Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [42]
“That doesn’t sound too Jewish,” said Haber.
“You never know,” said Neil. “A lot of Eastern European Jews had good reason to assume a gentile surname, even before the Nazis. How do you think Goldsmith became Goderich?”
Jack hadn’t thought of that.
Haber said, “Maybe someday you’ll want to go to Prague to check it out.”
“And while you’re there, look for black sites,” said Neil.
“Don’t waste your time,” said Haber, his expression turning serious. “Even former detainees can’t locate them. About the only thing my client could tell me about the one in Kabul was that it was underground and close to the airport. Everything else was nondescript or utterly black. The place was known for its absolute lack of light. Detainees even called it the Dark Prison.”
Jack froze.
Haber looked at him curiously. “Did I say something wrong?”
“The Dark Prison?” said Jack.
“Yeah, why?” said Haber. “Does that strike you as particularly inventive?”
“Inventive, no. But incredibly coincidental.”
Jack told him about the informant he was supposed to have met at the Lincoln Mall on Saturday night, the man falling over dead, and the handwritten message Jack found on the napkin when he returned to his table.
“ ‘Are you afraid of The Dark?’ was what he wrote,” Jack said. “It was a curious message. And I thought it was interesting that the T and the D were both capitalized.”
Jack looked around the table, and suddenly it was as if the wheels in their heads were all turning in the same direction.
“But why would you be afraid of a secret prison in Kabul?” asked Haber.
Jack thought for a moment. “Maybe it wasn’t actually directed at me. Maybe the threat was intended for someone else—someone who’s sure to read it and who has reason to be afraid.”
“Afraid of what might become public about the black sites,” said Neil, “like the Dark Prison.”
“Or afraid of the things he had done there,” said Jack.
“You mean afraid of being held accountable for what he’s done,” said Neil.
“That may be,” said Jack. “But people who inflict torture on other human beings—especially under orders—can pay a heavy psychological price. Being afraid of the dark could be, as you say, the fear of criminal prosecution. But it could also be the nightmares that haunt them for having crossed the line—for having literally and figuratively traveled to such a dark place.”
Laughter drifted over from the old men drinking large cups of kahawa at the bar, the smell of freshly ground beans in the air. Finally, Neil spoke up.
“Well, gentlemen, that’s one more thing to look into.”
“One more thing,” said Jack, his gaze drifting across the room and coming to rest on the Somali flag hanging on the wall. “Just what we needed.”
Chapter Twenty
From 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