The Prisoner of Guantanamo Read Online Free PDF Page B

seat with both hands. But one glance at Adnan told him the cause was lost. The young man was staring at him, dumbfounded, with a crestfallen look of betrayal. Hadn’t Falk just told him that only the two of them were here? That no one else would know? So Adnan had presented his “great gift,” no matter how cryptic, only to be greeted by this smiling lout in a suit.
    Falk snapped.
    â€œGoddamn it, Mitch! Just five minutes, okay? Five fucking minutes and I’m out of your hair.”
    Tyndall backpedaled, the smile fading but not gone. No one was ever supposed to lose face in front of the detainees. This type of dressing-down was strictly verboten.
    â€œEasy, fella.” He glanced again at his watch. “It’s right there in the back. I’ll just pick it up and go. I’m outta here.”
    Falk didn’t answer, didn’t even nod. And when the door shut he looked imploringly back at Adnan, trying to convey outrage and apology in a single expression.
    â€œI didn’t know,” he said. “I really didn’t know. And I’m sure he didn’t hear a word, or he never would have interrupted. He’s an asshole in a hurry, that’s all. A walking joke.”
    Adnan didn’t see the humor, of course. And some of Falk’s hasty vernacular probably hadn’t translated into Arabic as smoothly as he would have liked. What, indeed, would the concept of a “walking joke” mean to a Yemeni?
    Adnan wouldn’t say another word, and when the MP returned to escort him back he placed his arms around himself in an unwitting imitation of a straitjacket, refusing to meet Falk’s glance as he glared toward the open door.
    Fabulous, Falk thought. Just great. Nothing like wasting weeks of work. He was sure that was what had just transpired. Adnan’s “great gift” now lay in ruins upon the table, still a mystery beyond the single name of “Hussay.”
    He left the booth before Tyndall returned, not wanting to risk a confrontation if he saw the man’s face again. His footsteps crunched angrily across the gravel, emotions sizzling as he waited for the MP to unlock each and every gate. And now, back at the house, having just hung up the phone on Tyndall’s “peace offering,” he grabbed a second beer and strode back onto the lawn, still trying to cool the heat of his anger.
    But what was this now, coming toward him in the dark? Headlights were approaching from the direction of the camp. It was a Humvee, judging from the wide spacing of the lights, rolling past the golf course, then pausing before turning up his street, Iguana Terrace. It moved slowly, deliberately. A business call for sure.
    The beams crossed him in a blinding flash as the vehicle swerved into the small driveway. Falk considered his appearance—khakis and black polo, hair damp from perspiration. A soldier stepped from the driver’s seat and headed for the front door. Somehow he hadn’t spotted Falk on the lawn, and now he was knocking briskly, big knuckles rattling the screen.
    â€œOut here, soldier.”
    A gasp of surprise, the soldier turning quickly. Falk wondered if he was reaching for a sidearm, but couldn’t tell in the darkness.
    â€œMr. Falk, sir?”
    â€œThat’s me. At ease, soldier. And you don’t have to call me sir.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Flat accent. Yet another Midwesterner.
    Falk strolled closer, feet tingling on the grass. He pulled open the creaking screen and motioned the man to follow him indoors, where the air was thick enough to choke on. When Falk flipped on the ceiling fan it was like stirring a kettle of warm soup. He turned toward the door, but the soldier was still out on the porch.
    â€œWell, come on in.”
    â€œActually, sir, I’m here to pick you up.”
    â€œTrouble inside the wire?”
    The soldier hesitated.
    â€œWell?” Falk asked. Then a thought occurred to him that made him