect’ would be the operative term. He thinks that’s the one way to stop this mess that’s brewing. Warn your people about the ‘cabal,’ as you called it. These people on both sides who are so eager to bring on a little scrap.”
“Insane.”
“It’s what always happens when both sides are sure they will win.”
“Then maybe we should both go to Canada. But we’ll have to take your car. Take Holman’s truck and we’ll be deaf by the time we reach the border.”
“Running isn’t the answer,” Paco said. “Between the two of us, we have the one thing everyone wants most.”
“Information?”
“And not just about your Arab friend. About everybody who has become part of this, on both sides.”
“According to my supposed friend Ted Bokamper, it’s not having the information that’s important, it’s having it first and then spinning it the way you want.”
“He’s right. Which is why we have to act now. But we’ll need a paper and pencil.”
“For what?”
“To compose an e-mail. One for a large viewing audience. Or a small one, if you prefer. You will be the best judge of who can make the best use of it. But it has to be foolproof, with no holes, no gaps. As of right now we are the only ones who know everything, and that’s our ticket out of this. Our means of international recognition for our Nation of Two.”
“I’ve got a notebook at the B&B. We could work on it there.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Reaching the bottom of the hill, they turned right on Main Street along the waterfront. By now the tourist traffic was picking up, and Paco seemed to be enjoying himself, peeking in shop windows and smiling at passersby. Halfway down the block Falk stopped, and put out a hand to stop his companion.
“They’re here,” he said. “Look.”
A black Chevy Suburban was parked in front of the B&B.
“Now there’s a giveaway,” said Paco, all too familiar with the driving preferences of federal agents. “Look. A man on the porch, talking to the innkeeper.”
“And the hell of it is they’re almost certainly FBI, probably out of Bangor. Let’s get our cars.”
“You want some advice? Let the professional take over. I’m used to dealing with your people from the other side. Do as I tell you and we’ll make it out of here.”
Another insane twist of events. Letting the Cuban run the show so he could duck colleagues who had been trained the same way as Falk.
“Lead the way.”
“The first thing we need to do is get you off the street. We might not even make it back to the cars before they start cruising. For all we know they already have a descrip
tion of your truck.”
They turned steeply back uphill, Paco in better shape than Falk would have guessed. One of the first places they passed was the town’s barnlike Opera House. A narrow alley ran down the right side, just wide enough for a car.
“Go down there and wait,” Paco said, glancing around. “Stay behind the back of the building. I’ll bring the car down the alley to get you. If it doesn’t look good, take off, and do what you can. But we’ll need a fallback.”
“The library,” Falk said without hesitating.
“On Main Street?”
“Not in Stonington. In Deer Isle, six miles north on 15.”
“Good. Out of town completely. We’ll make a real pro of you yet. But one question. How would you get there?”
“I’m local. I’ll find a way.”
It was good enough for Paco, who nodded and took off up the hill. Falk headed down the alley, but his luck almost immediately ran out. No sooner had he rounded the corner at the end of the building than a stage door opened, and three laughing teens in black jeans and T-shirts poured into the small lot. They heaved boxes onto the bed of a pickup, then one of them propped open the stage door and shouted, “Okay, load her up.”
It was obvious they would be there a while, and one was already giving Falk a funny look, as if wondering why a grown man was lurking here in the middle of the day. If they saw him get into the Ford they’d have a description of the car, and perhaps also its driver, so Falk walked back the way he’d come. With any luck he would catch Paco driving down the hill.
But he had barely turned around when the hood of the black Suburban nosed into view at the end of the alley. He ducked quickly behind a Dumpster, then watched the big vehicle creep uphill. Paco was right. If Falk had stayed on the streets a minute longer they’d have caught him. The driver was a woman, meaning the man they’d seen at the B&B was probably making the rounds on foot. He wondered if they had reinforcements, or local help. Whatever the case, Falk didn’t dare go uphill now. Nor was he letting the kids behind the Opera House get another look at him.
He took off downhill and then turned left in order to avoid Main Street. He was on a driveway that led to a row of B&Bs. Maybe by cutting across a few lots he could work his way to Highway 15, then hitch a ride. No, he’d be a sitting duck. Better to stop somewhere first and calm down, plan his next move. Although if the agent on foot was going door-to-door, he’d still be trapped.
A woman’s voice called out from behind.
“Revere? Revere Falk?”
Shit. It was over.
Bracing himself to run, he turned to see the old classmate he’d recognized the night before at dinner, the one with three kids and a few extra pounds, and now her name came to him like a benediction.
“Jenny? Jenny Kinlaw?”
“I’ll be damned. You do remember. I thought you were eyeing me last night, but with Jeffrey running wild I never had time to come say hi.”
“It’s been a long time.” He glanced past her, feeling the need to get out of sight.
“Tell me about it. But you look great. Where you living now?”
“Washington.”
“Ooh. Sounds important.”
“Not really. What about you?” He had to get moving. An idea popped into his head.
“I’m right up the hill here, behind my mom’s B&B. Was just on my way home. Two more hours of freedom before day care lets out.”
“Jenny, I know this will sound weird all of a sudden like this, but I’m in kind of a bind. My car’s in the shop and I’m supposed to be meeting someone out at the library in Deer Isle in about five minutes, and was wondering …”
“If I could give you a ride? Sure.” Something in her eager tone suggested she was taking this as a come-on, but in any event it had worked. Her red pickup was just down the lane, and he climbed in with a sigh of relief, while hoping he wouldn’t have to duck under the dashboard if the Suburban passed.
