The Prisoner of Guantanamo (22 page)

“Can't help you on that one.”

“Thought you'd say that.”

         

N
OW
F
ALK WAS MORE CURIOUS
than ever, and there was still enough time for another call. Better from here than from Gitmo, where the general might be all over him, not to mention Van Meter. He glanced around the Walgreens parking lot to make sure nobody seemed too interested. Then he took another crack at Bob Torrance, the brother-in-law.

“Doris?”

“No. This is Revere Falk, FBI.”

“Speak of the devil. She'd just called about you, but had to hang up. Something with one of her kids. You got her pretty upset.”

“Sorry to hear that. I think she may have a few misconceptions about what I'm after.”

“That's what I told her. Said you guys have to check every angle, even the ones we don't want to hear about.” The guy had obviously been watching cop shows, which for once seemed to have done some good. “Truth is, suicide crossed my mind, too.”

“How come?”

“Only 'cause nothing else fits. Earl's a guy who plays by the rules, even when it hurts.” Tell it to the Treasury Department, Falk thought. “When he got an order, he did as he was told. I guess that's always made him a little tightly wound. Nice a guy as you'd want to meet, but maybe there was more going on than any of us realized. But, hell, just walking into the surf like that? Doris told you about him and the water, I guess.”

“She said he wasn't too fond of waves. Or any big water.”

“Even Town Lake, if you were going out very far. The smaller the boat, the worse it was. It was all I could do to get him to come out on my bass boat. Wore a life jacket the whole time. Wouldn't even take his wallet and keys on board.”

“How's that again?”

“His wallet and keys. He left 'em ashore in case we capsized. I had to wait ten minutes while he walked 'em back to my car. At first I took it as an insult. Figured he didn't think I could handle a boat. But he was fine on my cruiser, even on Lake Michigan. So I think it was the size of the boat that freaked him out. A bass boat sits right on the surface.”

“How big's your cruiser?”

“Twenty-seven-footer with a cabin. I guess that made a difference.”

“Did he take his wallet and keys on board that one?”

“Oh, yeah. Like I said, no problem on the big one.”

They chatted a while longer—mostly small talk about the town and the upcoming funeral—but Falk couldn't shake the image of Ludwig's wallet and keys in the neat little pile that night on Windmill Beach.

By the time he hung up it was a few minutes after noon. It was time to get to the rendezvous point. He slipped on the Dolphins cap and headed downtown.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

F
ALK WAS SURPRISED
to discover that parts of downtown were as latinized as Little Havana. Café Casa Luna was wedged between a
joyería
and a bodega. He parked in a decked garage a few blocks away, then paced the area on foot, nervously biding his time until twelve thirty. At the appointed moment he seated himself at an empty table beneath a Cinzano umbrella, removed the water bottle from the Walgreens bag, and set it on the table.

He looked around for a possible shadow, but spotted no obvious suspects. There was no out-of-place Anglo—well, except for him—and no one in an ill-fitting suit. No sign of Paco, either.

A flower salesman approached in sunglasses and a straw hat to show off a bouquet of carnations. Falk was about to shoo him away, figuring the vendor had pegged him as a tourist, when the man said in a low voice, “There is a message for you in the men's room. Leave the water bottle on the table.” Then, much louder: “Floras, señor? Por la mujer?”

Falk shook his head and rose from his chair as the vendor melted into the sidewalk crowd. The men's room was down a small corridor between the café and the
joyería.
Inside, the lights were off, and as Falk fumbled for the switch a hand covered his mouth from behind and a gun barrel poked his back. He knew some escape moves from Bureau training, but remained still.

“A moment, señor,” said a voice in his ear. “You are quite safe.”

The lock clicked on the doorknob, then the barrel moved away from his back. Falk relaxed, but when he tried to turn a hand stopped him.

“This will only take a second, but face in that direction. Empty your pockets.”

It was still pitch-dark except for the crack of light beneath the door. The place smelled like one of those scent cakes they put in urinals. The only sound was the dripping of the faucet and the rustling of his clothes as he took out his keys, wallet, and passport. Next the man frisked him, cool hands without a hint of sweat as they patted his shirt, then checked his armpits. A quick check of the crotch and both legs, inside and out, with a slight tickling sensation at his ankles.

“Remove your shoes.”

Falk nudged them off with his toes. He didn't recognize the voice, but it wasn't Paco. He heard the rustle of a plastic bag, which the man pushed into his hands. It felt like there were clothes inside.

“Go into the stall and change into these. Hand me your own clothes over the top.”

Falk gave him the Dolphins hat first. By now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and there was just enough light to at least get a general orientation. He glanced through the stall opening toward the sink, hoping to catch a glimpse of his escort in the mirror, but someone had removed it. Inside the bag were a pair of shorts, a baggy guayabera shirt, and a pair of sandals. He heard the man also changing clothes, presumably dressing in Falk's. Then there was a beeping noise, probably a scanner checking his wallet, keys, and passport, which then came sliding across the floor into the stall.

