Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (14 page)

The immigration and naturalization database listed Ruben Sandoval as arriving in the United States from Cuba in 1962 at the age of six. He had arrived unaccompanied and in the custody of the Catholic Church of western New York. In the church records shared with the government, his father was recorded as Fulgencio Sandoval, age thirty-eight, and his mother as Yanitse Sandoval, age twenty-nine, along with one sibling, Ernesto, three years old. But Ruben is the only one in the family who appeared to have ever entered the country.

From tax records at the Internal Revenue Service, Sunday learned that Ruben Sandoval had moved around to different addresses in South Florida for years with little income. He had started a string of failed ventures until the Sunshine Yoga Studio & Juice Bar, Inc., made a small profit. The real money flowed once the business expanded. Then, three years ago, he sold out. Sandoval’s income shifted from the yoga and juice business to a
portfolio of investments, an erratic mix of real estate in Nevada and Arizona, a chain of check-cashing outlets in Texas, and a hotel complex in Naples, Florida. Sandoval’s most recent financial statements showed that he had abruptly disposed of a significant minority shareholding in a defense contractor Kinetic Xelaron Systems in Tampa and paid tax on $78 million in capital gains.

Sunday sat back. What he could do with $78 million! He would buy his parents a big house, maybe in the Hollywood Hills or out in the desert near Palm Springs. Ay, would the cousins come from Nigeria in droves! Everyone expecting their share of the payout. And the goats! And lambs! He’d probably have to buy a ranch to keep all the livestock for feasts! Ay! Sunday laughed to himself at the thought and returned to his research.

For such a successful and wealthy self-made businessman, the newspapers didn’t have much on Ruben Sandoval. Sunday found a grainy
Miami Herald
photo of him at a charity gala for marine wildlife protection. In the picture, Sandoval wore a white tuxedo and a much younger woman on each arm. The caption described him only as “a local businessman and two party guests.” The
Tampa Bay Times
business section reported on the Kinetic Xelaron sale, but had no further details or any mention of Sandoval. The
Washington Post
’s political gossip column mentioned Sandoval only once, noting that he was a rising political fund-raiser and reporting a rumor that his name was on a short list of potential ambassadorships.

“Fund-raiser?” Sunday muttered to himself. He opened a new window on his computer and logged on to the Federal Election Commission database, which showed that Sandoval was indeed active. He had given the maximum allowable contribution of $2,700 to virtually every prominent politician in Florida and
Nevada, and to the President’s reelection campaign.
Nothing unusual here,
he thought. Rich guy spreading around some cash to make friends. But $2,700 doesn’t buy anyone an ambassadorship. There must be more to Sandoval’s story. More details . . . somewhere.

27.

U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY, 2:33 P.M.

T
he freshly washed pearl-white Lexus LX SUV roared up Constitution Avenue and squealed around the corner toward the dead end of 22nd Street Northwest. The driver whipped tightly around a line of waiting taxicabs and veered up onto the curb, coming to a screeching halt at the steel gate perimeter.

A Diplomatic Security officer stepped on a silent alarm and immediately raised the anti–car bomb barriers. Inside the State Department’s Harry S. Truman Federal Building, all the security gates automatically locked and the reception desk computers froze. The earpieces of dozens of armed guards erupted with emergency instructions to seal all the doors and execute an immediate lockdown. Shelter-in-place orders flashed on every computer screen in the building.

The officer at the front gate unsnapped his sidearm and aimed it at the Lexus. The taxi drivers ducked into their cars as pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover.

“Driver!” the guard shouted. “Exit your vehicle with your hands up!”

He crouched and took a few steps toward the SUV. The engine cut and the door of the Lexus swung open heavily.

“Hands! Hands! Hands!” the officer shouted.

Out of the Lexus stepped a tall blond woman, middle-aged and handsome, wearing a peach-colored designer business suit.

“Driver! Hands now!”

Behind the officer, more guards in heavy Kevlar, matte black helmets, and automatic weapons emerged from the main doors. The woman threw off her sunglasses and squinted in the sun, revealing long black streaks of eyeliner running down her cheeks. She took a step toward the officer.

