Detained, page 10
Kohlman stepped out of the Humvee. “Gentlemen,” he said as the foursome approached.
“Captain,” the man in front said. “Special Agent Ira Jacobs, TSA. I’m the new chief investigator on the ground here. These gentlemen are my assistants.”
“Welcome to GITMO, Mr. Jacobs.”
“That’s Special Agent Jacobs.”
“Excuse me. Special Agent Jacobs,” Kohlman said with a tinge of disgust.
“If you will hand over the prisoner now, Captain, you are relieved of your duties in this matter.”
“Mr. Jacobs. We will deliver the prisoner to you. But let me be clear. The only ones who can relieve me of my duties are the commanding general of this base, the commandant of the Marine Corps, or the president of the United States himself. I don’t see any stars on your collar, sir, and I do not, and never will, work for the TSA or Homeland Security.”
“Whatever, Captain. You’re wasting my time. Now surrender the prisoner.”
Kohlman turned around. “Corporal. Sergeant. Produce the prisoner.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Let’s go, sir.” The sergeant opened the back right door of the Humvee.
His hands still cuffed, Hasan slid along the seat to the open door, pivoted on his butt, and stepped out of the Humvee.
“Okay, we’ve got him now, Captain,” the TSA agent said as two other agents grabbed Hasan by the arms. “That will be all.”
“This is still a military base,” Kohlman said, “not a TSA compound. I’ll decide when ‘that will be all’ only by a lawful order from a superior officer.”
“The military isn’t equipped for this,” Jacobs shot back. “I’ll see you next time, Captain.”
“Yes, you will.”
Jacobs turned his back on Captain Kohlman. “Let’s get this terrorist to his cell. We’ll give him a taste of the consequences of terrorism against America.”
• • •
US NAVAL BASE
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Ever since the federal government bailed out General Motors, US government agencies had been instructed to purchase GM products as a means of trying to protect the government’s tax dollars investment.
As part of that boondoggle, the Navy, known for huge gray ships and black submarines, to the extent that it needed automobiles for its shore stations, fell under the “buy GM” mandate. That mandate had trickled down to the Navy Regional Legal Service Office in Norfolk.
Matt Davis didn’t care for the notion of being seen in a Chevy Malibu. If he was going to be seen in public in a General Motors product, that class of vehicle would include only a convertible Corvette, like the brand-new limited-edition Corvette C7 Stingray, with a sweet 450-horsepower, LT-1, V-8 engine under the hood, painted in garnet and black in honor of his beloved South Carolina Gamecocks.
In the final analysis, it wasn’t his sailboat that persuaded Amy to risk her career for him, but rather that powerful, sleek driving machine of a gorgeous sports car that he raced about in. He saw it in her eyes the first time he opened the door for her.
She never would have admitted it, but if the truth were told, his Stingray cast a psychological and physical spell on her.
And then there was the spell she had cast on him.
She had shown up in civilian clothes, trying to disguise herself. White Bermuda shorts, designer sunglasses so big they could have passed for something Jackie O would have worn. She was drop-dead stunning, especially when she loosened her shiny blonde hair from that military-style bun, freeing her locks to bounce so teasingly onto her shoulders. What an oxymoronic paradox she became, a conflict of regulation against free spirit, a juxtaposition of precision in the day against flowing lava in the evening. His chest pounded like a driving bass drum at the sight of her.
In retrospect, he messed up by lowering the top.
Of course, every girl likes riding in a sports car convertible in the summertime with the top down.
But having the top down made them vulnerable to getting spotted.
He knew this at the time, but the daredevilish rush of flirting with detection ran through his veins, fanning the excitement of it all.
Matt would rather think all day about Amy than anything else.
But the sight of the twin-engine US Navy C-26 Metroliner, its engines running, brought Matt back to Andy Hart, the GITMO defense lawyer mysteriously found dead. The death-by-suicide version reported by the press smelled rotten.
Interesting how people who got too close to the truth always seemed to “commit suicide” or suffer from a death-producing heart attack. Or in some instances, they were just murdered.
