Ghosts of Havana

by Todd Moss

  Then Judd had called that morning and asked about one Oswaldo Guerrero. That was why she couldn’t relax. The web of lies—to her boss, to her husband, to herself—wasn’t clearing. It was thickening. That wasn’t the plan.

  The deal with Judd was supposed to unburden herself. Assist, avoid, admit. Rather than rise above all the lies, she was somehow getting in deeper. And the more she tried to pull back, the farther in she waded. There was nothing left to do but . . . to push through and come out the other side.

  She stared again at the pages of Treasure Island without seeing the words. She was plotting. She decided the logical next step was figuring out exactly who Judd was meeting. How to help him succeed one more time so they could start all over again? So many unanswered questions, but right now what she needed to know most of all was . . . who is this Oswaldo Guerrero?

  On cue, her phone rang.

  “It’s me, ma’am,” Sunday said.

  “Why are you out of breath?”

  “I ran into the parking lot to make this call. It’s not good.”

  “What’s not good?”

  “You asked me to look into O. To find out what I could about Oswaldo Guerrero.”

  “I’m worried that he isn’t real. Don’t tell me you found nothing.”

  “Just the opposite. The file on O is as thick and ugly as I’ve seen.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Guerrero is the Cuban military intelligence chief. The one who’s foiled virtually every U.S. covert action to destabilize the regime over the past twenty years.”

  “So O’s smart,” she said.

  “More than that. O’s ruthless. You ever hear what went wrong in Santiago?” Sunday asked.

  “Tell me,” she said as her heart rate quickened.

  “An op that went bad a few years ago. The last real attempt to incite a counterrevolution in eastern Cuba. In the city of Santiago. We sent in some of our people and it was”—Sunday coughed and cleared his throat—“a bloodbath.”

  She exhaled loudly. “Rainmaker,” she whispered.

  “Yes, ma’am. Our operatives walked right into O’s trap,” Sunday said.

  “And?” Jessica’s heart raced.

  “That’s why they call Oswaldo Guerrero . . . El Diablo de Santiago.”

  57.

  EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 10:23 A.M.

  The taxi had driven in silence, away from the gate at Guantánamo Bay. For the past fifteen minutes, the ’57 Chevy Bel Air had wound down a dirt road that cut through the hills of rural Cuba. Judd tried to keep track of their direction—first northeast, then east, then north again—but he lost his bearings in the twists and turns of the road. He tried to memorize markers just in case he needed to make his own way back to the base. He made a mental note of a small tobacco farm, a pink-and-blue dilapidated shack, an abandoned church.

  Judd eyed the driver. “Where . . . are we going?”

  The driver shrugged without turning around. Then he reached forward to the dashboard. Judd could see scars along the driver’s muscular forearms and a nose that must have been badly broken at least once. An ex-boxer, perhaps? The man grabbed the radio’s knob, twisted, and suddenly the cab was filled with the rhythmic drums and a wailing trumpet of Cuban rhumba.

  “Are you taking me to Oswaldo?” Judd asked over the music.

  The car screeched to a halt.

  Judd looked through the windshield. Nothing in the road. He looked out the windows both ways. No homes. No buildings. They were in the middle of nowhere.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  The driver silently opened his door and stepped out of the still-running car. He slowly turned and opened the back door. Judd saw a pistol in the driver’s hand. No witnesses.

  Judd showed his palms. “Easy.”

  “Out!” the driver demanded.

  Judd exited the car, his hands above his head. Am I being robbed? “I have no money,” Judd said, trying to remain calm. The driver shoved the barrel of the gun against Judd’s cheek.

  “Turn!”

  Or kidnapped? Judd spun around. “I’m American,” he said.

  The man pushed the gun into Judd’s kidneys. He slapped handcuffs on one wrist and pulled down one arm, then the other.

  “I’m here to see Oswaldo Guerrero,” Judd insisted, his hands now bound together. He twisted his neck to try to see the man’s face and that’s when, for the second time that day, a dark hood was slipped over Judd’s head.

  58.

  FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

  FRIDAY, 10:33 A.M.

  Coney Island Pizza? I have a special order for urgent delivery . . . Yes, extra-spicy . . . What the fuck have you gotten Judd into?” Jessica spat into the phone. “Tell me right now!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Deputy Director said so calmly that it only enraged Jessica further.

  “With respect, sir, I don’t give two fucks about your compartmentalization. Tell me what you’re doing that’s put Judd in danger!”

  “Remember who you’re talking to, little lady,” he shot back.

  “Sir.” Jessica took a deep breath. “I told you I wouldn’t run an operation on my own husband. I told you when we eventually reactivated Purple Cell that I wouldn’t do it. These were our new ground rules and you’re breaking them already.”

  “I didn’t break any rules. Purple Cell isn’t reactivated.”

  “You’re forcing me to lie to Judd again.”

  “I didn’t force you to do anything.”

  “I already told you I’m out. And now you’re dragging me back in.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. My whole family is now in the middle of your operation.”

  “What kind of business do you think we’re in, Jessica?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t lie to him anymore. I wouldn’t do it. We agreed that I’m out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Now Judd’s life is in danger. He’s been sent into the clutches of . . . the Devil.”