“Freeze! Hands! Now!”

The other guards fanned out in a perimeter around the woman.

“Down on the ground! Now! Now! Now!”

The woman showed her palms. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, wiping her cheek with her sleeve.

—

A
t that very moment, up on the seventh floor of the State Department’s headquarters, a security officer burst into the office of the Secretary of State’s chief of staff and slammed the door.

“What the hell’s going on?” Landon Parker howled, holding a phone in each hand.

“Sir, we’ve got a security breach at the front gate. I’m here to lockdown your office.”

“I’ll call you back,” Parker said, and set down both handsets. “Where’s the Secretary?”

“She’s not in the building, sir. She’s over at the West Wing. She’s secure.”

“Is all this really necessary? What kind of breach?” Parker huffed.

“Unknown at this time. I’m checking now,” he said, touching a finger to his earpiece.

Parker walked over to the window, pulling on the blinds.

“Sir, stand away from the window!”

Parker peered out and witnessed a dozen armed guards surrounding a pretty woman with golden hair in an orange suit. He glared as the woman reluctantly raised her hands and took several tentative steps toward the guards, igniting a round of shouting and the appearance of more officers from every direction.

“What the fuck?” Parker said to himself.

“I’m checking now, sir,” the guard repeated.

Parker watched the guards swarm over the woman, force her to the ground, and handcuff her. He could see a second security team secure a pearl-white SUV parked nearby while other officers cleared the area of bystanders.

“Looks like they have it under control,” Parker said. “Doesn’t look like anything serious.”

“Let’s wait for the all clear, sir.”

“I’m going back to work,” Parker said, turning away from the window and eyeing one of his telephones. “Tell me, once you know what happened.”

“I’m in touch with the commanding officer at the front gate right now, sir.”

As Parker started to press redial, something about the woman—her shape, the color of her hair perhaps—suddenly seemed . . . familiar.

Parker set down the phone and returned to the window. The
officers were forcing the woman up to her feet. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out her face. “Officer, I want a full report. Who is . . . that suspect?”

“Sir?”

“I just watched DS detain a woman at the front gate. I want to know who she is.”

“Mr. Parker”—the officer paused and touched his earpiece—“DS is reporting that she’s here to see someone on the seventh floor. She’s insisting she’s here to see . . . you.”

—

E
ight minutes later, Landon Parker was in a windowless room in the basement of the State Department, consoling a crying Mrs. Penelope Barrymore.

“Pippa, why didn’t you just call me?”

“I did!” she wailed. Parker handed her a tissue. “They told me someone would get back to me, but of course no one did.”

“I’m sorry, Pippa, I didn’t know.”

“You should have called me, Landon!”

“Yes, you’re right. I should have, Pippa. I’ve been busy.”

“That’s why I had to just come over. Those horrible men pushed me on the ground!”

“Security is a little nervous about trucks rushing the State Department gate. You know how dangerous that was? It was stupid, Pippa. You could have been killed.”

“I’m not here about me, Landon. I’m here about Brinkley. I can’t believe what’s happened. I need your help!”

“Yes, I know,” Parker said.

“So you can help him? You can get him free from those terrible Cubans?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Working on it? What good are you, Landon?” she shrieked.

“Pippa, you have to be patient. We are still trying to figure out how your husband wandered into Cuban national waters.”

“I don’t care. I just want to know when they’re going to set him free.”

“I don’t know, Pippa,” he said.

“You
are
going to get him freed, aren’t you, Landon?”

“I’m trying. The Cubans aren’t saying anything yet, beyond what you’ve probably seen on TV.”

“I saw that. Parading my Brinkley on television like a common criminal. And Alejandro, Crawford, and”—she burst into tears—“poor Dennis!”

Parker looked away as the woman blubbered.

Penelope inhaled deeply and composed herself. “Landon, how could the Cubans possibly think those fools are spies?”

“I don’t know, Pippa,” he said, making eye contact again. “What do you know?”