“I am leaving now,” the man said. “When you hear the door close you will count slowly to thirty before you go. Exit to the right, not the left. An escort will be waiting to make sure you find the way.”

The light flashed on just as the door shut. Falk squinted in the sudden glare and came out of the stall while counting slowly to thirty. Then he turned the knob and stepped outside. He went right as directed, but needn't have worried about a wrong turn because the flower vendor swooped in from the left and took him by the arm, steering him across the corridor into a doorway that opened onto a kitchen.

A burly cook in a soaked white T-shirt looked up from a hooded stove and shouted angrily in Spanish.

“Sí, sí. Un momento,” the flower vendor shouted back. They hurriedly crossed the wet kitchen floor to a rear exit into a narrow alley that led to Flagler Street. Emerging onto the block, Falk saw a high platform across the street overhead, with concrete trestles and an escalator to the top. It was the Downtown People Mover. The flower vendor handed him a pass and spoke into his ear as they rose.

“Southbound. The next train. One stop. You'll be met. If you don't board, or don't exit, no meeting.”

Their trip up the escalator was timed perfectly. A southbound train slid into the station just as they cleared the turnstile. Falk didn't take a seat, but the vendor did. Through the windows he saw a woman running toward the train, red-faced, then cursing and skidding to a stop as the doors shut and the train pulled out of the station. She immediately pulled a cell phone from her purse. A thwarted babysitter, he guessed, while wondering how many pieces Endler still had on the table.

The train was agonizingly slow, but a glance at the street below explained the rationale behind this leg of the journey. They were moving against the grain of one-way traffic, and at every stoplight the lunch-hour crush was at a virtual standstill. All the usual chaos of Miami traffic was in its full glory: snowbird retirees inching along in Caddies with tags from Connecticut and Jersey, delivery trucks double-parked at every angle, vacationers ogling maps, impatient white-collar workers glued to cell phones, and fresh arrivals from who knew where—Haiti, Cuba, you name it—still getting their bearings.

So, slow or not, the train easily outpaced the mess below as it glided around a corner to the right, drifting down Biscayne Boulevard toward an unsightly brown skyscraper at the point where the Miami River flowed into the bay.

The car wasn't crowded, and only two others got off with him at the next stop. The flower vendor wasn't one of them. Falk's new escort was a man dressed like a stockbroker and carrying a folded copy of the
Wall Street Journal.
He stood up from a bench on the platform, then tucked in behind Falk on the escalator, speaking on a cell phone as brokers often do, even if his words were clearly intended for Falk:

“Your ride is a blue Datsun, waiting downstairs. You will board in the rear door.”

It was indeed. The driver, also speaking on a cell phone, had just pulled to the curb as Falk stepped off the escalator. The back door opened, and the banker continued on his way. Once inside, the door locks went down and they pulled briskly away. On the opposite side of the backseat was a boy who looked about fifteen, although the tip of a gun barrel was just visible beneath his loose shirttail. Up front were mom and dad, or so anyone looking in on the scene would have surmised. Falk's new wardrobe was a perfect match with their attire, even if he was still very much the Anglo along for the ride.

The car headed north on Biscayne Boulevard, where the extra lanes made for less congestion. Already they were making far better time than any of the vehicles locked inside the grid around the Casa Luna. Falk couldn't help but admire the efficiency of the pickup. Nothing fancy, and from the look of things Paco had used a bare minimum of personnel. Three others plus this trio, which he was now convinced really
was
a family, even if the car, the tags, or both were almost certainly stolen. Perhaps one or two others had been posted as lookouts, to help synchronize his arrival at the train stop. A minimum of technology was involved, yet it had obviously been carefully planned and impeccably executed. Just the sort of work the Cubans used to be known for, but apparently hadn't pulled off in years. No wonder Endler wanted a name and a mug shot. Paco was very good.

The last of the touristy Bayside Marketplace development passed on their right. You could hear music playing over speakers and smell fried food on the bay breezes. They were moving smoothly now, squeezing past a weaving bus, which then ran interference for them by sluggishly crossing lanes to make a left turn. Falk gazed out the back window for possible pursuers, but they seemed to have left Endler's people in the dust.

“Face the front, please,” the boy with the gun said.

A short while later they turned up a ramp onto the MacArthur Causeway, heading out across the bay. The
Miami Herald
building loomed to their left like a giant egg crate, a major story passing beneath its nose if the reporters had only known to look out the window.

