Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (22 page)

Eisenberg made eye contact with a boyish reporter sitting in the front row. “We now can confirm that four American citizens have been detained by the Cuban government.” She stared directly into the camera. “This illegal act undermines the progress we have made establishing dialogue with the government in Havana. It has put at risk all of the efforts to date to resolve our diplomatic impasse that goes back more than half a century. We hoped this incident would be quickly resolved in a peaceful manner, but that has not happened. The United States cannot stand idly by as our citizens are treated in this manner.”

Eisenberg held up a scolding finger. “I would like to remind this audience and the American people that while we have removed Cuba from the list of official state sponsors of terrorism, this administration will continue to uphold our policy of not negotiating with hostage takers. Let me be very clear: There will be no negotiations.”

She grabbed both sides of the lectern. “We call upon the Cuban authorities to release these Americans immediately and unconditionally. The United States of America stands with these innocent men, their families, and the Cuban people, who only yearn to be free.” She paused. “I will take a few questions.”

The room erupted.

“Yes,” she said, pointing to the young man in the front.

“Domingo Campesino,
Miami Herald
. Can you confirm the identity of the four men?”

Eisenberg shook her head. “Out of respect for the privacy of their families, we are not releasing their names.”

“But several television networks are reporting these men as: Dennis Dobson, of Rockville, Maryland; Crawford Jackson—”

“The Department of State cannot at this time confirm any unsubstantiated news reports,” Eisenberg interrupted. “As soon as we have more information, we will let you know, Domingo . . . Next?”

“Amanda Haddad, Fox News. Are you declaring this an act of terrorism?”

“I didn’t say ‘terrorism.’ I said ‘illegal.’ We stand by our policy of never negotiating for hostages.”

“So Cuba is no longer a state sponsor of terrorism, but you’re not denying that their seizure of the fishing boat might be an act of terrorism?”

“Don’t parse my words. I stand on what I’ve previously indicated . . . Yes?”

“Jasmine Chepenik,
Orlando Sentinel
. What are the Cubans saying about this incident? What do they want in return for their release?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

“They haven’t told the U.S. government anything?”

“I just told you, Jaz,” Eisenberg huffed, “we aren’t negotiating. We will not pay ransom of any kind. That’s not the American way . . . Who’s next?”

“Van Wagner,
Politico
. The reaction from Capitol Hill has been swift and aggressive. The Free Cuba Congressional Caucus issued a statement yesterday morning that was essentially the same position that you just articulated. What’s taking the administration so long?”

“We respect Congress and their rights to come to whatever
views they choose. That’s why we have separation of powers, Van. That was the vision of the Founding Fathers.”

“But your position is essentially the same as Chairwoman Adelman-Zamora. Is the administration now in lockstep with her on Cuba policy?”

Eisenberg bit her lip. “We agree with all those who believe the Cuban people have a right to determine their own government, to enjoy the basic freedoms that all Americans enjoy, and to decide their own future.”

“So this is a shift in administration policy? Are you taking a more hard-line stance?”

“Van, I’m not going to debate Cuba policy with the press. I believe I’ve made our position clear . . . Last question . . . Mikaela?”

“Mikaela Rinehart,
Washington Post
. Even if the administration says no direct talks with the Cubans, there is a long history of sending third parties to negotiate hostage releases. Chairman Bryce McCall of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee has played this role in the past, for instance last year in West Africa. I understand that Senator McCall has made a private offer to the White House to go to Havana in order to broker an agreement. Is that under consideration?”

“That’s a red herring.”

“Is that a no?” she asked.

“Let me make this perfectly clear, Mikaela.” Eisenberg failed to hide a grimace. “We will not negotiate. There will be no secret deals. There is no American envoy being sent to talk with Cuba.”

48.

GUANTÁNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA

FRIDAY, 8:17 A.M.

D
etainee 761!” the officer shouted.

Judd couldn’t see any light through the hood. No shadows. Nothing. His breathing quickened.
Calm down,
he told himself.

