Ghosts of Havana

by Todd Moss

  “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.

  Detainee 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.

  Sunday 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.”

  “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.

  Judd 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?”