by Todd Moss
“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.
We 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.
Ma’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.
Are 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.”
“See!” Crawford shouted. “Deuce’s with me. What the fuck’re you two really up to?”
“And the bonefish turned into diamonds. But, why did you need all those guns, Al?” Dennis was waking up.
“Is this another
Agency clusterfuck? I’m the SEAL. Dennis is, what, the techie? What’s Al supposed to be? Is this your half-assed operation, Brink?”
“This was all a huge mistake,” Brinkley insisted. “A big misunderstanding.”
“Either you are a fool or someone set you up, Brink,” Craw said. “Someone set us all up. No other way to explain it.”
“All that matters is that we’re getting out of here soon,” Brinkley insisted.
“I don’t care what you and Al are up to. Go ahead, get yourself killed on some weekend warrior yahoo bullshit,” Crawford said. “But why would you drag us into it?”
“I want to know what we were really doing?” Dennis shrieked. “If we weren’t fishing, and we weren’t treasure hunting, then what the heck were we really doing out there?”
No one said anything.
“Al? Brink?” Dennis squealed. “I almost died. You have to tell us!”
No reply.
Dennis calmed his voice to a whisper. “What is 1961?”
Brinkley shook his head and turned away. “We’re all getting out of here alive.”
54.
GUANTÁNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA
FRIDAY, 9:56 A.M.
The yellow school bus carrying Judd passed by a large concrete pillar wrapped in barbed wire, ENTER IF YOU DARE painted on the side. The bus climbed a hill and then stopped. The hydraulic doors released with a pucker and swung open.
“Northeast Gate! Last stop for Cuba!” shouted the driver, a uniformed Marine, who eyed Judd warily in the rearview mirror. Judd, wearing the old suit he had been given, pulled down his hat and stroked his false beard. It was a convincing disguise, but he was beginning to sweat and the beard tickled.
“Just you today, Grandpa?” the driver asked.
Judd shrugged and rose to leave.
“Can’t believe you old guys are still working after all these years. Helluva commute, señor.”
Judd coughed, his hand covering his face, as he descended the steps. Outside the bus, a modest gatehouse was surrounded with yellow-and-red concrete barriers, the closest ones painted with the letters USMC. A six-foot-high fence topped with razor wire ran in both directions as far as the eye could see.
“Make sure you stay on the road, Grandpa!” the Marine shouted. “It’s a minefield out there!” He laughed as he closed the door and pulled away.
Judd turned back to the security gate in front of him. On the other side of a narrow no-man’s-land was a second gate about eighty feet away. A friendly, soft-pink-and-white building with a prominent, not-so-friendly sign: REPUBLICA DE CUBA / TERRITORIO LIBRE DE AMERICA.
Judd walked slowly, with a slight hobble, and, as promised, was waved through both gates without incident. On the other side, tall cacti grew on the hills overlooking the border post.
Where’s my taxi? He was sweating more. His beard was itching fiercely. He had no phone, no ID, no money—nothing. He was standing in Cuba, alone, waiting for a car that might never come. Then what?
Judd looked up to the sky. Vultures flew high above in wide, lumbering circles. At least his back spasms had settled down.
Just then, he heard the soft rumble of a car’s engine. Through the vapors of the hot morning sun on the road suddenly appeared what looked like a smiling face. The mouth of a shiny chrome grille, the bright eyes of the headlights, a V-shaped nose in the center. Just above the nose was the giveaway: CHEVROLET. Judd rubbed his eyes as a 1957 Chevy Bel Air rolled to a gentle stop in front of him. The car was an immaculate turquoise blue like the Caribbean Sea, with a white roof, the insets of the rear wings also a perfectly polished white.
The door swung open with a slight creak. Judd bent over to peer into the car at the driver. A short Hispanic-looking man with muscular arms and black eyes looked back at him.
“Taxi, señor?”
55.
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, 10:08 A.M.
The bottle was calling him, but he knew it was too early for scotch. The Deputy Director of Operations needed something else to calm himself. This often happened just as an operation was moving into the critical phase. It was mostly an adrenaline rush, he knew, but he didn’t want the excitement of the moment to cloud his judgment. He would need to make important decisions in the coming hours. He needed to have a clear mind.
His ex-wife used to make him protein shakes with a raw egg on the mornings when she knew he was hyped-up. But now she was making breakfast for an investment banker in Chicago. His second wife, he barely even saw her anymore.
The Deputy Director swore to himself then flipped on a headset. He touched his earpiece. “Connect me to Romeo Papa Eight.”