From Lee Harvey Oswald, shot in the stomach by Jack Ruby to keep Oswald from talking, to Jimmy Hoffa who disappeared from the planet, to former Clinton commerce secretary Ron Brown who “died in a plane” even though military investigators found a bullet hole in his head, to former White House counsel Vince Foster who allegedly put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, to Andrew Breitbart who suffered a fatal “heart attack” days before he threatened to release damaging information on President Obama, and to Andy Hart and another case of a press-reported “suicide” by a lawyer. All these cases had this in common: each of these men died under mysterious circumstances, and they all died with knowledge that, if exposed, could have been extremely embarrassing to some very powerful people.
Matt had a feeling of foreboding that he would soon discover something that some people would not want exposed. The more he thought about it, the more the names of the dead flashed through his mind: Oswald, Hoffa, Brown, Foster, Breitbart, Hart.
All too close to the truth.
All stone-cold dead.
“You okay, Lieutenant?”
The master chief’s question brought him back into the moment.
“I’m fine, Master Chief. Just a last-minute mental checklist.”
“Your first trip to GITMO, sir?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ll be fine, sir. Just do your job. They pick the best for a reason, sir.” He pulled the Malibu to a stop a few feet from the plane. “I’ll get your bags on the plane, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks, Master Chief. But no point in you grabbing all that stuff by yourself.”
Matt hadn’t packed much. Seabag. Computer. Suitcase. Uniform bag. He reached into the backseat and grabbed his computer and seabag, and the master chief grabbed the rest.
As they reached the stairway heading up into the plane, Matt turned around.
“We’ll miss you, Lieutenant. Go down there and do us proud.” The master chief saluted. “Knock ’em dead, sir.”
Matt returned the salute. “I’ve got a feeling somebody’s going to knock somebody dead. I’m not sure who’s going to be left standing.”
“You’ll do great, Lieutenant. Fair winds and following seas.”
“Fair winds to you too, Master Chief.” Matt turned and boarded the plane.
• • •
GUANTÁNAMO BAY DETENTION CENTER
CAMP DELTA
UNITED STATES NAVAL BASE
GUANTÁNAMO BAY, CUBA
The TSA agents grabbed Hasan’s arms, squeezing so tight he winced in pain as they rushed him down the center of the dusty prison courtyard. He was sure that their vise-like grips would leave dark bruises on his upper arms and shoulders.
Like tentacles stretching from an evil amoeba, several long caged entrances jutted about twenty feet or so into the courtyard from the cinder-block prison facility. These cages each had a metal canopy to shield occupants from direct driving rain but were otherwise open-aired on the sides—like a kennel where impounded animals awaited either their masters to come rescue them from captivity or the moment when, abandoned, they were “put down” by an executioner’s injection.
Guarding the entrance of the cages were armed military men in fatigues who looked like US Marines.
Several more armed guards had joined their security detail and had moved into a circle around him, much like they had done at Philadelphia International Airport.
Hasan thought perhaps they were leading him to the back of the prison to be shot in the head.
If only he could be so lucky.
“Move!” a TSA ELITE agent shouted. They jerked his shoulder, yanking him off to the left toward one of the extended walkway cages. They passed the first cage, then the second, third, and fourth.
The fifth caged walkway, like the others, was framed in wickets of coiled stainless steel barbed wire. An agent punched some numbers on a combination pad on the gate, triggering a sinister-sounding click, followed by a clank. Then two more, clank, clank.
With a humming buzz, the steel-caged door swung open.
“Okay, move!”
They shoved him forward into the walkway cage. But because of its narrowness—barely enough room for three men to stand abreast—the TSA ELITEs were forced to realign themselves to fit in the cage with the prisoner. Two stepped in, single file, ahead of Hasan. The others shoved him forward and followed him into the cage.
A tropical breeze gusted through the open steel wires of the cage, providing relief from the heat. The breeze would have refreshed his face, but the heaving convulsions and contorted twisting in his stomach nullified its benefits.
