Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (27 page)

—

R
icky winced at the memory of the gator and that day that everything changed.

He pushed open the door and darted inside the empty wooden hut. The air was humid and thick. Mosquitos buzzed his ears. He waved them away and then began tapping on the floorboards until he heard a comforting change in pitch.
Bingo!
Ricky lifted up a panel to reveal a black metal hatch with a small plexiglass screen. The old combination lock had long ago been replaced by a modern electronic keypad. Ricky tapped in the code and pulled opened the heavy metal door with a hollow thud.

The sight of all that money still gave Ricky a rush. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his face, and checked over his shoulder through the door one more time. Then he carefully counted out two million dollars and stacked the bills in the suitcase. Satisfied, he shut the case and spun the lock.
One
down, four to go,
he thought.

Ricky checked his watch. Right on time.

64.

OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

FRIDAY, 4:18 P.M.

J
udd Ryker and Oswaldo Guerrero had each finished their plates. The table was covered with empty beer bottles and spilled rum. The two men had talked around in circles, probing each other, trying to find common ground, never quite trusting the other. The alcohol was helping, a convenient diplomatic lubricant.

“What happened to your tooth, amigo?” Judd asked his host.

Oswaldo tapped his golden front incisor. “The same way I broke my nose.” He rubbed the end of his nose. “Boxing.” He held up two meaty fists. “I was a champion of the Rebel Youth Association.”

“We don’t box much back in Vermont,” Judd said.

“You don’t fight,
asere
? More of a lover, no?” He smiled and winked.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You were wise to give up trying to beat me,” Oswaldo bellowed, slapping Judd forcefully on the back. “You
yanquis
are just playing cowboy games. We Cubans are fighting for survival.”
He held up his fists again and shadowboxed. “If you lose to me, you just go back to your shopping malls and your hamburgers. We have no choice. We cannot afford to lose.”

“We should finish,” Judd suggested, directing Oswaldo’s attention to a scrap of paper in front of him. Judd had scrawled the outlines of their agreement so far.

hostage release → wheat

private enterprise → travel & trade

free elections → recovery package

“Okay, Oswaldo, this is what we’ve agreed. Three phases, three steps.”

Judd was feeling confident that he was close to a breakthrough. He’d bonded with Oswaldo Guerrero over beer and baseball while they negotiated their countries’ futures for hours on a ship floating off the coast of Cuba. The events of today were also deniable. If it all went wrong, Judd wasn’t even officially here. No one would even know . . . And now Judd was sealing the deal with a simple package of incentives. Cuba does this, America does that. Everyone was out for themselves, all in the service of the common good. Whatever Landon Parker and Melanie Eisenberg would have thought, Adam Smith would have been proud.

“Once you release the prisoners, we’ll deliver enough wheat to refill your stocks,” Judd stated. “Once you allow—”

“Yes, yes, Dr. Ryker. We’ll let businesses open and you’ll end what remains of the blockade. We’ve agreed to all of that.” Oswaldo poked Judd’s paper with his finger. “We haven’t dealt with the toughest problem at all. The big thing that will stop us all from success.”

“The return of seized private property.” Judd nodded to himself. “I was hoping that we could leave that tricky issue for the very end. The exiles in Miami are going to insist on something. My thinking is that Cuba would commit to full restitution in exchange for new credit—”

“No, no, no. Not the exiles. Not the traitors. They’re not the issue.”

“Then what?”

Oswaldo threw back another shot of rum. “The boss.”

“El Comrade Jefe?”

Oswaldo shook his head. “El Comrade Presidente. ECP.”

“Are you saying ECP isn’t on board?”

“If the
Comrades
knew I was here talking you, I would be . . .” Oswaldo dragged a finger across his neck.

Judd sat back in his chair to digest this new piece of information. “You’re rogue?”

Oswaldo poured the two of them another drink. “I’m rogue, Dr. Ryker? What about you? You came to me in disguise, hidden from your own people. Why didn’t you just fly into the airport at Havana? Why are you dressed like a peasant and not a diplomat?”

“Discretion, Oswaldo. Your people are watching the borders.”

