Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (12 page)

“No, Glen,” Sunday said. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. We are compartmentalized on this. Everything goes through the team chief, remember?”

“I know,” he said, choking down the last of the muffin top and taking another bite. “But I thought you were supposed to be some kind of expert at tracking financial data?”

“I’m not going to tell you that either.”

“Hall chatter says the DNI is waiting on this one.” Glen nodded to himself. “Iran is the big leagues.”

“I wouldn’t know, Glen.”

Just then, Sunday’s desk phone rang. The screen showed an external line with a code he recognized. “Sorry, Glen, I’ve got to take this. Can you scarf your muffin somewhere else?”

Glen snorted. “I’ve got pirates to catch,” he said, tucking the moose under one arm. “See you later, S-Man!”

Once Glen was safely out of earshot, Sunday picked up the receiver. “Sunday,” he whispered.

“You still chasing pirates?” Jessica asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have you seen the news?”

“No time for TV, ma’am. Neck-deep in Somalia.”

“Turn on CNN. Last night, Cubans seized an American fishing boat. Four civilians on board,” she said. “I need everything. Background, motives, anything you can find.”

“Roger.”

“Both sides. I want to know what the Cubans are up to.
And us.
”

“Got it,” Sunday said.

“Story doesn’t make sense. Go deep.”

“Yes, ma’am. Cuba. I’m on it.”

“Do you need help with access or an alibi?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I thought you were neck-deep in Somali pirates?”

“Yes, ma’am. This sounds like pirates to me. Ship attacked and robbed at sea, right? Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Treasure Island.”

22.

MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS

THURSDAY, 11:44 A.M.

T
he parking lot of the Marathon Marina and Boat Yard was packed with television news vans, their satellite dishes sprouting like weeds reaching for the sun. A gaggle of well-coifed South Florida reporters were jostling for the same picturesque backdrop of a palm tree and the dock bar. The Monroe County Sheriff’s Office had set up a yellow police tape perimeter to keep back a crowd of onlookers.

Jessica Ryker drove slowly past the scene and parked her Mustang down the road, under a coconut tree at Castaways Bar & Grill. She slid on sunglasses, a sun hat, and walked inside.

“What’s all the fuss?” Jessica asked the bartender, a blonde in her late forties with leathery skin, name tag:
BECKY
.

“Fishin’ boat gone missin’.” The walls were covered in fishnets, dented street signs, starfish, and old wine bottles. A twelve-foot stuffed blue marlin, with a sharp dorsal fin and long bill like a sword, was mounted behind the bar.

“Oh my.” Jessica put her fingers to her lips. “Is that the boat on the TV?” she asked, pointing at the silent television above the
bar where an overly tan brunette reporter was speaking into a microphone. “That broadcast is from . . . here?”

“Uh-huh. Right outside,” Becky said, jerking her thumb toward the front door.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know. They musta strayed too close to Cuba. That’s what the TV says.”

“Oh dear, that’s too awful.”

“Who knows what happens out there on the high seas. You wanna drink, girl?”

“It’s not too early?” Jessica shrugged.

“It’s Florida,” she said, nodding toward an armless clock that announced
IT’S MARGARITA TIME!

“Okay.” Jessica slid onto a stool at the bar. “What’s your specialty?”

“Margarita, rocks, salt.”

“Perfect.”

A few minutes later, the barwoman delivered a lime green cocktail, chunky ice cubes, and the rim covered in white specks. “Here you go. Becky’s Marathon Special.”

Jessica took a sip, the sour lime juice mixing with the tequila and rock salt. She winced as she swallowed. “Yum. Thanks.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m Alexandra. From New York,” Jessica said.

“Nice ta’ meet you. Weather way too cold up there for me.”

“You get used to it,” Jessica said. “I wish I could live down here. Near the ocean.”

“Uh-huh,” said the barwoman. “It takes some gettin’ used to as well.”

“How long you been down here in Marathon?”

“Too long.”

“Oh, I think it’s lovely.”

“Uh-huh. Too quiet.”