A few moments later, his earpiece clicked and he heard a familiar “Sir?”
“What’s your status, Romeo Papa Eight?”
“We’ve got an inbound bird, ETA Luanda, Angola, in just under an hour. They can run an accelerated turnaround and be wheels up by 1800 local time departure. That’s 1200 Eastern, sir.”
“What’s the bird?”
“Dassault Falcon 7X.”
“Meets all our specs?”
“Yes, sir. It’s right at the limit of the range, but Luanda to Cuba can be done nonstop if the load is light.”
“One passenger.”
“No problem, sir.”
“Fingerprints?”
“The Falcon is registered to a Brazilian agroprocessing firm, via São Paulo, Dubai, and the Caymans. Pilots are from Odessa, hired through a third party in Cape Town. It’s so clean, you can eat off the fuselage.”
“Better be,” he said, and tapped his ear to hang up. He opened his drawer, pulled out a short glass tumbler, and set it on the desk. He ran his finger around the rim as he tried to slow his breathing.
The Deputy Director tapped his ear again. “Connect me to Oscar Sierra Two.”
Seconds later, he was on the line with another of his operations teams.
“What’s your status, Oscar Sierra Two?”
“The package is being extracted. Bravo Zero is on his way to the site. It’ll be ready to fly in two hours.”
“What’s the weight?”
“Two hundred and four pounds total.”
“Bundled how?”
“Just as you requested, sir. Five cases, forty pounds each.”
“That’s two million per case?”
“Yes, sir. Ten million total. Do you need more? We can pack whatever you need, sir.”
“Ten will do for now. But be ready in case we need a second shipment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want it at the gator drop near Homestead by twenty-one thirty. That’s as far as I need Bravo Zero to take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up. The pieces were falling into place. He had compartmentalized the entire operation. He was the one person on the planet who knew how it all fit together. That was the only way to make it work, he knew. That was the downfall of Rainmaker, Pandora, Pit Boss, and all the other operations that had failed before. Too many cooks, too much groupthink, too many leaks. The only way to beat Oswaldo Guerrero in his own backyard was to do it all himself.
One more tap of the ear. “I want Yankee Tango Four.”
While he waited to connect, he walked over to an antique credenza on the far side of his office. He opened one of the doors and extracted a bottle of eighteen-year-old Oban Single Malt Scotch Whisky. He had bought that bottle on a long-ago trip to Scotland, an excursion after visiting GCHQ in Cheltenham. He’d been waiting for a reason to celebrate.
Click-click! “What’s your status, Yankee Tango Four?” he asked, returning to his desk and setting the bottle next to the tumbler.
“No bread tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Wheat stocks are down. The imports won’t be arri
ving. We’ve made sure of that. When Mama Bear goes to the cupboard, the cupboard will be bare.”
He poured two fingers of scotch into the glass.
“And the streets?” he asked.
“Yankee Tango Four is ready in Santiago. Just waiting for the payouts to arrive.”
The Deputy Director nodded to himself and took a healthy sip of the Oban.
“Operation Triggerfish is a go.”
56.
FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA
FRIDAY, 10:15 A.M.
Jessica tried to concentrate on Treasure Island. Her sons, Noah and Toby, were splashing in the pool, the sun was hot, the day was perfect. Except that Judd wasn’t there.
Late the previous night, she had told the Deputy Director of the CIA that she was opting out of his Cuba operation, whatever he was up to. She had fed Judd a few clues and had Sunday digging for more back at Langley. She had helped her husband because he asked. That was their deal. Assist. But don’t get too close. Jessica was pulling back from Cuba. She was putting an end to the unavoidable lies. Eight lies already was enough. This was the only way.
Jessica tried to relax. That was why she was here in Florida, she told herself. She stared at the words on the page. But she couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t read. She couldn’t clear her mind.
The Deputy Director had agreed to let her off . . . too easily. That wasn’t his way. He must have sent her down to South Florida for . . . something else. It couldn’t have been to just check out one missing fishing boat. He could have sent a rookie operative to do that. Hell, he could have sent Aunt Lulu. No, Jessica was certain there was something else going on here and that the Agency—her Agency—was deeply involved.
She had pieced together a lot and had told Judd what she knew. She had gone to the fund-raising party for him, too. That was the deal. Did that make up for the lies? Then Ricky Green had tried to kill her at the party. She had decided not to tell Judd about that. And now Judd—her Judd—was in the middle of some murky diplomatic backchannel. It didn’t add up. It made her nervous. But she had decided to let it go. To avoid.