The paperwork was so engrossing that he hardly noticed when the jet roared into the sky minutes later.
The plane nosed sharply down to the tarmac in Guantanamo, the thump of the landing gear breaking his concentration. He glanced out the window at the deep azure ocean only a stone-throw away and rubbed his eyes as the plane taxied to their hangar. When the plane came to a stop, Nancy exited the cockpit and handed him a package. “Did you get through the important parts?”
Eric sighed. “Yes. My cover is with the CIA.”
“It’s not a cover. At least, not just a cover. You are actually with the CIA. One of the benefits of working for the Office, we can place you anywhere. Just get the prisoner back on the plane so we can leave. I hate this fucking humidity.”
As they exited the plane, he noticed Nancy’s feet. They were small and graceful, and she glided as she walked, always balanced, each step perfectly controlled. He knew that walk. It was the result of serious martial arts training.
The waiting Navy MP’s drove him across the base to Camp Delta. After negotiating several rounds of security checks, he was taken by a different Humvee to a smaller set of concrete buildings away from the main camp. As an Operator, Eric had been to Camp Delta before, but he’d never been to Camp 7.
Camp 7 was different than Camp Delta. It was ringed with razor wire, but the guards were more alert. There were very few buildings, but some of the most valuable prisoners the US housed were located in Camp 7.
The damp heat wormed its way down his back as they entered the first building, and the high-school locker room smell lodged in the back of his throat.
Three men greeted him, two white men with dark black hair and wire rimmed glasses. They looked like former football stars turned investment bankers. The third man was black and muscular, with deep-set eyes and the beginnings of a smirk.
“Eric Wise?” the first man asked.
“Yes.”
The black man never took his eyes from Eric. “You ready to see him, or you want to shoot the shit?”
“I’m on a tight schedule,” Eric said. He opened the briefcase and handed a folder to the first agent. “Here’s the paperwork.”
“Kind of unusual, breaking protocol,” the first agent said. “No partner. I don’t like breaks in protocol.”
“The paperwork’s in order,” Eric replied.
The second agent took the folder and studied it, then sat down at a desk against the far wall and typed on a computer.
The third agent continued to watch Eric, polite but alert, still smirking.
He wondered if he would have problems. The paperwork was valid, but he was violating all procedures for prisoner transfers. He could almost feel the suspicion from the three agents, but especially the third.
It was a standard part of Delta training for Operators to learn the basics of spy craft, and he had paired with CIA agents in the past. Still, the prisoner transfer was out of the ordinary and he was missing the slick gloss that defined most CIA agents.
It had them spooked.
The third agent finally spoke. “You’re not one of the usuals. You’ve never been to Camp 7, but I swear I’ve seen you before.”
Agent number three suddenly seemed real familiar to him, too. A distant memory flitted through his brain. Afghanistan? Yeah, the village near Kandahar. Freeman, that was his name. Teon? No, Deion. Deion Freeman. It was Freeman’s nose that he remembered, short and curved, the refined lines a study in contrast with his well-cut physique. It made him look delicate, but he knew better. Freeman had a sharp mind, a laconic attitude, and was known mostly for being a smartass. “I’ve spent some time near Baghdad,” he offered. “I think we might have crossed paths there.”
Freeman shook his head. “I don’t think it was Iraq.”
“Does it really matter?” He did not have time for lengthy explanations. He needed to get the prisoner and get back in the air.
“Nope, guess not,” Freeman finally said. He turned to agent two. “Does it check out?”
Agent two rose and handed the folder back to Eric. “Yeah, it does. You’re clear. You need an escort?”
“No, I’d like to talk to him alone. Give me fifteen minutes. Then, bring the gurney.”
All three agents nodded. Agent two led him to a concrete building farther from the rest, unlocked the heavy metal door, and waved him inside.
The sole occupant was chained to the floor. He had committed the second mass bombing on United States soil by an American citizen.
Eric stopped, sizing up the big man. It was hard to tell with the man kneeling, but he looked close to six foot, late twenties, with dark brown hair and an angular face. His eyes were hazel, and at first appeared almost kind. Except, they never quite blinked enough.
Eric entered the room and signaled to Agent two to shut the door behind him.
“You’re John Frist?”
The prisoner raised his head. “Here to torture me?”
Eric shook his head. He had seen the signs before. Frist was definitely not okay. “You held up under some harsh interrogation,” Eric offered. “It’s not your fault you broke.”
Frist glared at him, silent.
Eric continued., “We broke Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. He wasn’t actually water-boarded. Just preparing him was enough. He sang like a canary.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m here to offer you a way out.”
The man finally blinked. “Out of what? I’m a terrorist.”
Eric sighed. “Yeah, you are. You killed over 500 innocent people. Children, even. The Red fucking Cross? Really, how do you see yourself? As a hero?”
“I’m no hero,” Frist said. “I just did what had to be done. No one in this country understands sacrifice anymore. If people knew what it really took to keep them safe, to protect the American way of life, the freedoms—”
“So you blew up the Red Cross?”
Frist’s eyes widened. “It was the only way,” he said.
“You’re a little crazy, aren’t you?”
“One man’s crazy is another man’s sanity.”
Eric sighed. “That doesn’t even make sense. Look, you were a good soldier, you had a rough time in Iraq. I get that. Then you came home and blew up a building full of people because you missed your parent’s funeral. Something got fucked up in your head and you blamed the Red Cross. I’ve read the reports. Now you have an opportunity to give back some of what you took when you killed those people. You should understand giving back to your country.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Frist rattled his cuffed hands, tick-ticking the shackles against the concrete floor. “Start the torture or shut up. Either way is fine with me.”
“You never really leave the Army, John. You still belong to the US government.” He removed the leather case from his pocket and withdrew a syringe. “Either way, you’re going to volunteer. It’s your choice.”
Frist finally showed concern. “Drugs? You think you’ll get more information with drugs?”
“Scared of needles?”
First shook his head. “I’m not scared of anything. Not anymore.”
“Really? Because you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”
“Go ahead, drug me. It won’t make a difference.”
Eric grabbed Frist’s arm, and jabbed the needle in. “It will actually.”
Frist struggled against the drugs, his eyes rolling back. “Whu-zin-at?”
“Something that will make a difference. A difference in me having to listen to your mouth during the trip.”
Frist collapsed on the floor, spittle dangling from his mouth. He moaned and tried to roll over, but the shackles prevented that. In moments, he was still.
Someone rapped against the door to the cell, the meaty thunk echoing in the enclosed space. “You ready?” Freeman called out.