While crossing the water, the woman up front rolled down her window to let in more air, a warm and briny smell. The bay was an unearthly cloudy green, glittering in the sun. Long white cruise ships were moored to their right like big wedding cakes. The ride was like a movie in need of a sound track, something with a plucked bass and electric drums. Perhaps the driver thought so, too, because he clicked on the radio as he glanced at Falk in the mirror, offering a smile that was almost a goad: Look as close as you like, but you will never see us again.

The boy in the back asked a question in Spanish that Falk couldn't decipher, but for a moment the three of them chattered with great animation. All that Falk was able to glean was the two-word phrase
“todo claro.”
All clear.

He had no doubt they were correct. Not bad for a lone wolf. Or what was the term Endler had used? The Tree Frog. Physically it was a nice fit, from what he remembered of Paco. A chubby face glistening with sweat, the slightly labored breathing of a smoker, a paunchy belly. He thought of a bullfrog with its loose skin and bulging air bladder. No, that was an exaggeration. Then just as suddenly he couldn't remember Paco's face at all. Too nervous.

They hit some congestion, slowing as they passed the Parrot Jungle on the left, then regained speed, flying past the gated causeway to Star Island with its huge homes tucked in the trees, a massive yacht bobbing at every dock. Finally they reached Miami Beach, heading south off the ramp. Toward Joe's Stone Crab, he remembered, wondering if the place was still in business. The waiters had all worn dinner jackets when he had visited before. No reservations, and Falk hadn't wanted to wait, so he had just had a drink at the bar. A splurge at those prices, especially for a young Marine. Funny what you thought about at times like this.

After a few blocks and a few turns they crossed the parking lot of a marina and stopped at the dock. The kid got out with him, not showing the gun this time. Falk looked over his shoulder for a tag number, but the car was parked sideways. The kid punched in a security code to open the gate of the dock and led him to the end, to the tie-up for visiting boats.

The only visitor at the moment was a modest cabin cruiser, easily the smallest, plainest craft among the marina's vanity fleet of over-muscled behemoths. Falk guessed that the boat was borrowed, not rented. A closer look revealed that the registration numbers on the hull had been carefully covered in white tape that blended with the paint job. Another set of numbers was pasted on top. Bogus, no doubt. No detail had been overlooked. Not yet, anyway.

A head of dark hair emerged from below.

“Come aboard,” a voice said. It was Paco. Falk's heart was beating rapidly, yet he found himself oddly enjoying the moment. He stepped onto the deck while the kid unhitched the bow and stern lines from the dock. This would be Falk's second meeting on a boat in three days. Maybe it was the only remaining place where you could get away from the watchers, the minders, and the microphones. But he felt almost as if he were back on his home turf.

Paco turned to face him. He hadn't bothered with sunglasses, and seemed quite willing to show himself. He had changed. There was some gray at the temples now, a few more laugh lines. But he was in better shape, even if he still carried a pack of smokes in his T-shirt pocket. More tanned, not as flabby. The frog's skin had tightened. Maybe there was a woman in his life. Before, something about him had seemed unattached, overly restless and watchful—and not just in the manner of his profession. Or maybe Falk's hyper-attenuated mind was cooking up these conclusions out of nervousness.

“Vamos,” Paco said, and the boy cast off the lines and turned without a word toward the waiting car. The boat's engine was already idling, so they were away from the dock in seconds, plowing toward open water. Paco seemed to be aiming for the gap between Lummus and Fisher islands, where a car ferry was crossing in the near distance. Paco eyed it warily but didn't seem overconcerned with being observed. And why should he be? They were alone now, no escorts or bodyguards.

Falk could detect no telltale bulges of weaponry in Paco's clothing. He supposed there must be a gun somewhere on board, but the man seemed too preoccupied with handling the boat to have made any sudden moves in self-defense if Falk had decided to rush him.

But why spoil the afternoon? He decided instead to relax and let events unfold at their own pace, so he took a seat toward the stern and stretched his arms along the gunwales of the starboard side, turning his face to the sun. He would let Paco break the ice.

Overhead, the grumble of a single-engine plane caught their attention. Surveillance? No, it was headed straight for the beach, towing one of those long advertising banners, red lettering aflutter: “Best party on the Beach. Sex@Crobar. Come and get it 2nite.” Now what would a good communist make of that? Falk wondered, but Paco had already turned his eyes back to the water.

“You know,” Paco said, “I've considered just spending the next hour cruising, without saying a word to you.”

“Fine by me.”

Paco actually smiled.

“I thought it would be. Unfortunately, I have my orders.” Falk sat up a little straighter. “You see, I don't really believe in you. I'm not sure I ever have. And when you joined the FBI, that clinched it for me. You're damaged goods, that's what I think.”

“Is that why I never heard from you again?”

Paco nodded.

“And it's why we put on the little show for you today. In case you had company.”

“Did I?”

Paco shrugged, shaking his head.

“You would know better than me. But they weren't doing their best, that's for sure. In a way I was hoping they would try harder.”