Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (2 page)

PART THREE | FRIDAY

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

PART FOUR | SATURDAY

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Acknowledgments

About the Author

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Ghosts of Havana
is entirely a work of fiction, but the story draws on true historical episodes and was partly inspired by my real-life experiences working inside the United States government. When I first began conceiving of a thriller about the U.S. and Cuba, I assumed that, after more than half a century of frozen relations, there was little prospect for change. Boy, was I wrong. In December 2014, the White House surprised the world by announcing steps toward normalization with Havana, proving yet again that even the most intractable foreign policy logjams can break at any time. And that what comes next is always unpredictable.

For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

—MATTHEW 6:21

Success is what succeeds.

—MCGEORGE BUNDY,

National Security Adviser, secret memo to the President one week after the Bay of Pigs, April 24, 1961

War is always hell, but Florida seemed worse.

—MICHAEL GRUNWALD

on the Second Seminole War (1835–42) in
The Swamp

PROLOGUE

STRAITS OF FLORIDA

WEDNESDAY, 5:28 P.M.

P
irates don’t drive minivans, dammit!”

Alejandro Cabrera was about to reply when he heard the first shot.

Booosh!

“What’s that?” Dennis shouted, whipping his head around.

The hollow explosion was followed by an accelerating whistle and, after a momentary pause, a loud splash just off the bow.

The four middle-aged Americans all hit the deck of
The Big Pig
, a white sportfishing boat with a pink stripe along its side.

“Mierda,”
Alejandro hissed.

“What’s happening, Al?” Dennis whined, lying on the floor and covering his head.

“Cubans,” Brinkley said matter-of-factly.

“Cubans? Holy cow!” Dennis screamed. “Why, why, why?”

“What the fuck have you gotten us into, Al?” Crawford clenched his teeth.

“Probably MGR,” Brinkley offered, his cheek pressed flat against the boat deck.

“MGR? What the fuck is that?”

“Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria,” Brinkley replied as calmly as he could. “The Cuban navy.”

“I told you we were over the line! I freaking told you we were over the line!” Dennis shrieked.

“Goddamn bonefish,” Crawford growled. “We’re gonna get killed over a goddamn bonefish.”

“We are in international waters, gentlemen. There’s nothing to worry about,” Brinkley tried to reassure his friends. “Everybody stay calm.”

“Hijo de puta!”
Alejandro spat.

“Holy cow . . . Holy cow . . .” Dennis muttered to himself, his voice quivering.

“Calm down, Deuce,” Crawford said. “What do we do now, Brink?”

Brinkley Barrymore III picked himself up and peered cautiously over the side of the boat, which was rocking gently on the ocean swell. He squinted toward the horizon through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The sky was starting to turn a blue-pink in the late sun. “There,” he said, pointing off the stern. Brinkley tossed the binoculars to the much larger man next to him. “Craw, give me an assessment and an ETA.”

Crawford Jackson caught the binoculars and, in one smooth motion, raised them to his eyes.

“Al, get down below. The radio’s in the hold. Call our friends for help. Let them know we’ve been intercepted.”

“
The Big Pig
is my fucking boat, Brink!” Alejandro snapped. “I’m the captain. I say we hit the engine and run for it.”

“You want them to shoot at us?”

“I’ve got more horsepower,” Alejandro said. “This baby can outrun anything MGR has on the water.”

“Dead astern, naval patrol boat approaching at high speed. Cuban flag,” Crawford announced.

“Negative. We’re not running from the Cuban navy,” Brinkley said. “It’s not the prudent move.”

“I don’t surrender.” Alejandro scowled. “Cabreras never surrender.”

“Al, who knows what other ships are out there? And planes?” Brinkley said. “We aren’t running.”

“ETA: three minutes,” Crawford said.

“We are just fishing, gentlemen,” Brinkley insisted. “There’s no need to escalate.”

Alejandro removed his Miami Marlins baseball cap and rubbed his goatee.

“This is not the time, Al. Go down below. Call our friends. And take Deuce with you,” he said, pointing at Dennis, lying frozen on the deck.

“I don’t like it,” Al said, putting his cap back on and licking his lips.

“They’re still approaching at full speed,” said Crawford.

“Now, Al!” Brinkley raised his voice for the first time. “You have to call
now
.”

“Puta!”

“Two minutes,” Crawford announced.

“Deuce, get your ass off the floor and go down below to help Al. Do it now.” Brinkley was trying to contain himself. “This is no time for one of your panic attacks.”

“This is a perfect time for panic.” Dennis looked up, his
face flushed and his eyes already red. “What am I gonna tell Beth?”

“Now, Deuce!”

Alejandro pulled on Dennis’s arm. “What does Brink mean by ‘intercepted’?” Dennis asked. Al ignored the question, and the two men scampered down the steps to below deck.