  “What do you mean ‘the Devil’?” he snapped.

  “O. Oswaldo fucking Guerrero. El Diablo! You’ve sent Judd right into the hands of the Devil of Santiago!”

  “Shit!” he hissed. “Are you saying Judd’s gone into Cuba?”

  “I don’t know yet. I think so. He’s cooking up some convoluted backchannel. This is all your fault.”

  “I didn’t send him to Cuba. You should be chewing out Landon Parker, not me.”

  “Landon Parker didn’t pull me into this, you did,” she shot back.

  “What’s Parker up to?”

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “He’s going to fuck everything up,” he said.

  “Fuck what up?”

  “Jessica,” he calmed himself again. “Why is the goddamn State Department running operations in Cuba? What’s Parker’s game?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “I need you to find out.”

  “No, sir, I’m out. I want nothing to do with this.”

  59.

  EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 10:49 A.M.

  Bound and hooded in the trunk of the antique Chevy, Judd tried to calm his breathing for the second time that day. His stomach rumbled. His neck throbbed. He pushed away the fake beard with his tongue and tried to moisten his lips. If the driver was going to kill me, I’d be dead already.

  The engine of the old car whined as it climbed a hill. Judd used his feet to brace himself as he rolled toward the back of the trunk with a painful thud.

  If he’s not going to kill me, then what? Ransom? Does the driver even know who I am? Did I get in the wrong taxi? Who is the driver? These ques
tions raced through Judd’s mind in the darkness and stale air of the trunk.

  The car drove for another fifteen minutes, methodically twisting and turning along a road that had become increasingly bumpy. I’m not heading into a city. He’s taking me farther into the wilderness.

  Just as Judd decided his only course of action, the car rolled to a halt. Silence. The driver was in no rush. Then Judd heard the door open and slam shut. The man’s steady deliberate footsteps came closer. The trunk popped open.

  “Take me to Oswaldo Guerrero!” Judd demanded through his hood.

  The driver didn’t hesitate. He yanked Judd out of the trunk by his arms and dragged him away.

  “You don’t know who you are dealing with!” Judd shouted. “I’m here to see Oswaldo Guerrero!”

  The man pushed Judd forward. He could feel gravel under his feet give way to soft sand. As they walked farther, Judd could hear the gentle splashing of waves, could smell the sea air. Where am I being taken?

  Judd trudged along the sand in silence until the man grabbed his wrists to hold him still. The sun was hot on Judd’s skin. Then Judd felt a violent shove and, unable to balance with his hands, he felt himself going down.

  In the instant that he fell, he didn’t scream or yell or cry. He didn’t think about the cliff or the hole or the rocks that could be below. He didn’t think about Cuba or Landon Parker or his mission. In that flash of an instant, handcuffed and hooded, in the hands of an unknown assailant, in some unknown corner of a forgotten island, as he fell helplessly to his fate, the only image in his mind: Jessica.

  That’s when Judd hit the soft rubber and bounced gently. An inner tube? Then the unmistakable sound of an outboard motor being started. Now what?

  60.

  FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

  FRIDAY, 11:08 A.M.

  Mommy!” Noah whined from the pool.

  Jessica didn’t hear it. She had just hung up the phone on the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. She had just told her boss—the man who held the future of her career in his hands, one of the most powerful men in Washington, one of the most powerful people in the world—to fuck off. She had refused to help him find out what Landon Parker was doing in Cuba. What Judd was doing. She had refused to spy on her own husband.

  Was she being righteous? Or just stupid?

  “Mommy! Mommy!” her son cried again, now standing next to her, soaking wet and dripping.

  She had put herself at risk. Hell, Ricky Green had shot at her. He’d tried to run her down in his cigarette boat just the night before. But Jessica wasn’t worried about the risks to herself. She could handle that. What tore at her was the idea that she had put Judd in danger. That somehow her actions, even if she thought she was helping, had helped to deliver Judd into the arms of the Devil.

  “Mommy!” Noah poked her.

  “Yes, Noah,” she said, snapping out of her thoughts, “what is it? Are you hungry?”

  “Cold,” he said as he danced in place, the water pooling in a puddle beneath him. His older brother Toby was still splashing obliviously in the pool.

  “Well, let’s get you all nice and warm,” she said soothingly as she wrapped him in a large blue towel and pulled him onto her lap into a bear hug.

  “Is that better?” she asked. “You’re all warm and safe now. Mommy’s got you.”

  Noah nodded. “When’s Daddy coming?”

  “Soon, baby.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know, Noah.” She kissed him on his head. His hair smelled of coconut sunscreen and chlorine. “I hope Daddy’s coming soon, baby.”

  61.

  OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:11 A.M.

  The Zodiac bounced up and down rhythmically as it raced out to sea. Judd sat low and braced his feet against the soft sides of the watercraft to keep his balance. He hadn’t heard any other people, so Judd assumed he was still in the custody of the taxi driver, but the man hadn’t spoken another word. All he could hear through his hood was the high-pitched whine of the motor and the sound of the wind.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the engine roar eased and the bouncing slowed. Distant shouting in Spanish, the thunk of banging metal, the splash of waves, and then Judd was hauled to his feet.

