columns of the Treasury Building, lending an oddly weighty tone to his question.
“What do you mean?”
“I can see what you’re up to,” said Neil. “My daughter does the same thing about every five minutes. Updating your Facebook status.”
Busted. It was the international obsession for people half Jack’s age: logging onto Facebook and telling the world in real time what they were doing. “Having pizza at Casola’s with my BFF.” “In my room, bored out of my mind.” It was such a compulsion that two girls had made headlines around the globe by getting lost in a stormwater drain and updating their Facebook status rather than calling for help. Crazy thing was, help had arrived.
“I’m sort of into it,” said Jack.
“Sort of?” said Neil. “That’s the tenth time you’ve done it since we left Miami.”
Jack couldn’t argue. It was probably double that.
The taxi stopped in front of the hotel, and the cold winter air reminded Jack that they weren’t in Miami. They were traveling with just their laptops and a change of clothes, which made check-in a breeze.
“I’m going to turn in,” said Neil.
Jack glanced toward the lounge. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next.
“I’m going to hang here for a while,” he said. “Get a little work done.”
They said good night, Neil headed to the elevator, and Jack found a cozy leather sofa in the lounge. He ordered from the waiter, and then updated his Facebook status: Alone in the lobby with a glass of port.
Jack was halfway through his drink and rereading the ICRC detainee report when the lights went out-or so it seemed. Her hands felt warm over his eyes.
“Guess who,” said Andie.
He smiled, jumped up, and held her tight. It felt beyond good, and her hair still smelled the same, even if it was an unfamiliar shade of undercover blond.
“You need to be careful with those Facebook updates,” she said. “You never know what kind of derelict is going to track you down.”
It was their way of communicating under rules that prohibited Jack from contacting her directly. “Neil thinks I’m a teenager.”
“Well, you did have the stamina of a nineteen-year-old the other night.”
That triggered some nice memories. “How long can you stay?”
“Just a few minutes. Sorry. My sexually deviant boyfriend is around the corner waiting in the car.”
“Not the kind of thing your fiance wants to hear.”
She sat beside him on the couch, and Jack felt that empty silence that was becoming too much a part of their relationship. It lasted only a few seconds, but it was there whenever Andie worked undercover: the hesitation as Jack checked his train of thought, knowing that he couldn’t even ask how her day had gone, much less what the hell was up with the “sexually deviant boyfriend.”
“Did you get my phone messages this morning?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course I knew it was you.”
She took his hand, but her touch was a little stiff.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not between us,” she said. “But there is something I need to tell you.”
Jack braced himself for another one of those FBI-agent-to-lawyer lectures. “Please don’t try to talk me out of representing Jamal. I’m more committed than ever.”
“I know, and that’s your business. But…”
“But what?”
She created some separation on the couch, positioning herself so that she could look him in the eye as she spoke. “What I’m about to say… you can never tell anyone that you heard it from me.”
He hesitated. “Andie, I don’t want to hear anything that puts you in an uncomfortable position with the bureau.”
“I’m fine. This isn’t classified. Some of it’s even been in the newspapers. All I’m doing is helping you put two and two together so that you can make the right decision about Jamal Wakefield.”
“I think I have made the right decision. Everything I’m learning about this case tells me this guy is innocent.” It was the first time Jack had said it aloud, and it rang so true that it actually surprised him.
“That’s what I want to talk about,” said Andie. “Obviously, you know about certain black sites run by the CIA. But have you heard anything about the insurance policies?”
“No. What kind of insurance?”
“After it became public that the CIA had these black sites, some CIA officers started to get nervous about it.”
“Imagine that,” said Jack.
“Just listen. They were worried that they would need lawyers to represent them in civil or criminal lawsuits, or maybe even congressional hearings. So the government set up a private insurance plan that they could buy in to.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying that while the administration was denying the existence of these black sites, the Pentagon was setting up an insurance plan to protect the interrogators in case they were accused of torturing the detainees?”
“Stop editorializing-but, to answer your question, yes.”
The waiter came by. “Another port, sir?”
Jack was massaging the pain between his eyes, still trying to get his head around Andie’s news. “Got any aspirin?” said Jack.
“I can check,” he said.
Andie waited for him to leave, then continued. “The important thing here is that the insurance is private. Which means you have people outside the CIA involved-people who, theoretically, you could talk to.”
“You mean people who could confirm that there was a black site in the Czech Republic?”
“I mean theoretically. Because here’s what I’m really trying to tell you. That guy who died at the Lincoln Road Mall on Saturday night, Ethan Chang.”
“The man who said he had photos of Jamal in a black site in Prague.”
“I told you to stop editorializing. If you were to talk to the right person in the private insurance industry, she would tell you that Mr. Chang approached her about insurance.”
“So he was CIA?”
“No. That’s my point. He wanted to know if the same insurance that was available to CIA interrogators was being offered to private interrogators.”
Jack knew exactly what she was saying, but he was thinking aloud: “The site was run by one of those private contractor security firms,” he said, “like a Blackwater.”
“Blackwater is now called Xe Services, but there are others. ArmorGroup North America, Inter-Risk, to name just a couple.”
“That makes things even tougher.”
“Jack, I’m not telling you this so that you’ll go the extra mile and prove the existence of a black site run by a private security firm. Don’t you get it? The CIA has deniability-there was no Czech facility run by the CIA. Your chances of getting the CIA to admit that it had a black site are slim to none. The chances of proving a privately run black site are less than zero.”
“I don’t care what the odds are. It’s his alibi.”
“Jack, sweetheart. As a former CIA director once said on his way to the White House, ‘Read my lips.’ There is no way in hell you are going to establish this alibi in a criminal trial in Miami-Dade County, Florida.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
“No, but do it anyway. And say it so I believe it.”
She leaned closer, looking him in the eye. “Find another way to win your case, Jack. Or your client is looking at the death penalty.”