“So,are you married?” Jenny asked as they turned north on Highway 15.
“No. Guess I don’t have to ask you that, huh?”
“Well, you do now. Divorced two months now.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Steve was a rat.”
“Okay.”
“I put the kids to bed around nine, if you want to come by later.”
“Sure.” Anything for a ride, as long as he could last another four miles. Maybe by then they’d be engaged. But she seemed to sense his nervousness, and perhaps she attributed it to her forwardness. Whatever the case, she steered the conversation back to small talk, and filled him in on the fortunes and misfortunes of classmates he hadn’t seen in twenty years. When she ran out of names, she zeroed back in on Falk.
“I was thinking it was kind of funny to be meeting somebody at the library, but you always were kind of into books, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“So are you gay, then?”
“What?”
“Are you gay?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh. Good. Then come on by sometime before you leave town.”
Mercifully they had just pulled into the small parking lot by the white frame library.
“I’ll do that,” he said, offering his manliest smile as he unlatched the door. “And thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime after nine.”
“Got it.”
There was no sign of Paco’s Ford, which made Falk a little anxious. But when he stepped inside his emotions gave way to nostalgia.
What bowled him over most was the smell, the same musty blend of cloth bindings and old paper, and the oaken shelves and big reading table to the side where he had spent so many quiet hours of refuge. Then there was the silence, with its own hermetic quality, especially if you sat by the back window, watching the play of sunlight on the water in the tidal cove. Some things had changed. The old clock with its loud ticking was gone, replaced by a big gray wall model that hummed. There was now an Internet kiosk, and a table displaying the latest acquisitions. Most were titles from the best-seller list.
“Can I help you?”
Here was another change. The librarian was a trim woman who looked to be in her forties. No relation, he supposed, to Miss Clarkson, stern but gentle, who had always let him stay as long as he liked, as if quietly aware of all the hell breaking loose just up the road.
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone for a little research.”
“Well, just let me know.”
“Thanks.”
Paco’s car pulled up outside a few minutes later, with no one following. He looked worried until he came through the door and saw Falk. Then he broke into a huge grin and nodded to the librarian.
“So you made it,” he whispered, respecting the sanctity of the place.
“Barely. Got lucky. Where to next?”
“The nearest Internet café, I guess. Send our message, then wait for the dust to settle.”
Falk asked the librarian if she knew of any likely spots.
“That’s a tough one. Blue Hill, maybe? Bangor for sure, but that’s a ways. Of course, you could always use this one.” She gestured toward the kiosk. Falk felt like an idiot.
“Could we send an e-mail?”
“Long as you have a server account.”
“Let’s get to work.”
For the next hour they sat at the big oak table laboring over a few sheets of notebook paper provided by the librarian, writing with the stubby yellow pencils you find in libraries everywhere. Somewhere beneath the table, Falk knew, were his initials, scratched into place with just such a pencil a quarter century ago. He wished he had time for a peek, but maybe by now someone had sanded them away. Better, perhaps, to just pretend they were still down there.
The work went quickly, and they made a pretty fair team. Once they had settled on the main points and overall thrust, they moved to the computer keyboard and Falk began to type. He began with a brief history of his work as an unofficial double agent for
Endler—Falk owned the info, therefore Falk applied his own spin; if nothing else he was a quick learner—and their epistle continued with Falk’s version of the recent doings at Gitmo involving Fowler, Bo, Endler, and Van Meter. He spared no evidence of Ludwig’s murder and left no misdeed unrecorded. Supplementing all this were Paco’s findings, which dovetailed nicely. They then offered a joint conclusion that rogue elements of U.S. and Cuban intelligence seemed determined to bring about a confrontation by misusing the above findings.
For the memo’s pièce de résistance (at least, as far as the Bureau’s interests were concerned), they detailed the plans of Cuban Directorate of Intelligence operative Gonzalo Rubiero, code name “Paco,” to defect to the United States, effective immediately, in exchange for citizenship and confidential relocation. Falk then briefly explained his own means of escape from Guantánamo by saying that the actions of the above conspirators had left him no choice.
It was no masterpiece, but it certainly packed a wallop.
“Anything you want to add?” he asked Paco. After all this time, he couldn’t yet get used to the idea of calling the man Gonzalo.
“Looks finished to me.”
“It’s as good as we’re going to do with this much time. Now the question is who we send it to. My boss, or his superiors? Maybe the director himself?”
“The way I see it,” Paco said, “it’s like choosing between fried clams and the lobster roll. You can’t miss, either way. But if you are hungry enough, why not have them all?”
Good advice. Falk typed in the names for all three. But when it came time to send it on its way, he hesitated.
“What’s wrong?” Paco asked.
“I was just remembering who we’re dealing with. Thinking about what they’ve already done to the few people who’ve gotten in their way. We need some backup.”
He clicked back to the “cc” line and plugged in an e-mail address for a reporter he had dealt with in the Washington bureau of the New York Times. To be on the safe side, he also sent a copy to a reporter from the Washington Post. Nothing like the heat of competition to ensure critical mass. He didn’t exactly mind that the Bureau would see those addresses, either.
Then he took a deep breath, clicked on the Send button, and sat back in the chair. They watched the blue line streak across the screen, a flare fired in distress from their leaking little raft. Now it was only a question of who would reach them first, their rescuers or their pursuers.
The Prisoner of Guantanamo Page 36