Ghosts of Havana

by Todd Moss

  The Deputy Director walked briskly, making no eye contact with the clusters of businessmen, diplomats, and tourists milling around the lobby. He reached the main revolving door facing Pennsylvania Avenue, pushed hard, and, without slowing down, jumped into a taxi and sped off.

  He knew that someone in that lobby would have killed to spy a juicy nugget like the Deputy Director of Operations of the Central Intelligence Agency slinking out of a downtown hotel late on a Friday night. He would have to be more careful once he was CIA Director. And even more so if he became DNI. He was warming to that idea.

  For now, the Deputy Director was just grateful that no one had recognized him in the lobby. And he hoped, in five minutes or so, that no one would recognize the nine-term congresswoman from Florida either.

  75.

  OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:44 P.M.

  Jessica was back over the Caribbean Sea en route to her new target. Flying at low altitude in the dark was easier over open ocean without the perils of dodging the rolling mountains of eastern Cuba. She kept the Raider’s nose tucked forward like the head of a charging bull.

  A visual of her target soon appeared on the horizon. The single white star in the distance quickly multiplied into two, three, four lights, then, eventually, the clear outline of a naval ship bobbing in the sea.

  She slowed her speed and circled the vessel from fifty feet away. GRANMA NUEVA / HAVANA, was painted on the stern, just below a raised deck and a dark gray helicopter pad. “Honey, I’m home!” she announced to no one.

  Soldiers on the ship began to emerge, crowding the top deck and pointing weapons menacingly at the helicopter. Not everyone is expecting me. She briefly considered turning the communications system back on and radioing to the captain but decided against it. She hovered just off the stern, sliding side to side like a hummingbird approaching a flower.

  This seemed to agitate the Cubans further, until a short muscular man in civilian clothes appeared. At his command, the soldiers lowered their weapons and scampered into a tight circular formation. The man jogged out to the middle of the landing deck and waved his arms, then crossed them forming an X in front of his body—the universal signal to land.

  Jessica eased the Raider gently down onto the helipad, cut the engine, and showed her palms to the men gathering around her.

  As she opened the door, half a dozen soldiers again raised their rifles. Jessica stepped out cautiously, her hands high over her head. The Cubans stared in disbelief at the woman in the tight black jumpsuit who had emerged from this spaceship.

  “Oswaldo Guerrero,” she demanded. “Where is he?”

  “You are welcome aboard the Granma Nueva,” the man said, bowing his head. His eyes locked on hers. “This is an honor—”

  “Save it.” Jessica dropped her arms. “Where’s Oswaldo Guerrero?”

  The man touched his chest with his palm, his forearm muscles tensing. “I am O.” He bowed his head. “And who are you?”

  “Where’s Dr. Ryker?” she demanded.

  “Very well, you don’t have a name. But when the American government sends me such a beautiful agent—”

  “Where’s Ryker?” she barked, and tightened her fists. She could smell rum on his breath.

  “He is safe, my angel. Where is my package?”

  “Not until I see Judd Ryker.”

  Oswaldo dismissed the soldiers with a wave and led Jessica through the ship, her boots pounding hard on the steel deck. They passed through a hallway, down a flight of stairs, to a heavy door. Jessica ducked her head to enter the cabin.

  She was expecting the worst but was surprised to find Judd sitting happily at a table covered with dirty plates and empty bottles.

  “Dr. Ryker?” she asked.

  Judd flashed a momentary look of relief but maintained a steady poker face. “Ma’am,” he said as stiffly as he could.

  “Dr. Ryker, your cavalry is here,” Oswaldo announced with a wide smile. “You yanquis and your cowboys!” He turned to Jessica. “You can see your Dr. Ryker is very safe. Now, where’s my money?”

  “In the chopper.”

  “Unmarked, nonsequential bills?”

  Jessica nodded. “Everything all right here, Dr. Ryker?” She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, the same face she made when her children were naughty.