  “Arriba! Arriba!” someone demanded, and Judd was lifted up by the armpits until his feet settled on a hard metallic surface. A ship?

  “My name is Judd Ryker,” he said firmly. “I am here—”

  “Silencio!” demanded a brusque voice.

  Judd was pushed along the steel deck. He could feel the gentle rocking of the swell. Yes, a ship. But where? He was led down a flight of stairs and through a door, then forced into a chair by firm hands. He heard a heavy metal door slam shut and the clang of a lock. Am I alone?

  Then Judd heard the gentle breathing of someone nearby.

  “My name is Judd Ryker,” he said. “I am here—”

  The hood was snatched off and Judd shut his eyes to the sudden bright lights. As he squinted hard, he felt the handcuffs releasing. Adrenaline rushed through his body. Without looking, Judd turned and swung hard with a primal roar, his fist colliding with the side of someone’s skull. He ignored the pain in his hand and pivoted for another blind roundhouse punch just as arms wrapped him tightly. Judd twisted to break free from the vise, but the other man was stronger.

  “Relajé!” the voice whispered. “Relax, amigo.”

  Judd thrashed for a few seconds more, but the adrenaline surge receded and the futility of struggling sank in. Judd dropped his head and exhaled.

  “And remove that ridiculous beard,” said a voice with a heavy Spanish accent.

  Judd took off his disguise and forced his eyes open. He focused on the face now in front of him. Black eyes, chiseled jaw, broken nose, a short man with thick arms. The taxi driver.

  “Who—?” Judd started.

  “I apologize,” the man interrupted, rubbing his jaw. “This is not how we treat guests in Cuba. It could not be helped.”

  “Where . . .” Judd started to ask, noticing with relief that he wasn’t in a cell. There was a table set for a meal, a desk, a bar with an array of bottles. This looked like a captain’s quarters.

  “Dr. Ryker, you are on the Granma Nueva. Welcome.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Granma Nueva is a special ship of the Cuban navy. My ship.”

  “I don’t understand,” Judd said. “I thought—”

  “Are you hungry, Dr. Ryker?” he said, pointing to a plate of rice and black beans on the table, neatly set with polished cutlery. “I have cold beer, too. I understand that you like beer, Dr. Ryker.”

  “How would you—” Judd stopped himself. He rubbed his wrists. “Yes, I’ll have a beer. If you’ll have one with me.”

  “Of course, Dr. Ryker!” the man replied with a forced smile, revealing a shiny gold front tooth. “We are going to have many drinks together today.”

  “You know who I am,” Judd said. “So, who are you?”

  The man returned Judd’s glare, but his silence was answer enough.

  “Oh . . .” Judd whispered to himself.

  The man blinked.

  “You’re Oswaldo Guerrero,” Judd said aloud.

  “Your Caribbean Special Projects Unit calls me El Diablo de Santiago,” he said. “I hate that name.”

  “The Caribbean Special what?” Judd was confused.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Dr. Ryker. What happened in Santiago was your mistake. The CIA’s mistake. Not mine.”

  Judd shook his head. “I’m not CIA. I don’t know anything about—”

  “Never mind, Dr. Ryker. You are my guest. You are welcome.”

  “You can call me Judd. You know why I’ve come to Cuba. I’m here on behalf of the Secretary of State—the United St
ates government—to negotiate the release of our citizens. I’ve been authorized—”

  “No, Dr. Ryker,” Oswaldo shook his head.

  “What do you mean no?” Judd cocked his head to one side. “I’m not leaving without the Americans. That’s why I came here. That’s why I agreed to meet with you.”

  “Those four fools I’m holding in Morro Castle? The spies we caught throwing guns into my sea?” He waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “You can have them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You aren’t here for those fools, Dr. Ryker.”

  “I’m not?”

  “You’re here for something much more important.”

  Judd tried to hide his surprise. “And what is that?”

  “Are these men relevant? No. Is hostage negotiation your expertise, Dr. Ryker? I don’t think so.”

  “How do you know me?”

  “Why would Parker have sent you all the way here?”

  “Landon Parker?” Judd’s poker face broke. “How do you know Mr. Parker?”

  “Come, have a beer, Dr. Ryker,” Oswaldo said, popping the caps off two bottles of Bucanero Fuerte and handing one to Judd. Judd examined the label: a smirking unshaven pirate in a bright red shirt and hat.

  “Salud!” Oswaldo said, holding up his bottle.

  “Salud!” Judd said before knocking back a swig.

  “My country may be small and poor,” Oswaldo began, “but mi Cubita bella hasn’t survived for this long without understanding you yanquis. You may be big and rich, but you don’t understand Cuba. You never have.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “After so many battles. So many failures—the Bay of Pigs, the blockade, the strangling of our people, your pathetic attempts to create a revolt, to bribe our patriots—you thought you could incite the masses in Havana, in Matanzas, in Santa Clara. They all failed, no?”

  “And Santiago?”

  Oswaldo lowered his eyes and shook his head. “You didn’t come all this way to talk about history.”

  “Why did I come, then?”