“Of course!” Oswaldo laughed. “I must control any knowledge of your arrival. Or we’d both already be”—the Cuban grabbed Judd by the throat and pretended to choke him—“dead.”

“So”—Judd pushed Oswaldo’s hands away—“on whose authority are you negotiating with me?”

“I should be asking you that very same question.”

“I don’t think so, Oswaldo.” Judd scowled. “I’m representing the U.S. Department of State. The American government.”

“Are you certain of this,
asere
?” He waved a scolding finger at the American. “That’s not what the television says.”

“I have authority. I was sent here by Landon Parker. You know that. I have instructions from him to negotiate and bring a deal back to Washington,” Judd said.

“How are you certain Parker will agree? Or that Parker can get your Secretary and your President to agree to this?” Oswaldo shook Judd’s paper with the three points. “Or your Congress?”

“I know my limits. It’s my problem to get everyone on board,” Judd said. “I know how to get my side to agree.”

“So do I,” Oswaldo shot back.

“So . . . how will you get ECP to go along?”

“You leave that to me,” Oswaldo said with a wave of the hand.

Judd stood up from the table. “Before we go any further, I need to know how.”

Oswaldo shook his head.

“That’s it? The whole plan depends on me just . . . trusting you? Your secret?”

“Precisely. The whole plan depends on me,” Oswaldo said, his eyes widening. “The future of Cuba depends on me. I am glad that you finally understand, Dr. Ryker. And that’s why I need something very important from you.”

65.

FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

FRIDAY, 4:32 P.M.

D
on’t hang up.”

Jessica already regretted answering the phone when it flashed
DANIEL DOLLAR
. She had told herself she wouldn’t answer the phone, wouldn’t talk to her boss, until she was back in Washington. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be used anymore. She wasn’t getting dragged back into his operation, blind and manipulated.

Jessica had spent the morning at the pool with the boys. Now they were walking on the boardwalk, enjoying the sun, Toby and Noah losing a battle with melting soft-serve ice cream. Doing what normal vacationers did. That was the whole idea, right? But something in the back of her brain, something deep down, compelled her to push the button and answer his call.

“I told you, I’m out,” she said.

“You’re never out, Jessica,” the Deputy Director said. “You should know that by now.”

“You sent me on vacation,” she said, stepping off the boardwalk onto the soft white sand. “That’s the order I’m following.”

“Well, the situation’s changed. I need you now. It’s an easy job. A-B-C. In and out.”

“Easy?”

“I need you to go to Homestead and collect a package and then drop it off. That’s it. You’ll be done before midnight.”

“Homestead? The air base? What am I flying?” Jessica asked.

“Need-to-know,” he said.

“Where’s the drop?”

“Need-to-know.”

“What’s the package?”

“Jessica, you should know better. You’ll know all of this soon enough. All you need to do is go to Homestead tonight.”

“I’m not flying another one of your missions into Havana, sir. I’m not dropping another good operative to his death. I won’t do it.”

“The drop isn’t Havana.”

“Don’t tell me it’s Santiago!”

“Not exactly. The package isn’t an operative.”

“Sir?” Jessica took a deep breath and started to speak again when he cut her off.

“Cash,” he said. “Hard cash.”

“I’m delivering money?”

“I need you to deliver ten million dollars in unmarked bills to a contact in Baconao Park. It’s a mountainous reserve about halfway between Gitmo and Santiago. It’s how we channel cash to sleeper cells on the streets of Santiago. That’s the mission. A cash drop in a park. I told you—easy.”

“Why physical cash? What happened to the electronic money operation? Isn’t that what BesoPeso was for?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he snarled. “Cash is the only way.”

“The Cubans blocked BesoPeso?” she asked.

“That’s why I need you,” he said, fighting to cool his temper.

“Mommy, I need you!” Noah cried. She looked up from her call, a swirl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream coating his face and dripping down his arm.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “Like I told you, I’m out.”

66.

OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

FRIDAY, 4:38 P.M.

C
ash.”

“Money?” Judd was taken aback. “I thought you were a socialist?”

