by Todd Moss
“How about this.” Judd rubbed his hands together. “Imagine the Cuban leader died and in that same moment, when no one knows who or what comes next, we deployed suitcases of cash to the right people at the right time. We would control events. If we’re smart about it, we might even be able to pick the next leader of Cuba.”
“Now, that would be a legacy for the Secretary,” Parker said, nodding.
“I don’t understand why we’re even talking about this,” Eisenberg said. “ECP is healthy. We don’t kill foreign leaders, as far as I know. And we don’t have suitcases of cash to drop across Cuba. I thought Dr. Ryker was here to help us prevent problems, not invent fantasies. I’ve got a lunch meeting,” she said, and stormed out of the office.
Judd and Parker sat in silence for a moment.
“That went well,” Parker finally said, “I think.”
“You do?”
“Mel’s just trying to keep me out of her hair. She doesn’t want anyone getting in the way of her negotiations. Me, you, the White House. But I think you’re onto something, Ryker.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s not implausible that something could throw our plans way off track. ECP could die or there could be a riot that turns Cuba upside down. Something big that we don’t expect that derails Mel’s negotiations. That’s why I want you thinking ahead about what could go wrong. And what we could do to respond.”
“I’ll get right on it, sir.”
“Great. I knew I could count on you, Ryker.” Parker stood up, indicating that their meeting was over.
Judd tilted his head to one side. “If you’re really worried about the formal talks breaking down, you might want to try an old Henry Kissinger trick.”
“Kissinger?”
“He always had a second communication track just in case things went wrong.”
“A backchannel?” Parker sat down again in his chair.
“He wanted always to be able to reach the right people at the right time. So he could drive events and keep negotiations moving ahead.”
“Ryker, let me get this straight,” Parker leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying that if things went haywire in Cuba—I mean, if our negotiations really fell apart—that your Minute Zero formula for political change in Cuba is . . . seize uncertainty, harness greed, create a backchannel? Have I got that right?”
“Yes, sir. And you’d need a replacement candidate ready to run. If things really come down to Minute Zero, you should have already bet on your horse. After the crisis hits is too late.”
Landon Parker sat back in his chair and thought in silence. After a moment, he extracted a small black leather notebook from his breast pocket, scribbled a few notes, then replaced it.
“It’s a hell of an idea, Ryker. Of course, I don’t know how we’d produce uncertainty, we don’t have suitcases of untraceable cash, and the United States government has never been able to keep secret diplomatic talks out of the newspapers. And I sure as hell don’t have an off-the-shelf candidate ready to lead Cuba. With apologies to you and Adam Smith, I think we are zero for four.” He smiled. “But it definitely is one hell of an idea.”
8.
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
TUESDAY, 2:30 P.M.
Aren’t you going to invite your boss into the house?” the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations asked. He almost looked offended. Almost.
“Why are you here?” Jessica asked, holding the door tight in case she needed to slam it in his face.
“Is that any way to treat your mentor?”
“Mentor? I don’t even know your real name.”
“Neither does my wife,” said the Deputy Director. “What does it matter?”
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“Yes, I am your mentor. You were nothing when BJ van Hollen brought you to me. What were you going to do, run around the world and dig wells for the rest of your life? Waste all your talent on small, meaningless bullshit?”
Jessica held his gaze and didn’t flinch.
He continued his rant, “I’m the reason you are where you are. I’m the reason you are running Purple Cell. I’m the whole goddamn reason that Purple Cell even exists. You can surely remember that.”
“What I remember, sir, is that you suspended me,” she said.
“You gave me no choice after the shit you pulled in Zimbabwe. You should be grateful I didn’t fire you for going rogue.”
“The question you didn’t answer was, why are you here?”
His face softened. “I’m worried about you,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes and gripped the door tighter. “That’s funny, sir. Why are you really here?”
“Am I not allowed to check on my people?”
“I’m not some asset you’re running. You don’t need to flatter me.”
“I’m here because I’ve got a big operation in the pipeline and I’m going to need you.”
“You’re reactivating Purple Cell?” She loosened her grip on the door and stifled a smile.
“Not yet. I need to let things cool off first. The building has a buzz that I haven’t seen since 9/11. I know I’m going to need my best team.”
“So, then, I’m still asking why are you here now?”
“I’m going to need you fresh. Your last mission, authorized or not, took something out of you. I can see it in your face, Jessica. I can hear it in your voice. In the way you’re standing. You’re not yourself. You’re stressed-out. You’re tired.”
“You drove to my house all by yourself to tell me to take a rest?”
“Not a rest.” He dangled a set of keys in front of his face. “A vacation.”
“What are those?”
“My Florida house. In Fort Lauderdale. I want you to use it. Take a few days down there to relax. Take the kids, take your husband, go to the beach, use my boat. Nothing fancy, just a little Cobalt bowrider. You can handle it, no problem. The kids will love it.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Go take a little vacation and I’ll be in touch after you get back. We can talk then about reactivating your team and your next assignment.”
