The Prisoner of Guantanamo by Dan Fesperman Read Free Book Online

book on how to run a place like Camp Delta, and the general was having to make it up as he went along. So far, Falk’s employers at the Bureau weren’t exactly thrilled with the results.
    Falk heard rumblings from other agents months before his own arrival—vivid accounts of shouting matches at the Pink Palace, Trabert going red in the face as he leaned across the desk to mete out deadlines and tactical suggestions to civilian interrogators.
    â€œIf your methods are so goddamn superior,” one Bureau memo had quoted him as saying, “then you bring me some results by the end of the week. If you’ve still got nothing, then we’ll do it my way.”
    His way had consisted largely of throwing legions of hastily trained but highly motivated military interrogators into the fray, with a minimum of preparation and an excess of dramatic props—strobe lights and loud stereos, hoods and short chains, snarling dogs and miniskirts. As if they’d all been watching the same bad movies where subjects spilled their guts at the first sign of either long-term discomfort or a hot babe with cleavage. It was the sort of stupid business Falk had alluded to in his earlier snit with Tyndall: Turn up the air conditioner, strip the detainee naked, then leave the room for a few hours while he squirms uncomfortably, bent double because he’s shackled to the eyebolt by a two-foot chain. Strobe them for an hour or two while playing heavy metal at top volume, or maybe the theme song from
Barney.
Then return and demand answers at the top of your lungs while an interpreter dutifully translates every obscenity.
    Not all the sessions proceeded that way, of course. But Falk had seen and heard enough to make him shake his head from time to time. And like his predecessors, he had complained to headquarters and sought counsel on what he should do about it. Every reply from the Hoover building sounded the same note: “Bottom line is FBI personnel have not been involved in any methods that deviate from our policy. The specific guidance we have given has always been no reading of Miranda rights, otherwise, follow FBI/DOJ policy just as you would in your field office. Use common sense. Utilize our methods, which are proven.”
    The upshot was that Falk was now forbidden from accompanying or observing any Pentagon-run interrogation, for fear he’d be tainted for future testimony before any civilian jury back on the mainland. The banishment also pertained to interrogations run by the CIA—as if the Agency would have allowed him in the room anyway.
    Falk’s complaints inevitably made their way back to General Trabert. It was one reason he would never be convinced that the data lines for his laptop were secure, despite Pentagon assurances. So you might say that the two men weren’t exactly predisposed to have a pleasant chat at 4:30 a.m. on the beach.
    The MPs went still as the general crossed the sand. He looked like MacArthur at Corregidor, only coming by land instead of by sea. Two of the soldiers pointed flashlights to light his way, and salutes snapped from all around. Falk had to restrain himself from raising his own right hand.
    â€œHonor bound,” a couple of the MPs blurted.
    â€œDefend freedom,” the general answered as he returned the salutes. Trabert had ordered those phrases to be injected into the daily mix of salutes, borrowing them from the slogan that appeared on the omnipresent logo for Joint Task Force Guantánamo: “Honor Bound to Defend Freedom.” Falk always enjoyed the irony of watching soldiers shout “defend freedom” within the walls of a prison, but otherwise found it too gimmicky for his tastes, although he had to admit that for some of the MPs it seemed to have actually boosted morale.
    After a few seconds of awkward silence it was clear that no one above the rank of corporal had yet taken charge, the sort of lapse you would find only with a Reserve or