“Twenty-five million dollars. Nothing less. Untraceable. It must be in unmarked, nonsequential bills,” Oswaldo Guerrero said, looking satisfied with himself.

“Twenty-five million dollars in unmarked, nonsequential bills?” Judd winced. “Where did you get that, O?”

“Hollywood,” Oswaldo said with a smirk. “I’ve seen your movies.”

“What movies?”

“All of them.”

“Well, movies are made up,” Judd said. “I don’t know where you expect me to get that much cash. That’s not how it works in Washington.”

“You are rich.” Oswaldo snapped his fingers. “Twenty-five million is nothing for the American government. Twenty-five million is nothing even for those Cubans living in Miami. I should
ask you for more. I should ask for
a hundred million
.” Oswaldo rubbed his chin. “But, no.
I
am a socialist
. I am not greedy. I only need twenty-five million.”

“What for?”

“For me. For my independence. For my total independence. What else do free men truly desire, Dr. Ryker?”

“Free men?”

“I can see where my country is going. I don’t want to be the last one. I want to live,
asere
.”

“I need another Bucanero,” Judd said. He accepted a beer bottle from Oswaldo and popped the top. “Even if I could get you the money—and I’m not saying I can—but if I could, it would have to be in an account somewhere.”

Oswaldo shook his head.

“We could set it up wherever you want,” Judd continued. “In Miami or New York or maybe . . . Mexico City—”

“No!” Oswaldo slammed his beer down. “You think I would fall for another
yanqui
trick?”

“Why would I trick you, Oswaldo? What would I have to gain?”

“With respect, Dr. Ryker”—Guerrero calmed himself—“you are nothing. You can say whatever you want here. But you cannot guarantee that the money will appear. You cannot promise to deliver. No. I’ve seen it all before.”

Judd started to reply. “What if I—”

“Untraceable cash.” Oswaldo rubbed his thumb and forefingers together. “Right here. I need to feel it. Or we are finished negotiating. You are finished.”

“That’s unreasonable, Oswaldo.”

“If you are finished, there is nothing left to discuss. I go back
to Havana. I cut the throats of your four American fools at Morro Castle. I feed their flesh to the sharks. And you?” Guerrero forced a grin that sent a chill through Judd’s spine.

“Oswaldo, you can see
I
have nothing
.” Judd showed his palms and patted his pants. “How can I just make twenty-five million dollars appear?”

Oswaldo stood up and stumbled over toward a desk. He carefully pulled open the top drawer and reached inside, feeling around clumsily for something.

Panic rose within Judd.
A gun?
Judd thrust his hands into the air. “What are you doing!?”

“You will make the money appear.” The Cuban turned back and tossed something black and rectangular. Judd caught the object. A satellite phone.

“Call Parker,” Oswaldo demanded.

“I thought satphones were illegal in Cuba?”

“They are. Tell Landon Parker twenty-five million. Unmarked, nonsequential bills.”

67.

FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

FRIDAY, 4:41 P.M.

J
essica was still steaming when her phone rang. No matter what the Deputy Director says, she decided,
I’m still out
. But the number displayed on her phone started +882 and then a string of random numbers she didn’t recognize. An anonymous satellite phone.

“Hell-o?”

“State Operations Center? This is Judd Ryker with S/CRU,” her husband’s voice said. “This is an urgent call. Please connect me to Landon Parker.”

“Judd, it’s me,” she said. “You called your wife.”

“This is a priority one call,” Judd replied. “Yes, yes, thank you. I’ll hold for Mr. Parker.”

“Judd, can you hear me? It’s
Jessica
.”

“Yes, I can hear you, Mr. Parker,” he said. “I’m still in Cuba, but we’ve got a situation and I need your help.”

“I’m listening,” Jessica said.

“I’ve met with our contact. I’m with him right now . . . Yes . . .
Yes . . . We’re making progress . . . I’m feeling good . . . Historic, yes, sir. There’s just one problem.”

“I’m listening,” she repeated.

“I need twenty-five million dollars.”

Jessica then heard some muffled noises. “Judd? Judd?”