Afraid of the Dark (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

F
rom the backseat of a cab, the lighted monuments of the capital were a blur as Jack and Neil rode in silence to their hotel.

Stan Haber had lined up several meetings for them in the morning, including one with a representative from the International Committee of the Red Cross, who had presented the “ICRC Report on the Treatment of Fourteen ‘High Value Detainees’ in CIA Custody.” Jack had read the report and had found it interesting that detainees were held in as many as ten different black sites before their arrival in Guantánamo. The Red Cross was careful to point out, however, that “this report will not enter into conjecture by referring to possible countries or locations of places of detention beyond the first or second countries of detention,” and that “the ICRC is confident that the concerned authorities will be able to identify from their records which place of detention is being referred to and the relevant period of detention.” All of that was code for the fact that sometimes the only way the Red Cross gained access to prisoners was by promising to keep certain things confidential, which was just fine for the “concerned authorities.” Probably not so fine for Jamal Wakefield and his lawyers.

Jack went back to the Internet on his smart phone.

“What are you, a teenager?” asked Neil.

Jack looked up from his display, his face aglow from the Web site. Behind Neil were the illuminated stone columns of the Treasury Building, lending an oddly weighty tone to his question.

“What do you mean?”

“I can see what you’re up to,” said Neil. “My daughter does the same thing about every five minutes. Updating your Facebook status.”

Busted.
It was the international obsession for people half Jack’s age: logging onto Facebook and telling the world in real time what they were doing.
“Having pizza at Casola’s with my BFF.”
“
In my room, bored out of my mind.”
It was such a compulsion that two girls had made headlines around the globe by getting lost in a stormwater drain and updating their Facebook status rather than calling for help. Crazy thing was, help had arrived.

“I’m sort of into it,” said Jack.

“Sort of?” said Neil. “That’s the tenth time you’ve done it since we left Miami.”

Jack couldn’t argue. It was probably double that.

The taxi stopped in front of the hotel, and the cold winter air reminded Jack that they weren’t in Miami. They were traveling with just their laptops and a change of clothes, which made check-in a breeze.

“I’m going to turn in,” said Neil.

Jack glanced toward the lounge. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next.

“I’m going to hang here for a while,” he said. “Get a little work done.”

They said good night, Neil headed to the elevator, and Jack found a cozy leather sofa in the lounge. He ordered from the waiter, and then updated his Facebook status:
Alone in the lobby with a glass of port.

Jack was halfway through his drink and rereading the ICRC detainee report when the lights went out—or so it seemed. Her hands felt warm over his eyes.

“Guess who,” said Andie.

He smiled, jumped up, and held her tight. It felt beyond good, and her hair still smelled the same, even if it was an unfamiliar shade of undercover blond.

“You need to be careful with those Facebook updates,” she said. “You never know what kind of derelict is going to track you down.”

It was their way of communicating under rules that prohibited Jack from contacting her directly. “Neil thinks I’m a teenager.”

“Well, you did have the stamina of a nineteen-year-old the other night.”

That triggered some nice memories. “How long can you stay?”

“Just a few minutes. Sorry. My sexually deviant boyfriend is around the corner waiting in the car.”

“Not the kind of thing your fiancé wants to hear.”

She sat beside him on the couch, and Jack felt that empty silence that was becoming too much a part of their relationship. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was there whenever Andie worked undercover: the hesitation as Jack checked his train of thought, knowing that he couldn’t even ask how her day had gone, much less what the hell was up with the “sexually deviant boyfriend.”

“Did you get my phone messages this morning?” she asked.

“Yes. Of course I knew it was you.”

She took his hand, but her touch was a little stiff.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Not between us,” she said. “But there is something I need to tell you.”

Jack braced himself for another one of those FBI-agent-to-lawyer lectures. “Please don’t try to talk me out of representing Jamal. I’m more committed than ever.”

“I know, and that’s your business. But . . .”

“But what?”

She created some separation on the couch, positioning herself so that she could look him in the eye as she spoke. “What I’m about to say . . . you can never tell anyone that you heard it from me.”

He hesitated. “Andie, I don’t want to hear anything that puts you in an uncomfortable position with the bureau.”

“I’m fine. This isn’t classified. Some of it’s even been in the newspapers. All I’m doing is helping you put two and two together so that you can make the right decision about Jamal Wakefield.”

“I think I have made the right decision. Everything I’m learning about this case tells me this guy is innocent.” It was the first time Jack had said it aloud, and it rang so true that it actually surprised him.

“That’s what I want to talk about,” said Andie. “Obviously, you know about certain black sites run by the CIA. But have you heard anything about the insurance policies?”

“No. What kind of insurance?”

“After it became public that the CIA had these black sites, some CIA officers started to get nervous about it.”

“Imagine that,” said Jack.

“Just listen. They were worried that they would need lawyers to represent them in civil or criminal lawsuits, or maybe even congressional hearings. So the government set up a private insurance plan that they could buy in to.”