“A vacation?”
“It’s eighty degrees and sunny today in South Florida.”
“What else?” she asked.
“What else what?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What are the strings that come with the house?”
“Can’t I do something nice for my people without an agenda?” Jessica raised her eyebrows. “Okay, okay, of course there’s something in it for me. I need you, Jessica. I need you to clear your head, to get right, and to come back ready to work. And if you’re at my Florida house, then I’ll not only know that you are relaxing, I’ll know where to get ahold of you if something comes up. I’ll know that you’re not off the grid on some beach in some hellhole thousands of miles away. That’s my agenda.”
“I don’t need a break, sir.”
“Yes you do. Take the whole family. From what I hear, I’ll bet your husband could use a vacation, too.”
“Judd knows.”
The Deputy Director stepped back. “He knows what, exactly?”
“Not everything”—she shook her head—“but enough.”
“I see . . . That’s too bad . . . Maybe it’s for the best.”
“I promised I wouldn’t run him.”
The Deputy Director rubbed his head for a moment and then nodded. “Seems fair. You shouldn’t run operations on your own family members. I wouldn’t advise it. Too complicated. Too messy.”
She nodded. “I promised Judd I wouldn’t lie to him either.”
“Well, that was stupid. Lying is your job.”
“Well, I won’t do it to Judd. That’s the only way I can make this work.”
He looked her up and down and then st
ared into her eyes. “That’s even more of a reason for you to accept my offer.” He shook the keys again. “Come on, Jessica. You need this.”
She held his gaze until the Deputy Director of the CIA blinked. Then she held out her hand. He smiled ever so slightly as the keys dropped into her palm.
9.
NORTHERN VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 7:10 P.M.
Where the heck are we going, Al?” Dennis Dobson asked from the backseat of Alejandro Cabrera’s Honda Odyssey minivan.
“The airport is that way,” Crawford Jackson said, pointing back toward the exit off Highway 66. “You just missed it.”
“We aren’t flying out of Dulles, gentlemen,” Brinkley Barrymore III replied from the front passenger seat.
“Shit, brothers, we’re not flying commercial,” Alejandro crowed, punching the accelerator. “You’ll see, aseres.”
“We’ve made special arrangements. We’ve got a lot of gear for the trip,” Brinkley explained, gesturing toward the back of the van, which was loaded high with heavy-duty cases. The Odyssey was an older model of faded burgundy, highlighted by a bright pink soccer ball sticker boasting KILLER LADYBUGS! on the rear bumper. The interior was worn and emitted a subtle aroma of peanut butter. Its engine growled under the weight of the four men and all the cargo.
“What’s all that shit?” Crawford asked.
“Fishing gear. Supplies. And some parts for the boat,” Alejandro said. “You’ll see.”
They rode listening to the Nationals baseball game on the radio for the next ten minutes. Alejandro then turned the minivan off the highway, and Brinkley reached over and shut off the radio.
“Where are we?” Dennis asked.
“Almost there,” Brinkley replied just as Alejandro turned again, down an unmarked road cut through a thick-wooded area. Dennis elbowed Crawford in the ribs and scrunched his face. Crawford shrugged back.
“Seriously, guys, where the heck are we? What kind of airport is on a dirt road?”
“You’ll see, boys,” Alejandro said. “You’re gonna love it.”
“This is the kind of place where they hide dead bodies,” Dennis said. “Are you taking us down this track to cut our throats and leave us for dead?”
“I’ll never leave you for dead, Deuce,” Crawford said.
“Don’t get your balls in a twist,” Alejandro said. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it years ago.”
“It’s nineteen-thirty,” Brinkley announced. “Right on time.”
“The only one who’s gonna kill you is Beth,” Al said. “You tell her you were going fishing or did you make something else up?”
“I told her,” Dennis said. “She always knows when I’m lying.”
“Good man,” Crawford said. “Vanessa can tell with me, too.”
“I still can’t believe I blew off my project to go fishing.” Dennis shook his head. “The office knew I wasn’t sick.”
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Brinkley announced just as the van arrived at a clearing in the woods with a long asphalt airstrip hidden in a remote valley of rural northern Virginia. Parked at the very end of the runway was a sleek white corporate jet, the setting sun giving it a sparkling aura.
“Holy cow!” shrieked Dennis. “Is that for us?” He hopped up and down in his seat.
“What the fuck?” Crawford gasped. “A G5? You fucking with us?”
“It’s a Gulfstream 650ER,” Dennis chirped. “It’s the latest in long-distance corporate jets. That plane could take us to Rio. Or Hong Kong.”
“What the fuck’s going on here, Brink?” Crawford asked.
“Don’t worry, amigo,” Alejandro said. “Brink knows a guy.”
“I have a client,” Brinkley said.
“A client lent you his private plane? So you could take us fishing?”
“He owes me a favor.”
“Is your client Warren Buffett?” Dennis asked. “Or Bill Gates?”