“Not today!” Jessica said. “Kinda crazy out there with all those TV cameras, don’t you think?”

“Been like that all mornin’. They’ll be gone by tomorrow unless somethin’ happens to them boys.”

“Which boys? Did you know them?”

“Nah.”

“Not locals?”

“From up north. Tourists out for some fishin’.”

“My goodness, how terrible,” Jessica said, touching her chest. “You go out on a fishing charter and wind up in a Cuban jail.”

Becky clicked her tongue and shook her head.

“They weren’t on a charter. It was a private boat.
The Big Pig.
”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the boat that’s gone missing.”

“Wow,
The Big Pig
,” Jessica said, widening her eyes. “If it wasn’t a charter, whose boat was it?”

“Eh, who knows?” The bartender shrugged. “No one ever knows who really owns what around here.”

“I didn’t know,” Jessica said. “I was hoping to rent a boat, actually. For me and my boyfriend.”

“Uh-huh. Where’s he?”

“He’s still sleeping at the hotel. It’s our one-year dating anniversary,” Jessica smiled cheerily at the woman.

“A whole year. Good for you.”

“I was hoping to surprise him with a day out on the ocean. Maybe some fishing. Or a private booze cruise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But it looks like the marina is all tied up with TV people today.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, Becky”—Jessica leaned on the bar—“if I wanted to hire a boat and go somewhere special, who’s the best person to talk to?” Jessica took a gulp of her cocktail. “Who knows what’s
really
going on around here in Marathon?”

Becky eyed Jessica, who gave the barwoman her most innocent smile.

“You should ask . . . Ricky. He knows what’s what.”

“Ricky, huh?”

“Yeah, Ricky helps out on some of the boats and watches houses for them rich people when they aren’t here. Which is almost always,” she winked. “If anyone knows what’s goin’ on around here, it’ll be Ricky.”

“Where’ll I find this Ricky?”

“Probably hiding from them TV people.”

“Where should I look?”

“He’s usually out by the charters. Cute, but too skinny for me. Look for his red Ford pickup. It’s a beauty.”

Jessica drained her drink and left a twenty-dollar bill on the bar with a wave. “Thanks, Becky. My boyfriend thanks you, too.”

23.

U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY, 12:05 P.M.

Y
ou want a Cuban or reuben?”

“What?” Judd asked, looking up confused from his desk.

Serena put both hands on her hips. “You asked me to get you a sandwich, Dr. Ryker. The specials today are Cubans and reubens. Or do you want your boring old turkey on rye again?”

“Oh, thanks, Serena. Right. I forgot,” Judd said, turning back to his papers. “I don’t care. You choose.”

Judd glared down at the page in front of him, a list Serena had tracked down from the State Department’s Operations Center.

DENNIS DOBSON, US Citizen, DOB September 28, 1969

Address: Rockville, MD

Education: BSc, Massachusetts Institute of Technology

Employer: Engineer, CommScramble Software Inc, Reston, VA

Military record: none

Criminal record: none

BRINKLEY BARRYMORE III, US Citizen, DOB January 4, 1970

Address: Bethesda, MD

Education: BSc, US Naval Academy; JD, Georgetown University Law Center

Employer: Partner, Prince Hatton Horowitz, Washington, DC

Military record: Captain (CAPT), Judge Advocate General’s Corps (JAG); Retired.

Criminal record: none

CRAWFORD JACKSON, US Citizen, DOB May 11, 1970

Address: Bethesda, MD

Education: BSc, US Naval Academy

Employer: Consultant, Naval Surface Warfare Center, Carderock, MD

Military record: Commander (CDR), Special Operations (SEAL); Retired.

Criminal record: none

ALEJANDRO CABRERA, US Citizen, DOB April 17, 1968

Address: Rockville, MD

Education: BA, Florida State University

Employer: Owner, Premier Real Estate, Rockville, MD

Military record: none

Criminal record: Driving under the influence, 2005; Disturbing the peace, 2007; Open container violation, 2007; Public indecency, 2007; Disorderly conduct, 2008; Resisting arrest, 2008; Driving under the influence, 2009; Disturbing the peace, 2011; Disorderly conduct, 2013; Disorderly conduct, 2015.