“Brinkley’s not a spy.” She began to whimper again.

“Of course. I know that, Pippa. But maybe you know something else that we don’t? Something that could help us get Brinkley back home as quickly as possible. Anything?”

Mrs. Penelope Barrymore stopped crying and took a deep breath. “I spoke with Mariposa Cabrera—that’s Alejandro’s wife.”

“He’s the owner of the boat.”

“Right. And Brinkley’s friend. He coaches the girls’ soccer team.”

Parker leaned in close. “So what did Cabrera’s wife tell you?”

“It’s almost too dumb to say out loud.”

“Dumber than gate-crashing the State Department?”

She shrugged.

“Tell me, Pippa, anything that might be helpful in getting Brinkley and his friends back home safe. You have to tell me.”

“Mariposa . . . said something about Alejandro’s family in Cuba. Before they fled years ago. They had hidden some . . . diamonds.”

“Diamonds? In Cuba?”

“That’s what she said. They buried them. She said Al always talked about going to get them.”

“Are you telling me Brinkley got caught in Cuba hunting for . . . buried treasure?”

Pippa shrugged again. “I told you it was dumb.”

“We’ve got a major international diplomatic incident because your husband thinks he’s a pirate?”

“He’s no spy,” she said.

“And now I’ve got to rescue him?”

“Yes, you have to save Brinkley. You just have to, Landon!” Pippa Barrymore wiped the running mascara off her face and took a deep breath. “But he’s no pirate either.”

“He’s not?” Parker asked. “Then what is he?”

28.

FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

THURSDAY, 3:33 P.M.

I
could drive straight and be back in Washington, D.C. in fifteen hours,
Jessica thought. Instead, she exited Interstate 95 and steered her rented convertible Mustang down Sunrise Boulevard, driving east toward the Deputy Director’s house in Fort Lauderdale.

Her little errand for the Deputy Director was done. She had found Richard Green, the man connected to the missing fishing boat, but he had refused to talk. She had tracked Green back to some rich Cuban American’s house, but then . . . nothing. The trail had gone cold.

It wasn’t Jessica’s style to give up so easy. But this assignment seemed like a waste of time. What was she supposed to do, sit in that mangrove and stake out the house? Where was this all headed? And why?

Sunday back at Langley was digging into the leads, but, really, what more could she do?
Return to vacation,
she thought. That’s what she should do.
Fuck the Deputy Director.

On cue, her phone buzzed with a text message from
DANIEL DOLLAR
:

   News from the Keys?   

What to share with him? She could give him the name Richard Green. She could tell him that he’s connected to a Ruben Sandoval. That would lead to more questions . . . and more errands.

Jessica pulled up to the driveway of the vacation house and parked. The afternoon sun was beating down and a light breeze off the ocean filled her nose with the smells of the sea. She looked down at her phone again and pressed a number.

“Hi, sweets,” was the cheery answer.

“You sound happy, Judd,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m sitting in my office, under fluorescent lights, reading stacks of useless government documents. I’m chasing shadows while my wife and kids are enjoying the beach. What’s not to love?”

“I’ve been doing a little work, too.”

“I thought you were going to relax,” Judd scolded.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“You do?”

“You don’t sound surprised,” she said.

“No comment. What’ve you found?”

“The missing boat . . . the fishing boat that the Cubans seized . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” Judd said, looking down at a photo of
The Big Pig
and his meager files on each of the four missing Americans.

“I’ve got a name for you: Richard Green.”

Judd looked down at the files for Dennis Dobson, Brinkley Barrymore, Crawford Jackson, and Alejandro Cabrera. “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”

“He looks after the boat. Part-time.”

“How’d you get his name? Are you down in the Keys?”

Jessica hesitated.
Lie Number Five?
“No,” she said.
What’s five lies versus four?
“No, I got it from . . . a colleague. Don’t ask me more.”

“Okay . . . maintenance guy in the marina.” Judd scrawled down the name. “Does he know anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s all?”

“I don’t have anything else on Green. I just think it might be relevant.”