Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (23 page)

“Why would anyone hide that much cash in a swamp?” Sunday asked.

“The Everglades have always been a magnet for criminals. It’s close to the Caribbean and far from authorities. In the 1920s, rumrunners used to bring the stuff into the swamps from Cuba and Jamaica. In the 1980s, it was cocaine and marijuana. Whatever the mob runs into the United States. Makes sense they would try to keep their operations in a place that’s remote and impenetrable, but also not far from the source. And close to Miami. That’s the Everglades.”

“Anyone ever find the two hundred million?”

“Probably never existed,” Isabella said. “Just another Florida swamp legend. They still catch guys trying to find it. Modern-day treasure hunters.”

“More pirates,” Sunday said.

“What pirates?”

“Never mind,” Sunday said. “It’s quite a coincidence that Ricardo Cabrera goes missing at the same time as a huge amount of money, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.” Isabella shrugged. “What’s your interest?”

“I’m trying to find Ricky Green. Could he be . . . Ricardo Cabrera?”

“Can’t help you,” Isabella said.

“You already did.”

50.

GUANTÁNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA

FRIDAY, 8:51 A.M.

J
udd stared down at the page in front of him.

TOP SECRET/EYES ONLY: JUDD RYKER

Via Station Jtf-Gtmo

Take the blue and white Chevy Bel Air taxi from the Northeast Gate at 10.00. You will meet your contact at a neutral location. Seek release of innocent Americans. Maximum approved offer: $1 million and baseball exchange. No prisoner exchange. No change in US policy. Find a good faith gesture and explore breakthrough on other issues. Good luck. –LP

Landon Parker? What the hell is this? What kind of instructions are these? And what happened to Oswaldo Guerrero?
Judd tried to open the door, but it was locked.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Let me out!”

The door lock clacked and a soldier in uniform blocked the
doorway. “I can’t allow you to take that out of the SCIF, sir,” he said, pointing at the paper in Judd’s hand. “I’m under orders to assist you, but only after you have destroyed that document.”

Judd took a deep breath, read it one more time, memorized the key details, then struck a match, lit the paper, and watched it burn.

“Where’s the other guy?” Judd asked.

“What other guy, sir?”

“The one with the beard. The one who—” Judd stopped himself. “I need a secure phone right now.”

“Right there, sir,” he said, pointing to a black phone on a desk in the corner. “That’s an encrypted line to Washington.”

“I need five minutes. And then a ride to the Northeast Gate.”

The soldier nodded and closed the door.

Judd started to punch in the number for the State Department Operations Center, which could connect him to Parker.
What kind of horseshit assignment was this?
He stopped just before he hit the last number. He set the phone down.
Wrong move.
Judd snatched the handset again and tapped in another number.

“Who’s this?” Jessica answered.

“Me, sweets.”

“What number is this? Where are you?”

“I’m on a government phone. It’s a secure line.”

“Is everything okay?” Jessica sounded worried.

“Yeah. You said we should speak tomorrow. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“I’m at the pool,” she said breezily. Judd glanced at the concrete-block walls of the room at Guantánamo and imagined his wife, sunbathing in a bikini, beside a crystal-blue pool, sipping a fruity tropical drink. “I’m rereading
Treasure Island
. It’s
just as wonderful as I remembered, Judd. I’m up to the part where they’ve hired Long John Silver as the cook for the voyage to the Caribbean.”

“I remember that part. Little do they know, right?”

“When are you coming to join us?” Jessica asked.

“Soon. I’m . . . stuck at work.”

“Is that why you’re calling? Do you need me to go to another party or something? I’m good at that,” she joked.

“No . . .” Judd said, “Not that. You ever heard of someone named . . . Oswaldo Guerrero?”

Jessica was silent on the other end of the line.

“Jess?”

“I’m still here,” she said.

“Well, have you? Does the name Oswaldo Guerrero mean anything to you?”

“What have you gotten yourself into, Judd?” Her breeziness was gone.

“So you
have
heard of him?”

She paused. “No.” She winced at
Lie Number Eight
. “Judd, I thought you were trying to get those fishermen free?”

“Yes, that’s right. The Soccer Dad Four in Cuba.”