“Wait a minute. You’re saying that while the administration was denying the existence of these black sites, the Pentagon was setting up an insurance plan to protect the interrogators in case they were accused of torturing the detainees?”

“Stop editorializing—but, to answer your question, yes.”

The waiter came by. “Another port, sir?”

Jack was massaging the pain between his eyes, still trying to get his head around Andie’s news. “Got any aspirin?” said Jack.

“I can check,” he said.

Andie waited for him to leave, then continued. “The important thing here is that the insurance is private. Which means you have people outside the CIA involved—people who, theoretically, you could talk to.”

“You mean people who could confirm that there was a black site in the Czech Republic?”

“I mean
theoretically
. Because here’s what I’m really trying to tell you. That guy who died at the Lincoln Road Mall on Saturday night, Ethan Chang.”

“The man who said he had photos of Jamal in a black site in Prague.”

“I told you to stop editorializing. If you were to talk to the right person in the private insurance industry, she would tell you that Mr. Chang approached her about insurance.”

“So he was CIA?”

“No. That’s my point. He wanted to know if the same insurance that was available to CIA interrogators was being offered to private interrogators.”

Jack knew exactly what she was saying, but he was thinking aloud: “The site was run by one of those private contractor security firms,” he said, “like a Blackwater.”

“Blackwater is now called Xe Services, but there are others. ArmorGroup North America, Inter-Risk, to name just a couple.”

“That makes things even tougher.”

“Jack, I’m not telling you this so that you’ll go the extra mile and prove the existence of a black site run by a private security firm. Don’t you get it? The CIA has deniability—there was no Czech facility run by the CIA. Your chances of getting the CIA to admit that it had a black site are slim to none. The chances of proving a
privately run
black site are less than zero.”

“I don’t care what the odds are. It’s his alibi.”

“Jack, sweetheart. As a former CIA director once said on his way to the White House, ‘Read my lips.’ There is no way in hell you are going to establish this alibi in a criminal trial in Miami-Dade County, Florida.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?”

“No, but do it anyway. And say it so I believe it.”

She leaned closer, looking him in the eye. “Find another way to win your case, Jack. Or your client is looking at the death penalty.”

Chapter Twenty-one

V
ince squeezed the trigger and caught his breath. He’d been at it for almost forty minutes. Since losing his sight, this was the first time he’d discharged his Glock 9-millimeter pistol without a sound beacon attached to the target.

“Nice shot,” said the firearms trainer.

At first, his supervisors had scoffed at the idea of target practice for the blind, but Vince had made them believers. A series of slow rhythmic beeps from the target worked best for him. He’d learned to measure the pulses in each ear until the sound was equal in the left and right—which meant that the beacon was centered on his nose. From there, it was all about technique, focus, and instinct: Square your shoulders; draw an imaginary line from your eyebrows, heart, and shoulders to the target; raise the gun slowly to check the alignment from your heart to your palms holding the gun; and, finally, using your mind’s eye, picture the gun’s barrel before you and the target beyond, and when you can “see” one last imaginary line from your center of gravity, between your wrists, and along the image of the gun’s sights . . .
pow
!

Brainport changed the game entirely.

Vince worked as a training advisor on “human issues” with the Academy Detail, but the new Miami Police Training Center in downtown Miami had been built after his accident. He’d never had an actual
look
at the new Firearms Unit. His role was to teach courses on “mental preparation” and “ethics and professionalism” with the Officer Survival Detail, and to conduct advanced multijurisdictional sessions on crisis negotiation skills, which covered everything from outright hostage takings to convincing an armed drug addict not to commit suicide. Stimulating work, but it was still just the classroom. He longed to get out, and a morning at the Firearms Detail with Brainport was a big step in that direction.

“I never would have believed it, but you could very well get to a passing level on stationary targets at close range,” the trainer said. “Moving targets . . . well, we’ll wait and see.”

Vince focused the Brainport camera lens on a black-and-white target peppered with gunfire. The stated policy of the Institute for Human & Machine Cognition was never to let the device leave the Pensacola campus, but Chuck Mays had a way of making things happen. It made Vince’s heart race with excitement to see—literally—the results.

Vince removed the mechanical “lollipop” from his mouth. “This is so unbelievable.”

He hated to shut down the device, but he was authorized to use it only in controlled environments like the Police Training Center. If he stumbled down the stairs or tripped on the sidewalk and broke it, he’d not only be on the financial hook to replace the prototype, but they’d drop him from the pilot program.

The firearms trainer helped him put the components back inside the carry case. Vince used his walking stick to find the door. Sam was waiting for him in the hallway.

“One day I’ll take you huntin’, Sam,” he said as he folded away the stick. Together they went to the elevator and rode down to Vince’s office. Sam brought them to a stop in the open doorway, and Vince sensed that someone was waiting inside.

“Hi,” said Alicia.