“Opening the cargo bay door!”

Judd winced as he was pulled to his feet, the plastic handcuffs pinching the skin on the wrists. He heard the loud whirring of the door opening and a hollow thunk. Judd tried to slow his breathing.

“Let’s go,” the officer said roughly. He guided Judd down the ramp and out onto the tarmac. Once outside, Judd immediately felt the heat of the sun.

The officer led blind Judd for another two hundred yards, then stopped. Judd heard new voices.

“What’s your cargo today, Captain?”

“Detainee 761,” the officer said. “Transfer from Camp Romeo.”

“Welcome to Gitmo, 761,” someone sneered, tapping Judd on the shoulder.

“What’s the security level for this detainee?” asked another voice.

Judd tried to speak but the tight hood made it difficult. “Hey,” he tried to say.

“Should I check SIPRNet?”

“Negative. TS/SCI. Special protocol for this one.”

“Hey!” Judd tried to yell again, but the men ignored him.

“Roger that. I’ll take him into holding cell Zebra, before a transfer to Camp Delta.”

“Hey! Hey!” Judd tried again. “Hey!”

“I don’t think he’s going to Delta.”

“Echo or Iguana?”

“Neither.”

“Where do I take him, then?”

“Put him in the black hole.”

“Hey!” Judd shouted as loud as he could. “I’m—”

A firm hand pressed to his throat. “You got a screamer. Better get him there quick.”

Judd felt the hand slide to the back of his neck. “Quiet, 761! You’ll have plenty of time to talk once we get you to the hole.”

What the hell is going on?

Judd was bundled into a vehicle and driven for several minutes. Then he was yanked out and forced to stand. He could hear
beep-beep-beep
and then the click-clack and woosh of a door release. Judd was shoved forward and felt the sudden coolness of air-conditioning. He was shuffled down a corridor, then through another door lock, and finally into another room.

“Seven sixty-one is here. Your special protocol from Romeo.”

“Leave him.”

Judd could hear the other men depart and the door shut and
lock. Once they were gone, the hood flew off his head. Judd shut his eyes against the sudden bright lights.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ryker.” He felt the handcuffs release. “You’re safe here.”

Judd rubbed his wrist and squinted, trying to see who was in front of him.

“Who are you?” Judd asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the man.

“You know who I am,” Judd said. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the silhouette of an older man, with short hair, a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in civilian clothes—black T-shirt, blue jeans.

“I could tell you my name—any name—and it won’t matter. You will never see me again. And I’ll never see you again.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“My orders are to make you invisible. That’s what I’m doing, Dr. Ryker.”

“Whose orders?”

“I can’t say.”

“What are you, State? DOD or CIA?”

The man shrugged. “I can’t say.”

“Are you another agency?”

“Please, Dr. Ryker.”

“So where am I?” Judd asked. “What’s the ‘black hole’?”

“Here. You’re in a SCIF at Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. You don’t need to know any more. You are totally safe and secure, sir.”

“Safe and secure? You just hooded and frog-marched me off an airplane?”

“Yes, sorry about that, sir. Couldn’t be avoided.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Cubans monitor all our incoming flights. They’ve even got moles inside the base. I had to make it look like you were Taliban or ISIS. Even to our own guys.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s an insane world, Dr. Ryker. This is the only way to get you onto the island and be one hundred percent certain you’ve arrived undetected. We used to bring people in via Canada under tourist cover, but we couldn’t take that risk with you. You’ll need to change identities before you leave this room.”

“What identity?”

“This is your new cover, sir,” he said, pointing to a baby blue linen suit and a straw sun hat.

“I have to wear
that
?” Judd asked.

“And
this
,” he said, holding up a fake beard. “You’re going native.”

“I don’t understand,” Judd said. “Where am I going?”

“We can’t send you over the wall, as the Cubans mined everything beyond our fence line with locally made POMZ. The commies were good at laying mines, but they didn’t bother to map them. We hear them burn off every once in a while. Flying cooked goat. We find it charred to the fence. Sometimes a dog.”