  “Yes, ma’am. Now that you’re here, now that the money is here, everything is perfect.” Judd turned to Guerrero. “Isn’t that right, O? We’re done. Now that you have your money, we have a deal.”

  “I knew you yanquis were rich. That you could make money appear from the sky. Delivered by an angel. I knew it, Dr. Ryker. Just like your movies. Twenty-five million dollars.” He snapped his fingers.

  “We have a deal,” Judd said, standing up to leave. “You have your money. You’ll release the hostages and take care of . . . the other business you promised.”

  Jessica cleared her throat and both men turned to face her. “About the money . . .” she said. “I brought ten million, not twenty-five.”

  Judd’s eyes widened and his heart sank.

  “You think . . . you can play games with me, yanqui?” Oswaldo hissed, his eyes darkening.

  “Just ten?” Judd rubbed his neck.

  “Don’t play that cowboy game with me, Dr. Ryker. Our deal is dead. You are all dead.”

  “Oswaldo”—Judd placed both his hands on the table—“we’ve been talking for the past”—Judd pretended to check his watch—“twelve hours. We’ve made a breakthrough. Ten million is a lot of money. Don’t get greedy now. Are you going to throw that all away?”

  “Our deal was twenty-five million.” Oswaldo turned his back and reached deep into his pocket.

  “O! Don’t do it!” Judd said, trying to stay calm. “We have a deal. Cuba’s future. Your future. What more do you want?”

  “I want this!” he said, spinning around. Judd blinked just as Jessica grabbed Oswaldo’s arm, twisted him around, and forced him to the floor in a flashbang of violent grace. A metallic clang rang out as a heavy object hit the floor.

  “What are you doing, mi bella?” Oswaldo laughed to himself as Jessica dug her knee into his back.

  The Rykers both glared at the object—not a gun but a satellite phone.

  “A phone?” Jessica said.

  “Call Parker,” Oswaldo groaned. “That’s what I want.”

  “You want me to . . . call Landon Parker?” Judd’s heart was still pounding as Jessica released Guerrero from her clutches.

  “Of course. When you needed money a few hours ago”—Guerrero stood up and brushed off his pants—“you called him.” He snatched the phone off the floor. “You called him with this phone. And then”—Oswaldo winked at Jessica and flashed his gold-toothed smile—“this angel flew from the clouds onto my ship with ten million dollars in cash. Do it again.”

  “I don’t think it’s that easy to just . . . reach him,” Judd said, shaking his head.

  “Yes. It is. This is a magic phone,” Oswaldo said with a shrug. He pushed redial. “I’m calling Landon Parker. As you did.” Oswaldo pressed his ear to the speaker. “It’s ringing.”

  Judd and Jessica exchanged glances of surprise as the phone in Jessica’s pocket erupted in song.

  Oswaldo Guerrero glared at Jessica, then down at her ringing pocket, then at his phone. His expression turned to a snarl. “What kind of yanqui trick is this?”

  76.

  MORRO CASTLE, HAVANA, CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:52 P.M.

  The abrupt light broke the darkness. The clang of the cell door jolted the men awake.

  “Mueve se!” a guard shouted, poking the end of his gun into Dennis Dobson’s ribs. “Move it!”

  Deuce groaned and held his shoulder, still pulsing with pain from where the Cuban navy doctor had removed the bullet.


  Crawford Jackson scampered to his feet and stepped between them. “Hey, man! What are you doing?”

  “Silencio!” The guard shoved Crawford away and waved his weapon menacingly at the others.

  “Easy . . . Easy . . .” Brinkley Barrymore III held up his hands. “No problema . . . No problema, señor.”

  “What do you hijos de puta want now?” Alejandro Cabrera growled.

  “Al, please,” Brinkley pleaded. “Not helpful.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” Al said, standing up to full height and leering at the guard.

  “Mueve se!” the guard scowled, pointing his gun at Alejandro. “Let’s go, yanqui spies! Move it! Mueve se!”

