Free The Prisoner of Guantanamo by Dan Fesperman

me. Do you remember our nights so wonderful together? We are in my dreams dancing late into starlight.

    Same as always, so far—the halting English, charming in its clumsy syntax. If she was a professional, shouldn’t it be flawless? But how could anyone not fall for a line so perfectly misshapen as “dancing late into starlight.”

    Last month I hear you are in Cuba, doing work for the country. It is for you very good. I hope you will find the time there to think of me and write to me.

    Now for the business at hand.

    Do you remember Harry our friend who lives nearby? He is wanting to see you also, and will wait for it to be soon. That way when you visit you can see us all.
    The summer has been not so bad, and I have sometimes a new job.

    And so on, for another several sentences of little consequence, small talk that fell flat after such a promising beginning. Then the usual conclusion, with its flourish of schoolgirl confections.

    Love,
    Elena
    XXXOOO

    Hugs and kisses, like always. Only this time they seemed like regular X’s and O’s, game pieces waiting to be deployed, with the outcome uncertain.
    He sighed, folding the delicate paper back into the envelope. Should he burn it? Shred it?
Eat it,
for Chrissakes? Every option seemed belated. By now its presence must have been noted somewhere on the base. So he stuffed it into his pants pocket, realizing too late that he would now be carrying the scent if he met Pam later.
    The news, it seemed, was that their “old friend” Harry wanted a meeting. Well, it would have to wait. Perhaps Falk would even ignore the summons altogether. In any event, what he needed most right now was a little sleep, tortured or not.
    He was good at resting under pressure, having learned at an early age to shut his eyes as all hell broke loose in the next room, pushing himself beneath the surface of the sheets as if swimming for deep water, a chill refuge where no one else would care to follow. At Gitmo the technique was doubly helpful, easing him away not just from his troubles but from the heat, which settled heavily onto his chest the moment he crawled into bed. Deeper now, he thought, his breathing steady and slow. The light faded as a strange pressure built in his ears, as if he were a diver, and soon enough he had reached the desired level.
    In what seemed like only seconds he was fighting for the surface, drawn by a persistent noise that he could no longer ignore. He lurched upward, gasping, bathed in sweat. And there it was again, a banging at the screen. A voice called out, vaguely familiar.
    â€œSir? Mr. Falk?” Then another round of knocking. “Are you here, sir?”
    It was his MP escort from this morning. He checked his watch, shocked to see that it was almost 2 p.m. He had slept for five hours.
    â€œIn here, soldier. I’m coming.” He threw on a shirt, still fighting the grogginess. On his way to the door he couldn’t resist a glance toward the kitchen table, and was alarmed to see that the letter had disappeared, but then he remembered he had stuffed it in his pocket.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    The MP stepped forward, cap in hand.
    â€œIt’s Sergeant Ludwig, sir. They found him.”
    â€œAlive?”
    â€œNo, sir. Drowned.”
    Bad news, but a blessedly quick resolution. Easier for the family and certainly easier for Falk. He’d wager that a blood test would show alcohol, no matter what the man’s buddies thought. Almost everybody succumbed to it eventually down here, if only for one night.
    â€œSorry to hear it. But thanks for letting me know. Guess I should get down there.”
    â€œActually, sir, I’m supposed to take you to a meeting.”
    â€œA meeting?” Probably a damage-control session. Trabert’s idea.
    â€œWith the Cubans, sir. At the North East Gate. He washed up on their side.”
    â€œNo way.” It was stunning. Downright impossible.
    â€œYes, sir. The general