“You’re saying Cuba is a minefield?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why you need this suit and beard. You’ll go in during the regular shift change with the local staff. Only a few old guys left, so you’ll need to look elderly to avoid being noticed.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Judd said.

“Sir, we can’t send you over the fence. It’s too dangerous. So you are going into Cuba the safest way we know. You’re going to walk out right through the front gate.”

“And then what?”

“And then
this
.” The man handed Judd a sealed envelope. “Don’t open it until I leave and you are alone. Read it. Then burn it,” the man said, and tossed Judd a book of matches.

“What is this?” Judd asked, holding up the envelope.

“Your mission, sir.”

49.

DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.

FRIDAY, 8:30 A.M.

S
unday blew gently on his cup of coffee, the freshly roasted Ethiopian variety that he always bought from Swing’s whenever he was near the White House. The coffeehouse had been packed with National Security Council staff, badges around their necks, discussing work in subdued tones and nonspecific code.

Sunday crossed 17th Street, walked between the thick car bomb barriers, and onto the pedestrianized Pennsylvania Avenue. To the south was the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where the President’s foreign policy staff worked in a grand edifice that reminded Sunday of a giant haunted house. To the north was Blair House, the President’s official state guest residence, a tasteful, early-nineteenth-century townhome used by only the most prominent VIPs.

Sunday entered Lafayette Square, the park directly across from the White House. The square was not yet filled with tourists or protestors. At this early hour, it was mostly government workers on their way to EEOB or the U.S. Treasury or the West
Wing.
This was a stupid place to meet,
he thought. Too many eyes and ears. Too high a chance of running into someone who might recognize him. Or her.

He circumnavigated the park twice, then, satisfied no one was watching him, settled on an empty park bench overlooking a statue of President Andrew Jackson, riding a horse and surrounded by cannons. He slipped on sunglasses, pulled a Boston Red Sox cap from his jacket and placed it on the bench.

After a few minutes, a petite, dark-haired woman sat down next to him and opened the
Washington Post
. She flipped through the paper, then stopped on the sports page.

“What’s the score of last night’s Red Sox–Yankees game?” Sunday asked the woman while looking straight off into the distance.

“The Nationals beat the Mets, five to four,” she said, and turned the page again.

“Thank you for coming on short notice,” he whispered.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Isabella Espinosa said. “In fact, I’m
not
here.”

“Yes, ma’am, understood,” Sunday replied without making eye contact.

“The only reason I even took your call was because I owe Judd a big one.”

“I’m indebted to Dr. Ryker, too.”

“Let’s make this quick,” she said.

“Did you find anything on Ricky Green?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing at all?”

“Doesn’t mean there isn’t something there,” Isabella said, “just that I couldn’t find it.”

“Maybe witness protection?”

She shook her head again. “I can’t get access to that. And if I could, telling you would be a felony.”

“What about Ricardo Cabrera?”

“He was in the system. Low-level drug trafficker. Grabbed in Operation Everglades.”

“What’s that?”

“Massive interagency drug sweep. The Feds flooded Everglades City. It was the biggest cocaine bust in South Florida history. I’m talking FBI, DEA, IRS, the U.S. Marshals, Customs. Even the Coast Guard and DOD got involved. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“So you were there?” Sunday asked.

“I sure hope not,” she said.

“I don’t understand.”

“I was a kid. Operation Everglades was in 1983.”

“They caught Cabrera way back in eighty-three?”

Isabella nodded.

“And then what?” Sunday asked.

“Then nothing. He just disappeared.”

“Cabrera’s been gone since 1983?”

“Him and the cash.”

“What cash?” Sunday raised his eyebrows.

“During the bust, the Feds seized almost a million in cash. But some of those arrested later claimed that there was more. A lot more.”

“How much?”

“One of the ringleaders who went to prison was later caught on a wiretap claiming that
los federales
had stolen
two hundred million cash
that he had hidden in the Everglades.”