  “They think we’re spies, Brink!” Dennis cried as Crawford helped his friend to his feet.

  “Dónde vamos, señor?” Brinkley asked.

  “Silencio!” the guard snapped, and rammed the butt of his gun into Brinkley’s gut. The lawyer doubled over, the wind knocked out of him, coughing and spitting.

  “Puta!” Alejandro snarled, and rushed the guard.

  Within seconds, more guards flooded the cell and wrestled all four men to the floor. The Americans’ hands were all tied behind their backs and they were wrenched back to their feet. Each was blindfolded and then they were led roughly out of the cell in single file.

  “Where’re they taking us, Brink?” Dennis begged blindly. “Where?”

  “Shut up, Deuce,” Alejandro quipped. “They took our brave brothers to the firing squad. Go with honor.”

  “What?” Dennis shrieked. “What firing squad?”

  “Silencio!” a guard ordered as he punched Alejandro in the kidneys.

  “Be strong. It’s gonna be all right,” Crawford whispered.

  “We aren’t spies!” Dennis wailed. “Tell them, Brink! Tell them!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Alejandro barked.

  “They’re just messing with us, Brink?” Dennis wept. “Are they gonna kill us, Brink? Or is this a trick? We’re gonna be okay, right?”

  “I don’t know, Dennis,” Brinkley said as they were shoved out the door, forced to walk deeper into the darkness. “I just don’t know.”

  77.

  OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:55 P.M.

  Is this another dirty yanqui trick?” Oswaldo’s body shuddered with anger.

  “No tricks, Oswaldo.” Judd held up his hands.

  Guerrero bent over and pulled a Makarov pistol from an ankle holster.

  “What are you doing?” Judd gasped.

  “Don’t give me more of your American bullshit,” Oswaldo spat, flashing the Soviet-era handgun. “You never called Landon Parker, you called . . . her!” Oswaldo pointed the Makarov straight at Jessica’s head.

  “Oswaldo!” Judd stepped in front of Jessica. “Listen to me. You’re drunk. We have a deal. A good deal. For you and for Cuba. You don’t want to do this.”

  “You lied,” he hissed. “Just like all the others before you. Stinking yanqui liar.”

  “You’re right. I never called Parker. But your money is here. Your money was delivered as we agreed. We still have a deal, Oswaldo.”

  “Twenty-five million was our deal, not ten! You think I’m a fool? You think Cuba will fall again for your tricks? You think false promises with a few beers can outsmart me? There’s a reason your CIA calls me El Diablo. Our deal is dead.”

  Oswaldo aimed the pistol directly at Judd’s chest.

  “You are both . . . dead.”

  78.

  GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY, 11:57 P.M.

  The Deputy Director never felt so alive. He had tipped the taxi driver generously and was now sitting in the driver’s seat of his wife’s Audi, feeling smug satisfaction over the events of that evening. Operation Triggerfish had gone as smoothly as he could have hoped. All his moving parts—the money, the planes, the teams of operatives, his candidate—had come together under his personal direction. He was a chess master. He was on the verge of triumph.

  His deployment of Jessica Ryker had been an especially brilliant move, he thought to himself. She was the perfect operative to send into Cuba for the money drop. Yes, he was going to definitively exorcise the ghost of Randolph Nye and the Bay of Pigs. He was going to be the one to redeem the CIA after half a century of failure in Cuba. He was finally going to beat Oswaldo Guerrero.

  The only unplanned incident so far that day had been his rendezvous with Brenda Adelman-Zamora at the Willard Hotel. A delicious, warm-blooded bonus, he decided. “Maybe you’ll go higher,” she had suggested. “Like the next Director of National Intelligence.” For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the possibility.

  The Deputy Director turned over the ignition and popped open the glove compartment. He reinserted the batteries in his cell phones, humming to himself and feeling on top of the world.

  As the phones sprung back to life, they flashed a long list of urgent messages. All the warmth in his heart turned to ice.