“I . . . wouldn’t assume they’re soccer dads,” Jessica said.

“Why do you say that? How would you know, Jess?”

“The one who owns the fishing boat—”

“
The Big Pig?
Alejandro Cabrera.”

“Yes, him,” Jessica said. “He’s Cuban American.”

“So? What does that mean?”

“He’s not just anybody. The Cabreras are well connected in Little Havana and in the exile community in Miami. Alejandro’s grandfather was a leader of Brigada Asalto 2506.”

“Twenty-five oh six? What does that mean?”

“The Bay of Pigs invasion.”

“So . . . what are you saying?” Judd asked.

“And one of the other men—”

“Dobson? Jackson?”

“No, the other one,” she said.

“Brinkley Barrymore? The lawyer?”

“He’s the grandson of Randolph Nye,” she said.

“Who’s Randolph Nye?”

“Back in the early years of the Cold War, he was the Deputy Director of . . . a three-letter agency. The Bay of Pigs was
his
operation.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Don’t you get it, Judd?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“So Cabrera and Barrymore have family history tied back to the Bay of Pigs. So what? What are you suggesting, Jess?”

“Think about it, Judd.”

“Are you saying that a bunch of soccer dads, or whatever they are, who were out fishing in Florida were actually trying to invade Cuba . . . to redeem their grandfathers?”

She didn’t reply.

“Are you telling me,” Judd continued, “that the four middle-aged guys from suburban Washington were trying to launch
another
Bay of Pigs?”

“I don’t know, Judd. But I think you need to find out.”

“I’ll add this to the list of things that don’t make sense,” he said. “But, Jess, how . . . do you know all this?”

“Once you told me you were working on the hostages, I did a little research.”

“What else do you know?”

“Judd, dear,” she said, trying to calm him down. “You need to be careful. Very careful. I know Landon Parker asked you to take this on and you’re working hard to show S/CRU can be a success. But I’m worried you don’t know what you are getting yourself into.”

“You’re worried?”

“I’m worried about
you
, Judd.”

“Well, don’t be. I can handle this.”

“Cuba policy is a minefield in Washington.”

He looked around at the room again, the old suit, the fake beard he was supposed to wear, and thought,
I’m definitely not in Washington.

51.

RONALD REAGAN WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT

FRIDAY, 9:03 A.M.

W
e aren’t going to let them take away Social Security!” Brenda Adelman-Zamora was speaking too loudly into her Bluetooth headset as she walked through the arrivals lounge. “I’m just getting off the plane now . . . I don’t give two shits what committee he sits on . . . No deal. You tell him I said that!”

Behind her trailed a young woman pulling two suitcases, a travel dog bag slung over one shoulder with the head of a black-and-tan Yorkshire terrier poking through the top flap. The girl struggled to keep up with the congresswoman, who was barreling through the crowded terminal.

“No . . . No . . . Hell no!” Adelman-Zamora shouted into the phone. “I won’t allow it! You tell Arnie that I said it’s not happening until hell freezes over.”

Travelers, aware of the approaching storm but avoiding eye contact, gave the woman wide berth.

“He’s offering how much more for Everglades restoration?” She stopped dead in her tracks. “What about federal funds for widening I-95? Do we dare? Oh my goodness! Hold!”

Adelman-Zamora spun around, lowering her brow as she searched the throng for her aide with her luggage and her dog. The young woman finally appeared.

“Where have you been? Never mind. Leave the bags and little Desi Arnaz here. I’ll watch them. Bring me one nonfat peach yogurt for the car. Not the disgusting one with the granola, the one with the fresh fruit. I need a copy of the
Washington Post
. And I see the newsstand has the CIA T-shirts back in stock. They love those at the constituent office in Fort Lauderdale. Bring me four in the red and two in the blue.” She paused. “And two in the pink. All size small. Hurry. Go.”

The congresswoman shooed away the aide and turned back to her phone call. “If we can get that deal, let’s take it! I’ll be in soon. I’m just leaving the airport, if I can get through these dreadful crowds. It’s just too busy. I can’t stand the airport this time of year. Don’t worry, I’m on my way into the office!”

52.

GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA

FRIDAY, 9:11 A.M.

M
a’am, I’m just on my way back into the office,” Sunday said into his headset.

Sunday had left downtown Washington, D.C. after his clandestine meeting with Isabella Espinosa from the Department of Justice. He had driven along Constitution Avenue, between the Lincoln Memorial and the U.S. Department of State headquarters. The Eisenhower Bridge then took him over the Potomac River. He was driving northwest on the parkway when Jessica Ryker called.

“Do you know anything about an Oswaldo Guerrero?”

“Never heard of him, ma’am.”

“Also known as O. Anything?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“I need you to find out ASAP. It’s urgent. Anything you can find on Oswaldo Guerrero or O. The minute you’re back.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”

“What else have you got for me?”

“I met with your husband’s Justice Department contact. That’s where I’m coming from.”

“She give you anything new on Ricky Green?”

“Not exactly, ma’am. I think I have something better.”

“Spill, Sunday,” she said.

“One of the missing men from the fishing boat, Alejandro Cabrera, had a brother Ricardo who dropped off the radar in 1983.”

“Keep talking.”

“I found him in the records, but they stop in 1983.”

“So what happened in eighty-three, Sunday?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. Ricardo last appears to have been arrested in a drug bust in South Florida in 1983 and then he just vanishes.”

“So he was killed? Drug dealers disappear all the time. Especially in Florida.”

“This wasn’t local police, ma’am. It was a major federal interagency operation. I’m talking about FBI, DEA, and at least half a dozen other agencies.”

“So you’re thinking Ricardo was flipped by the FBI? That he disappeared into witness protection?”

“Maybe. DOJ won’t say. But now his brother suddenly appears on our radar? Alejandro’s fishing boat is captured in Cuban waters, he’s the grandson of a leader from the Bay of Pigs, and this mysterious Ricky seems to be in the middle of it all. Seems awfully coincidental, ma’am.”

“This drug bust. Don’t tell me it was in—”

“Everglades City, ma’am.”

Jessica was silent on the line for moment, then spoke up. “You’re thinking . . . Ricky Green
is
Ricardo Cabrera.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m pretty sure of it.”

Jessica was quiet again.

“Ma’am, that’s not even the best part,” Sunday said, just as his car passed the exit sign for the
GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE
.

“What else?” Jessica asked.

“A large amount of cash went missing,” he said. “Drug money that should have been seized during the bust . . . it just disappeared.”

“Happens all the time.”

“But this haul was huge. Could be as much as two hundred million dollars in cash.”

“Who keeps that much cash?”

“Operation Everglades took down a major cocaine cartel. It’s plausible.”

“Okay . . . So, how do two hundred million ghost dollars fit with Ricardo Cabrera going into witness protection and becoming Ricky Green? Why would the FBI even allow that?”

Sunday pulled onto the exit ramp past a sign warning
AUTHORIZED CIA EMPLOYEES ONLY
.

“Ma’am . . . I don’t think it was the FBI.”

53.

MORRO CASTLE, HAVANA, CUBA

FRIDAY, 9:45 A.M.

A
re you in the goddamn CIA?” Crawford Jackson poked his fingers hard into the chest of Alejandro Cabrera.

“Let’s not get crazy here,” Brinkley Barrymore III said, stepping between his two friends. “We can’t turn on each other.”

Crawford’s eyes locked with Brinkley’s. “I asked Al a question.”

“Just look at him,” Brinkley said. Alejandro was slumped in a chair, his belly stretching the filthy orange jumpsuit. “Al’s not CIA.”

“Are you?” Crawford narrowed his eyes.

“This is just what
they
want,” Brinkley said. “To make us turn on each other.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Brink,” Crawford said.

“I’m not even going to dignify it,” Brinkley shot back.

“The gear, the boat, the last-minute trip—”

“Bonefish,” Dennis Dobson spoke up, his first words since they had been detained some forty hours ago.

“What?” The others all turned to face Dennis.

“Bonefish,” Dobson said again. “You told us we were marlin-fishing, but then you changed your mind and had us go after bonefish in the Seminole Flats. That’s how we wound up in Cuba. That’s how you got us into this.
Bonefish.
”