A steel clank sounded behind him. The door locking them in.
“All right, let’s move,” an agent said. They started forward again but had gotten no more than a couple of steps when a loud, shrill whistle pierced the air, surrounding them.
In an instant, all activity froze.
Then the shriek of the whistle stopped, and the still air yielded to the blare of an almost eerie-sounding bugle call. The bugle produced a haunting call, with a tune sounding almost like taps but not quite. A bit more lively.
“Colors,” one of the agents mumbled, obviously disgusted.
“What a waste,” another said. “These military types waste so much time with their stupid patriotism crap and garble about the Constitution.”
Marines and sailors stood at attention, salutes flashed toward the large flagpole in the middle of the courtyard.
At the base of the flagpole, a Marine honor guard worked furiously to bring the American flag down for the evening as dozens of other Marines paid reverent homage.
For Hasan, this sight brought comfort in the midst of his nightmare. The reverence shown by the US military for the flag that stood for freedom represented what Hasan had always associated with America. His heart told him that the military officers he had seen and these TSA ELITEs were not the same.
The words of the Lee Greenwood ballad came to mind. “The flag still stands for freedom. God bless the USA.”
He prayed, God bless America again. I don’t know what’s happening here, and I don’t know what will happen to me. But please restore America as a beacon of true freedom, and please protect my son.
Forced to wait for the bugler to stop, a couple of agents cursed under their breath, disgusted by the interruption of their routine.
The flag reached the bottom of the pole, and the Marines folded it sharply, tucking it into a red, white, and blue cloth triangle. The bugle call faded. The whistle blew again.
The pause ended, salutes were dropped, and activity returned to GITMO.
“All this for a dang flag,” an agent said.
“All right. Enough of that,” Jacobs said. “We’ve wasted enough time. Let’s move.”
Jacobs took the lead. The TSA ELITE entourage, with Hasan jammed in their midst, walked down the caged corridor to a steel door to the main prison. Jacobs punched some numbers into a combination box, causing more electronic buzzing and clinking.
“Step back,” Jacobs ordered.
The steel door swung out slowly, revealing a long, dark hallway.
“Let’s go.”
Jacobs stepped in first. Hasan’s bodyguards pushed him in next.
The long hall felt humid and had a musty smell. The floor was concrete. The cinder-block walls had no windows or doors. Lightbulbs hung from the ceiling every ten feet or so. Sweat beaded on his face. He felt short of breath.
They walked under a sign that said “Welcome to the Corridor of Freedom,” and just past that sign they came to another hallway off to the left.
“This way,” Jacobs barked.
They turned, and about twenty feet beyond the turn was a set of yellow steel double doors.
And another sign:
High Security Area
Solitary Confinement
Jacobs punched a security code, and the doors slid open like elevator doors.
“Let’s go.” Jacobs motioned for his men to enter the secure area with Hasan.
Inside, three US Marines in camouflage uniforms manned a guard station. One of the Marines looked up as the TSA group entered. “May I help you, sir?”
Jacobs flashed an identification badge.
“I’m Special Agent Jacobs, TSA ELITE Forces. Who’s in charge, Sergeant?”
“Right now, that would be First Lieutenant Elliot, sir.”
“Where is Lieutenant Elliot right now?” Jacobs snarled.
The duty sergeant cocked his head with a quizzical look. “He’s out making rounds at the moment, Mr. Jacobs. He should be back in about ten minutes.”
“That’s Special Agent Jacobs to you, Sergeant. And I don’t have ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s what he said.”
“What about ‘I don’t have ten minutes’ do you not understand, Sergeant? Do you know who this man is?” He pointed at Hasan.
The sergeant shot a glance at Hasan, then turned to Jacobs. “Sorry, sir. I don’t recognize him.”
“Well, this happens to be Hasan Makari, one of the most sought-after terrorists in the world. He’s the guy who murdered our United States ambassador eleven years ago in Lebanon. What do you expect me to do? Stand in the hallway with the world’s most notorious terrorist while I wait on your lieutenant to return?”