  Charlie 3 reporting no show from Alpha 99

  Alpha 99 not responding

  Bravo 0 hospitalized

  Alpha 99 still not responding

  Charlie 3 aborting

  Oscar Sierra 2 aborting

  Yankee Tango 4 aborting

  Alpha 99 gone black

  Triggerfish dead

  79.

  OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA

  FRIDAY, 11:59 P.M.

  Nothing is dead, Oswaldo.” Judd stepped slowly toward the Cuban intelligence chief. “Our deal is still very much alive. You have ten million dollars now.”

  “No,” Oswaldo insisted, pushing the pistol into Judd’s chest. “Our deal was twenty-five.”

  “That’s right. And you’ll get the other fifteen. After you deliver.”

  “After?” Oswaldo took a step back.

  “We never pay it all up front,” Jessica said, sliding out from behind Judd. “Dr. Ryker should have explained. In the United States, we always insist on”—she looked straight at her husband—“aligned incentives.”

  “Incentives?” Oswaldo narrowed his eyes and looked Jessica up and down. “Who are you?”

  “She’s my partner,” Judd said, shielding his wife again. “And she’s right. In America, deals work best when both sides are—how do I put this?—motivated. Ten million now. You’ll get the rest once everything else is done.”

  Oswaldo Guerrero didn’t respond.

  “We still have a deal,” Judd said, unsure what was going through Oswaldo’s mind. “This is all in your interest. And in ours.”

  The silence was broken by a soft chuckle. Oswaldo’s laugh built louder and then he stopped abruptly. “Self-interest promotes the common good,” he said.

  “That’s . . . right.” Judd nodded as he and Jessica exchanged glances.

  “Man is an animal that makes bargains,” Oswaldo announced.

  Jessica shot Judd a look of confusion.

  “No complaint is more common than that of a scarcity of money!” Oswaldo bellowed, waving the gun wildly.

  Judd shrugged back at Jessica.

  “Little else is requisite to carry a state to the highest degree of opulence from the lowest barbarism but peace, easy taxes, and a tolerable administration of justice,” Oswaldo declared. “All the rest comes about by the natural course of things!”

  Judd’s face suddenly relaxed. “Adam Smith . . . ?”

  “A good soldier always studies his enemy, Dr. Ryker,” Oswaldo said with a hint of a grin. “He seems appropriate at this moment, no?”

  “So, are you saying . . .” Judd said as the fear and bewilderment in his chest was being replaced by a warming satisfaction “. . . we have a deal?”

  Oswaldo shoved the pistol into his waistband and stuc
k out his hand. “Even communists respond to incentives.”

  PART FOUR

  SATURDAY

  80.

  HAVANA, CUBA

  SATURDAY, 6.05 A.M.

  Oswaldo, you look terrible, my friend.” The president was already at his desk, dressed in a freshly pressed battle-green suit with an open-neck collar. In front of him was the daily Communist Party newspaper, Granma, unopened, and his usual breakfast of half a grapefruit. “Did you drink too much Santiago rum last night?”

  “I’m sorry, Comrade Presidente.” Oswaldo bowed his head. “I’ve been awake all night, dealing with these foolish yanqui hostages.”

  The president shook his head. “I slept like a baby.” Then he flashed a smile and waved his hand over his breakfast. “Come, eat!”

  “No time for breakfast, Comrade Presidente. Security of the revolution never rests.”

  “But you must have something to eat, my friend.”

  Oswaldo finally conceded with a shrug. “I’ll pour us coffee, Comrade Presidente. Thank you.”

  Oswaldo ambled over to a floral table by the window, set with a pot of strong coffee and a bowl of sugar. “Another beautiful day in our Cubita bella, no?” he said as he poured two cups.

  “Yes, yes,” the president said cheerily.

  “How is El Jefe today?”

  “My brother is the same. His body is alive, but his mind has died. The doctors tell me he could go on like this for years. The doctors say he could even recover.”