Judd read the details on the page twice, then set it down. The State Department didn’t have anything more than what was on the news. Less even. At least CNN had figured out the four men were fathers with daughters on the same soccer team. Or had that come from the congresswoman and her twitter campaign? Didn’t matter. Judd had nothing. Other than this Alejandro Cabrera, whose criminal record suggested he was rough around the edges, this didn’t seem like much. Bunch of guys, two Annapolis grads, out for some fishing.

“Anything else you need, Dr. Ryker?” Serena asked.

“Anything more on these AMCITs?” Judd waved the page at her.

“That’s all they gave me at Ops.”

“What am I supposed to do with this list? There’s nothing in it.”

“I couldn’t say, Dr. Ryker.”

Judd thought for a moment. “Serena, how long would it take me to drive out to Bethesda and Rockville? To talk with the families?”

“I could get you a car from motor pool. The drive is only twenty minutes if you go before rush hour.”

“I might need that.”

“Of course. But Consular Affairs already sent someone out there to talk with the spouses. They’ve now got the FBI,
Montgomery County PD, and the local TV news crews all parked outside their homes. So I wouldn’t expect to just walk in there and start asking questions. You’ll have to be more discreet.”

“How do you know all that, Serena?”

“When you’re on the job, so am I.”

Discreet.
That was what Parker said.
What could I even ask them? What the hell do I know about hostage negotiations?

Judd huffed and punched the desk with his fist.

“Sir?”

“Sorry, Serena. I’m just thinking . . .”
Parker has me on an unsolvable mission to negotiate for four suburban dads who got lost on a fishing trip? Is this another setup to fail? Or is Cuba an opportunity?

“Dr. Ryker, sir?” she said.

“Make it a Cuban.”

24.

MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS

THURSDAY, 12:09 P.M.

I
’m here in Marathon, in the heart of the Florida Keys,” a tall Hispanic woman with bright red lips read into the camera. “Behind me is where the fishing boat set sail yesterday morning with four American soccer dads on their fateful trip into the Seminole Flats. They sailed straight into the grasp of the Cuban navy . . .”

“That’s right, Tammy,” said another reporter, touching his earpiece with one finger and holding a CNN microphone with the other hand. “The authorities aren’t releasing any further information about the men . . .”

Jessica had left Castaways Bar & Grill and skirted the media circus in the main parking lot. On the far side was a small boardwalk where fishing charter boats docked: Capt’n Bill’s Charters, Florida Frank, Mad Marlin Max, Sun ’n’ Sport ’n’ Fish. At the far end, across from an empty slip, sat a massive cherry-red Ford pickup truck on oversized tires.

Jessica strolled past the truck. In the bed were ropes, buckets, and fishing gear. Glare on the tinted windows blocked her from
being able to see what was inside the cab. No one appeared to be around, so she quickly took a photo of the truck and license plate with her phone. She then raised a hand to her forehead and leaned against the window to peer inside. The cab, too, was filled with boating gear and cardboard boxes.

“Hey!” shouted a gruff voice from behind her.

Jessica spun around to find a lean man with olive skin and long dark hair. He was wearing torn jeans and a cutoff T-shirt that exposed tattoos on both arms. His face was gaunt and unshaven. Jessica could see that he’d once been handsome, but something in this man’s life had taken a toll.

His eyes narrowed in anger.

“Oh my,” she gasped, flashing her friendliest smile and touching her chest with her fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s my truck,” he said, relaxing once he saw Jessica’s face. He took a step forward, and Jessica was overwhelmed by the smell of stale cigarettes.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, running her fingers across the roof. “I was just admiring it. So . . . red!”

“Yes, it is,” he said, looking Jessica up and down. “I didn’t mean to scare you,
chiquita
.”

“It’s my fault.” She pouted. “I shouldn’t have been looking inside your truck. It’s not right.” Jessica could see one of the man’s arms was inked with tattoos of a buxom mermaid and ¡
EN LA GLORIA DE DIOS!