“That’s when shit happens, to cover up for an election.”
I tried to put it together. “So, Milo was working for Hart, and Hart was working for Ricks?”
George smirked. “What’s the difference between a senator, a lawyer, and a career criminal?”
“Is this a joke?”
“Yeah. It’s on you.”
I couldn’t deny it. “Here’s the only problem. I don’t have anything from Gitmo. They don’t let you leave with anything. Everything was top secret. Classified. Every exhibit, every transcript, every photo, chart, whatever. I don’t have any classified documents.”
“What about unclassified?”
“Sure, but what of it?”
“Like what?”
“Administrative stuff. Schedules, travel plans, emails, correspondence. It could be something I have, but I don’t know what. It was a long time ago. They’re saved in the cloud, in archives.” I starting thinking. “Can I have my phone back? I can access my files from anywhere.”
“Everybody with the phones.” George rolled his eyes. “I hate that shit.”
“I can search the files on my phone.”
“Not anymore. I told the boys to trash it.”
“Thanks.” I gave him a look. “Can I use yours?”
“It don’t have Internet.”
“Do you have a laptop?”
“What am I, a schoolteacher?” George snorted. “What do you think, we’re gonna work together? What are we, the Hardy Boys?”
“Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
“I know enough.”
“So what about Milo?”
“Oh, I’ll find him,” George shot back.
“Where do you think he is?”
“Not your business.”
“Do you think the FBI knows?”
“No, he’s AWOL, but I know where to look. I got four guys loyal to me. Milo’s got four, too.”
“How will I know when you find him?” I realized we were talking about the murder of another human being. I didn’t know if I had become a worse version of myself, or better.
“Oh, I’ll give you a ringy-dingy.” George mimicked a phone call with his hand.
I let it go. “I assume I’ll find out from the FBI.”
“Right, they’re reliable. They flipped your daughter’s killer. Did they ask you? Did they give a shit? Wise up, Bennett. They got their priorities, you got yours. Their priority is them. Yours is your family.” George rose heavily, motioning me up. “Time to go.”
I stood up. “Where are we going?”
“Not ‘we.’ You.”
I didn’t like the new chill in his eye. “You’re letting me go, right?”
George thought a moment. “Why not?”
Why not? I had just won a coin flip for my life.
“I’m letting you go,” George repeated, musing. “Can’t remember the last time I said that.”
I shuddered. “Look at you, goin’ to heaven.”
George guffawed. “Good one, altar boy!”
Chapter Fifty-One
I sat on the van floor with my back against the wall, feeling every bump on the road. It hurt if I moved to the right or left, and my skull throbbed. The thugs had handcuffed me and put the hood back on.
I was alone with my thoughts. All I had was questions. What happened in Gitmo? How was I involved? What possible document could I have that could get me killed? What was Milo after? Hart? A senator running for president?
I remembered back to the early days at Gitmo. I first went down there in the spring of 2002. The government had opened Guantánamo to high-value detainees, the so-called “worst of the worst,” about seven hundred men from Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan, the UK, and all over. The FBI conducted the early interrogations, but then the CIA had taken over.
The government formed panels of military judges, which began to hear proceedings regarding detainees. I transcribed the proceedings, which were endless, and none of them got anywhere near trial during my time there. The big case back then was Al Qahtani, a Saudi electrical engineer who had trained in bomb-making with Al Qaeda in Afghanistan. He was charged with terrorism and conspiracy with Osama bin Laden, Abu Zbaydah, and other higher-ups, but the trial never got underway, bogged down in endless procedural wrangling.
I racked my brain, but I couldn’t see what my time at Gitmo had to do with anything. I met no lawyers or any military personnel except our handlers, and we court reporters bunked, ate, and socialized on our own. I made friends with two other court reporters, Sam Newman from Seattle and Rowena Boulton-Ramirez, out of Washington, D.C., but we didn’t communicate otherwise, and I had heard they had both passed.
I felt stumped. “Hey guys, can you get me out of the hood and handcuffs? And lend me a phone? George said it was okay.”
“Didn’t say anything to us.”
“Call him and ask him. He knows why.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s going to be pissed. He wants answers.”
I heard the faint tick-tick-tick of texting from the front seat, and not long after, an alert sounded.
One of the thugs said, “Okay, fine. When we pull over.”
“Good, thanks.”
“The boss must like you.”
“How could he not?” I asked, amusing myself.
* * *
—
I scrolled to my Dropbox, entered my username and password, and read the phone in the moving van. All my files popped onto the screen, and I clicked to archived files, where I had saved unclassified documents from Gitmo, by year. I scrolled to the beginning of the Gitmo 2002 files and clicked.
The file was completely empty. The screen was pure white. The folder contained no files. I didn’t understand. It should all be here.
I got out of 2002, went to Gitmo 2003, and clicked open. It was completely empty. I went to Gitmo 2004, and all of the files were gone. The same with 2005, 2006, and 2007. All of my documents from Gitmo had vanished.
My mouth went dry. I couldn’t explain it. I hadn’t checked these files in ages. I certainly hadn’t deleted them. I had forgotten all about them until now.
I left the Gitmo folders and scrolled to archived Word documents from 2002 to double-check. I clicked, and a list of case names piled onto the screen. I opened one for a test, a massive pharmaceutical litigation. All of the correspondence and transcripts were there. The only archived files that had been deleted concerned Gitmo.
I went to my current files, opening them up, to triple-check. The list unrolled onto the screen, and I scrolled down to my Word documents. I opened one, and onto the screen came a transcript of a lawsuit for breach of a commercial contract.
I felt stricken. Somebody had deleted my Gitmo files. How? Why? I tried to think who had the power to do that. The FBI did, but I didn’t see any connection, on the information I had. Then I remembered something George had said.
Junior heard him on the phone, talking about the CIA.
I felt my gut tighten. The CIA had the power, but I didn’t know why they would want to, either. If somebody at the CIA was in my files, or going rogue, it had to be for a reason.
My mind raced. If the CIA had something to do with this, Ricks would be a logical place to start. I left Dropbox, navigated to the Internet, and plugged in Senator Ricks and Gitmo. Instantly a list of articles came onto the screen.