The sergeant looked at Jacobs. “With respect, Agent Jacobs, we—”
“That’s Special Agent Jacobs.”
“Excuse me. But with respect, sir, we have a bunch of the world’s most sought-after terrorists in this wing. The CIA has been bringing these guys in here for years. They don’t snap their fingers and demand that we change our military procedures when they show up.”
“Well, that’s not good enough, Sergeant!” Jacobs snapped. “From here on, you’re going to be dealing with me. And TSA ELITE is not CIA. We have our own unique procedures. We don’t tolerate the inefficiencies tolerated by the CIA or the military. Am I clear?”
The Marine hesitated. “I hear you, sir.”
“Well, hear this! Call your lieutenant to the guard station. Now.”
The sergeant studied Jacobs’s face for a second, then picked up his walkie-talkie. “Lieutenant Elliot. You have a visitor at the guard station.”
A second later, “Elliot here. What’s up, Sergeant?”
“Sir. Sorry to interrupt. There’s a Special Agent Jacobs, an ELITE TSA special agent, with a new prisoner. The prisoner is a Mr. Makari.”
“Oh yeah. Captain Kohlman warned me about this guy. I’ll be right there.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jacobs stepped closer to the Marine. “What did the lieutenant mean by that remark?” he snarled.
“What remark, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“About Captain Kohlman warning him about me?”
“I have no idea, sir. You’ll have to ask him when he gets here.”
“I intend to do that.”
Seconds later, a Marine wearing fatigues walked around the corner. “I’m First Lieutenant Elliot,” the officer said.
“I’m Special Agent Jacobs, Lieutenant. TSA ELITE Forces. I overheard your comment on your sergeant’s walkie-talkie. What’s this about Captain Kohlman warning you about me?”
“Sir, I’m not in a position to discuss any conversation with anyone in my chain of command.”
“We’ll see about that, Lieutenant,” Jacobs said. “I work for the director of TSA, who works closely with the secretary of Homeland Security. Rest assured, your remarks will be passed on to the highest echelons of power in DC.”
“Report whatever you’d like, Special Agent Jacobs,” the lieutenant said. “If you are ready, you may move your prisoner to cell 4. Down the passageway here to your right. The sergeant here and the corporal will accompany you.
“Once the prisoner is contained, you will have to clear these immediate spaces. As you know, there are other spaces in the prison that you may occupy for whatever you have planned. But these are military-only spaces.”
“I don’t think I like your attitude, Lieutenant.”
“That’s your privilege, sir,” Elliot said. “Sergeant? Corporal? Please accompany Mr. Jacobs and his crew with the prisoner to cell 4.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “This way, sir.”
They walked down the hall to an area marked “Isolation Inmates.” They passed three steel doors on the right, then the sergeant held up his hand. “This is it.”
He inserted a large key into a dead-bolt lock and turned the key to the left.
The door swung open with an eerie creaking, like something from a haunted house. “Okay, Makari, inside,” Jacobs said.
Hasan stepped into the small cinder-block cell. There was no bed, no furniture, no chair. Only a toilet. In the back of the cell, he noticed another door, which had no window, only a small trapdoor cut into the bottom of it, about a foot wide by six inches high. Perhaps a feeding door to slip him food? How odd, he thought. A cell with two doors. The one linking to the guard station had a square Plexiglas window covering the vertical bars that were at head height in the door.
A video camera was mounted next to the ceiling in the back right corner.
“Aren’t you going to uncuff him?” Lieutenant Elliot had followed the group down the passageway.
“We’ll decide how we deal with our prisoners,” the TSA chief said. “He’s lucky we haven’t amputated his hands after what he did.”
“I suggest you uncuff him,” Elliot said. “What you or the CIA do with him one-on-one might be your business. But here in our presence, until he gives a reason to act otherwise, I’m instructing you to uncuff him before we close the door.”
