Free Intercept by Patrick Robinson

communiqué from Howard, Marsh, and Cuthbert, and warned the two attorneys there may be difficulty in identifying them since several of the
most dangerous inmates of Guantanamo had always refused to reveal their identities.
    “I think we may assume, James,” he said, “that if the jihadists are prepared to spend millions of dollars to free these men, they will be on Guantanamo’s equivalent of Death Row. You may have to interview several men to locate them. Also there may be others in precisely the same predicament as Yousaf and Ibrahim. Do not hesitate to increase the client list to three or four, if you can, because that will mean larger fees in the end. These people have endless money. When it suits them.”
    Epstein told both men he would immediately open up the channels with the State Department to facilitate a trouble-free entry into Cuba, which could still be quite awkward for American visitors.
    “Flights to Havana?” asked Tom. “Same as last time.”
    “Correct,” replied Josh. “Washington to Nassau, then Air Cubana or whatever the hell it’s called.”
    “Of course it’s still about five hundred miles to Guantanamo,” said James. “What do we do? Get a car and drive it?”
    “I think we might do a little better than that,” grinned Josh. “We won’t get any help from the military who, generally speaking, think we’re all crazy. But I’m pretty sure State will fix up a local flight from Havana. Tell you what—leave all that to me. I’ll get Charlie on the case. We’ll meet back here tomorrow morning 5 a.m. That JetBlue flight takes off at eight o’clock. Dulles.”
    James and Tom headed for the door, but before they exited, James hesitated, and then asked, “Josh, I know the Pentagon doesn’t agree with any of this, but are you sure the State Department will help us get there and get us into the prison? You remember all that bullshit last time. Took us nearly a week.”
    “Things are very different now,” said Josh. “This president is a left-wing guy with a big agenda. Guantanamo is an embarrassment to him. He wants the goodwill of the Middle East and he can’t get it while all those wild men are banged up without trial. He’d shut it all down and let ’em all out tomorrow if he could.”
    “I guess the military won’t have that?” said Tom.
    “Correct. Right now, we’re his main hope. So I’m assuming you guys will get a nice ride into Guantanamo, courtesy of the State Department. No problems.”
    “Leave it to you, Big Guy,” concluded James. “See you at five.”

    CIA DIRECTOR BOB BIRMINGHAM picked up his secure line and requested the Israeli ambassador. Less than thirty seconds later he heard the polished tones of General David Gavron—“Hello, Bobby, this is a nice surprise,” he said. “And I could not begin to guess what you need!”
    “Well, I am assuming you know a whole lot more about our business than we do, so I’m just checking in. Anything shake loose?”
    “Did it ever. The Arabs just hired Epstein’s to get two of the most dangerous jihadists in the world out of Guantanamo. Money, I’d say no object.”
    “You get their names?”
    “We did. Try identifying one Yousaf Mohammed and Ibrahim Sharif. We think we know who they are, but you guys have never gotten even a squeak out of them.”
    “That assumes you guys could have done a better job, eh?” chuckled the big American.
    “No, not really, Bobby. We’d have shot them both. A very long time ago.”
    As far as Director Birmingham was concerned, Ambassador Gavron was the best Israeli ever appointed to the United States. He was a wounded veteran of the Yom Kippur War in 1973, a tank commander who had fought alongside “Bren” Adan in that monstrous battle in the Sinai, when the fate of Israel had hung in the balance.
    The scars of that war had never healed for David Gavron, figuratively and literally. The jagged one, slashed down his right cheek, was the result of an Egyptian shell that had