Alicia’s police work often brought her to the department headquarters next door, but even so, unannounced visits from his wife weren’t the norm. “What’s up?”

Vince heard more than one person rising from the chairs in his office. Alicia said, “I have Detective Burton with me from Miami-Dade Police. He’s from the Homicide Division, working the Lincoln Road Mall case.”

Miami-Dade was the countywide force, akin to a sheriff’s office, and it wasn’t surprising that Miami Beach Police would bring them into the investigation once a homicide was suspected. Vince shook the detective’s hand, invited him and Alicia to return to their seats, and made his way to the chair behind his clunky metal desk. For the hundredth time, he nearly sliced open his thigh on the pointy metal corner of the government-issued furniture. Whoever was in charge of procurement definitely wasn’t blind.

“You didn’t mention that you were working with Miami-Dade on this case,” Vince said.

“I’m not,” said Alicia.

“I’m here on what you might call a professional courtesy,” said Burton. “After I interviewed Jack Swyteck, it was clear that my investigation ties in pretty closely with the criminal case against Jamal Wakefield. It seemed appropriate for you to be informed, given your—you know, given what happened to you. I thought you might want your wife present.”

Vince didn’t make an issue out of it, but the detective’s actions were so typical. You go blind, and the world thinks you can’t do anything alone. Still, Alicia knew better. She should have told Burton that there was no need for her to tag along.

Why did she come?

“There are a couple of things you might like to know,” said Burton.

“Okay, shoot.”

“One, we’re still waiting on the final toxicology report, but the medical examiner suspects some kind of quick-acting toxin that induced cardiac arrest.”

“I’d heard that,” since Vince. “Detective Lopez from Miami Beach gave me an update before handing the case over to you. Any idea how the toxin was administered?”

“That’s the tricky part. The body shows no puncture wounds—no sign of a needle injection. It’s possible he ingested it. But we also have some footage from an outdoor security camera that raises an interesting possibility.”

Miami Beach PD hadn’t mentioned anything about a videotape. “What’s it show?” Vince asked.

“There are surprisingly few security cameras in the area, but they do have one at every cross street. About an hour before the paramedics arrived, we have a series of frames showing the victim in the crosswalk at Jefferson Avenue, which bisects the mall. He’s headed east. Another pedestrian is headed west, and the two of them collide.”

“What’s wrong with that guy, is he blind?” said Vince, smiling.

“Actually, he is,” said Burton, his tone serious. “That’s the interesting thing. We don’t have an ID yet, but whoever ran into Chang was using a walking stick, and the tip of it jabbed Chang in the ankle. The medical examiner notes a strange discoloration of the skin at the point of impact.”

Vince waited for him to say more, but the ball seemed to be in his court. “Anybody get a look at the suspect?” asked Vince.

“No. It was after dark, and the quality isn’t that good, even with digital enhancement. The camera has a head-on view of Ethan Chang, so we can tell that it’s him, but the suspect is filmed from behind. The dark sunglasses and hat don’t make it any easier.”

“Might not even be blind,” said Vince. “Could have just been a disguise.”

“That’s possible,” said the detective.

“Seems more than possible, when you consider the note Swyteck found on his table. Not an easy thing for someone to do without the benefit of sight—find his way to someone’s table and scribble out a note on a napkin.”

“Another valid point,” the detective said.

Vince listened as the detective filled in a few more details, but he was less than totally engaged, still wondering why Alicia had felt it necessary to come with him.

“Anyway,” said the detective, “I won’t take up any more of your time. Let me just say that before I made detective, I was in charge of the team that ran perimeter control around the motel on Biscayne when you were lead negotiator. I have tremendous respect for how you’ve bounced back. For what it’s worth, I hope the state attorney nails the son of a bitch who did this to you.”

“I appreciate that,” said Vince.

Alicia and the detective exchanged good-byes, and Vince thanked him. The detective closed the door on his way out, leaving Vince alone with his wife.

“You didn’t tell him about Brainport,” she said.

“What?”

“You told him how hard it would be for a blind guy to write a note on Jack Swyteck’s napkin, but what if the blind guy was using Brainport?”

Vince smiled and shook his head. “Alicia, that device is still in research and development. You can’t just go buy it. So far, the only people who have ever used the device outside of a clinic are me and Erik Weihenmayer—and he’s the only blind person ever to climb the Seven Summits. I don’t think Erik is a murderer.”

He and Alicia sat in silence, and he sensed that there was something she needed to say. Then she said it: “I was looking through the things from your visit to Pensacola.”

Vince just listened.

She paused, then added, “There were some handwritten notes.”

“Yeah, pretty primitive, wasn’t it?”

“To be honest, it surprised me how good it was.”

“I was doing really well with letter recognition, so we spent some time on writing. We’ll work on that more on the next visit. Like everything else in life, it should improve with practice.”

More silence.

“Vince,” she said, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She hesitated, and the question seemed a very long time coming. Finally, she spoke.

“Where were you on Saturday night?”