Gitmo 48: Sleeping Dogs

“So Hamdi hasn’t sold out any of his co-conspirators, huh?” Ismail asked. He pumped me for information about as subtly as he pumped the plunger into Monty’s always clogged toilet.

“I’ve got him eating nothing but MREs- meals ready to eat- Army rations, this side of their expiration dates. Nasty even when they’re fresh, but you know, they’re designed for portability and survivability, not for their appeal to the gourmet appetites of the US fighting man.”

“Or woman,” Ismail pointed out, irritated, though it wasn’t because of my political incorrectness.

“But it isn’t that he hasn’t squealed.” Ismail actually turned to face me, then glanced at Monty’s empty cell. “The problem is he’s squealed on everyone. Literally, every single person here- including me and my deputy- and several who aren’t. He’s blamed so many people that we haven’t yet been able to figure out who was in on things- with the exception of Mustafa. Circumstances are pretty damning, for him; oh, and that group Monty caught making for the gunsafe.”

“Hmm,” Ismail said. “I think I’ll need one of the deeper snakes.” Then he got up and left.

“That tight lipped Arab hasn’t said shit, discounting his rather thorough instruction to ‘tongue my balls.’”

“Yep. But if he gets out of house arrest, and people know he held his tongue, he emerges a martyr, with more power, and more influence, exponentially increasing the odds of this kind of shit happening again.”

“I don’t think I get it.”

“Monty,” I said, “you don’t need to. Just keep yer trap shut.”