“Shit, Brink,” Crawford said, “is your client the CIA?”
“Who gives a fuck?” Alejandro said. “We’ll be at the Key West Airport in three hours and then on The Big Pig at first light tomorrow morning. Who gives two shits which white-collar criminal our boy Brink is defending. The motherfucker is lending us his plane. So stop asking questions.”
“Cool,” Dennis muttered to himself.
“I told you to come on this trip, boys,” Alejandro crowed. “You’re gonna love Florida! Marlin fishing. And who knows what else we’ll find.”
10.
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
TUESDAY, 7:55 P.M.
Florida?” Judd was surprised.
“Fort Lauderdale. It’ll be great. For all of us. We could use a break, sweetie,” Jessica said.
Judd opened the fridge, searching for a beer behind jugs of milk and boxes of low-sugar apple juice. “I can’t leave tomorrow. I’ve got work.” He pulled a brown bottle from the back of the fridge, popped the cap, and took a swig. “Impossible.”
“I knew it would be tough. But we could use some quality time together. We could clear our heads. Come back refreshed.”
Judd took another gulp of beer and mulled over Jessica’s offer.
“After what we’ve been through, Judd, we could all use a few days to decompress.”
“Whose house is it again?” he asked.
This was the question that Jessica didn’t want to answer. How could she really tell him without opening the door to a long list of more questions? What did she even know about the Deputy Director? Maybe just a small lie to escape having to answer the big ones?
“I told you already. Sharon borrowed the house from her boss, but now her son is sick and she can’t go.” Her stomach churned as she realized she had already broken her promise. It wasn’t even a full day since their agreement and she was already lying again to her husband. “The vacation house is just sitting there empty. That’s why she’s giving it to us.” And there it was: Lie Number One.
“Sharon?”
“My friend from grad school. From Madison. She was at our wedding.”
“Oh, right,” Judd said. “Since when have you been talking to her?”
“I talk to Sharon all the time.”
Judd shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter, Judd,” she said. “I’ve got a free house in Fort Lauderdale and I want to go. I’m going to take Noah and Toby. They love the beach. I could use some sun. The only question is whether you’re going to join us.”
Judd dropped his shoulders. “I can’t. Work is blowing up again. Landon Parker keeps pulling me onto special projects. I’m in the middle of a memo for him now. The timing is just terrible.”
“I get it,” she said. Jessica took the bottle from Judd’s hand and gave him a kiss on the lips. “I get it,” she repeated. Jessica tipped back a drink and then handed the beer back to him.
“I’m sorry, Jess.”
“Stop apologizing. I need to clear my head. I’m taking the boys.”
“Maybe if things at the office ease up, I’ll come down. Maybe . . . if nothing new blows up . . . I’ll come meet you in a few days. In Florida.”
11.
GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 11:25 P.M.
The CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations slowed down his car as he pulled into the turnout where the sign read SCENIC OVERLOOK. He scanned the empty parking lot and then eased his wife’s black Audi A6 into a spot where the tree cover was low and he could see the lights of the city down the Potomac River.
He cut the engine and reached over to his briefcase, sitting on the passenger seat. He extracted all three of his cell phones and carefully removed the battery from each, then placed the batteries and dead devices in the glove compartment. He checked his watch. She wasn’t late yet.
/> Traffic on the parkway was light at that late hour. A trickle of cars headed south along the river, past Georgetown University, the Watergate Apartments, the Kennedy Center, the Lincoln Memorial. Then the road skirted the Pentagon before ending near Ronald Reagan National Airport. Can’t count the number of times I’ve made that drive, the Deputy Director thought.
More often, nearly every day as far back as he could remember, he had driven north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway to the exclusive entrance to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. The epicenter of his life’s work. Thirty-five fucking years.
Beyond the CIA was the highway ringing the nation’s capital, the artery that fed the city’s sprawling suburbs. The Beltway was the barrier, physically and psychologically, between Washington, D.C. and the rest of the world, he thought. The bubble.
Twenty excruciating minutes later, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking spot next to him. The Deputy Director impatiently stepped out of his car, double-checked to be certain that no one else had entered the overlook lot, and then slid into the passenger seat of the SUV.
“Sorry I’m late,” said the driver.
“No need to apologize.”
“Damn fund-raisers. They always run late.” She checked her hair in the rearview mirror. “Donors always have to tell you one more story. Some favor they need. Or some boohoo about their successful daughter looking for a job.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the Deputy Director said.
“I don’t think this town used to be like this,” she said. “It’s still beautiful.” To the east, across the river, they could see the top of the steeples of the old buildings at Georgetown University. Farther down the river, off in the distance, they could just make out the peak of the brightly lit Washington Monument. “I love Washington. I really do. But the money has made it dirty.”
The Deputy Director grunted noncommittally.
“This town used to be about principles. About American values. When I first ran for office, I could talk about ideas and what we wanted to achieve. How we were going to stand up for what we believe. For freedom. Now . . . it’s all about money.”