The boat’s radio erupted with Spanish chatter.
“Barco no identificado! Pare! Ustedes se encuentran en las aguas nacionales Cubanas! Pare!”

“Ninety seconds,” said Crawford, binoculars glued to his eyes. “And they’re armed.”

“Es La Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria! Pare!”
the radio blared.

“This is
The Big Pig
,” Brinkley spoke slowly into the radio. “We are American civilians. We are fishing. Just fishing. Over.”

“Pare! Prepárense para ser abordados!”

“No Spanish.
No hablo español.
We are just fishing. Over,” he repeated.

“One minute,” Crawford said. “They aren’t slowing down.”

Brinkley hollered down to Alejandro. “Have you called yet? You’ve got one minute!”

“Yes I fucking called them,” Alejandro appeared in the companionway, gripping an M16 assault rifle.

“What are you doing, Al?”

“I’m not going back to Cuba,” he said, raising the gun barrel toward the approaching boat.

“Are you crazy? Throw that overboard. We can’t take on the Cuban navy. Throw them
all
overboard.”

“What ‘all’?” Crawford lowered the binoculars. “What the fuck is going on here, Brink? Al?”

“I don’t surrender.” Alejandro bit his lower lip and aimed the rifle. “I told you Cabreras never surrender.”

“Lower that weapon now!” Brinkley ordered. “Throw them all overboard. You’re giving them a reason to shoot us.
We are just fishing.
”

“Why the hell do you have an M16 on your fishing boat, Al?” Crawford clenched his two fists in anger.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat!
the deck exploded in a line of gunfire. The men hit the deck again.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Crawford hissed.

“Stay calm, everybody,” Brinkley said.

Dennis appeared in the stairwell with a small arsenal of weapons. Crawford’s eyes widened as Dennis began throwing guns into the ocean: another M16, an AR-15, two pistols.

“No!” Alejandro shouted.

“What the fuck is going on here, Brink?” Crawford demanded.

“Deuce, no!” Alejandro lurched toward him too late. Just as Dennis dropped the last pistol over the side of the boat, his body suddenly convulsed, a bright red stain oozing across his back. Dennis Dobson pitched forward and fell into the rolling blue sea.

“Man overboard!” Crawford shouted. Brinkley threw a lifesaver over the side just as Crawford dove headfirst into the ocean.

“Pare! Pare!”
bellowed the loudspeaker on the approaching vessel. The fishing boat was raked with more gunfire.

Crawford reached Dennis, floating facedown in the waves, and spun him onto his back. “I’ve got you,” he gasped, trying not to swallow seawater. Crawford tucked his arm under his friend’s neck and grabbed the lifesaver’s rope with his free hand. “I’ve got you, Deuce.”

“Beth!” Dennis gurgled. “Beth!”

Brinkley pulled in the rope, ignoring the Cubans who had stopped shooting and were now circling the fishing boat like a lion stalking an injured gazelle.

“Puta,”
Alejandro hissed, flipping his weapon into the sea and raising his hands. He stared ahead with dead eyes as the patrol boat pulled alongside. The deck of the larger ship was lined with Cuban soldiers, all aiming weapons at the now-unarmed Americans. The setting sun bathed the naval ship in a soft, calming pink light.

Brinkley dragged Dennis onto the deck and applied pressure to the wound. Crawford hauled himself back on board, raised his hands, and then collapsed on the deck, panting, out of breath.

Alejandro, his hands still raised high, waved his baseball cap at the soldiers and forced a smile. “Just fishing,
señores
.”

PART ONE

THIRTY-SIX HOURS EARLIER

1.

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, 5:30 A.M.

J
udd Ryker opened one eye and winced at the clock.
Five-thirty.
The good news was that he had slept through the night. And he was home.
My own bed,
he thought, feeling the cool clean sheets as he stretched his legs.

As Judd cleared the jetlag haze from his mind, the conversation of the previous evening flooded back into his brain.
Was it a dream?

Judd rolled his head and Jessica came into view. His wife was still sound asleep, breathing softly, a slight, satisfied smile on her lips, an expression of gentle relief on her face. He watched the contours of her mouth and listened to her lungs, a comforting rhythm of inhale and exhale. Yes, Jessica was asleep.
And they were both
still here.

The night before, Judd had returned from Zimbabwe, a grueling twenty-two-hour journey that had provided him far too much time alone with nothing but his thoughts. Too much time to think about his latest assignment on behalf of the Secretary of State and how it all had unfolded. It had all come together just a
bit too smoothly, a touch too succinctly. Judd’s mind ran through the events—the downfall of Zimbabwe’s dictator; the election of a new, hopeful democratic leader for that shell-shocked country; a murderous Ethiopian general dead, the victim of a premeditated campaign of revenge—all good results, but . . .