Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (8 page)

TUESDAY, 11:25 P.M.

T
he CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations slowed down his car as he pulled into the turnout where the sign read
SCENIC OVERLOOK
. He scanned the empty parking lot and then eased his wife’s black Audi A6 into a spot where the tree cover was low and he could see the lights of the city down the Potomac River.

He cut the engine and reached over to his briefcase, sitting on the passenger seat. He extracted all three of his cell phones and carefully removed the battery from each, then placed the batteries and dead devices in the glove compartment. He checked his watch. She wasn’t late yet.

Traffic on the parkway was light at that late hour. A trickle of cars headed south along the river, past Georgetown University, the Watergate Apartments, the Kennedy Center, the Lincoln Memorial. Then the road skirted the Pentagon before ending near Ronald Reagan National Airport.
Can’t count the number of times I’ve made that drive,
the Deputy Director thought.

More often, nearly every day as far back as he could remember, he had driven north on the George Washington Memorial
Parkway to the exclusive entrance to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency. The epicenter of his life’s work.
Thirty-five fucking years.

Beyond the CIA was the highway ringing the nation’s capital, the artery that fed the city’s sprawling suburbs. The Beltway was the barrier, physically and psychologically, between Washington, D.C. and the rest of the world, he thought.
The bubble.

Twenty excruciating minutes later, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled into the parking spot next to him. The Deputy Director impatiently stepped out of his car, double-checked to be certain that no one else had entered the overlook lot, and then slid into the passenger seat of the SUV.

“Sorry I’m late,” said the driver.

“No need to apologize.”

“Damn fund-raisers. They always run late.” She checked her hair in the rearview mirror. “Donors always have to tell you one more story. Some favor they need. Or some boohoo about their successful daughter looking for a job.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the Deputy Director said.

“I don’t think this town used to be like this,” she said. “It’s still beautiful.” To the east, across the river, they could see the top of the steeples of the old buildings at Georgetown University. Farther down the river, off in the distance, they could just make out the peak of the brightly lit Washington Monument. “I love Washington. I really do. But the money has made it dirty.”

The Deputy Director grunted noncommittally.

“This town used to be about principles. About American values. When I first ran for office, I could talk about ideas and what we wanted to achieve. How we were going to stand up for what we believe. For freedom. Now . . . it’s all about money.”

This topic made the Deputy Director uncomfortable, so he changed the subject. “Madam Chairwoman, I saw your hearing this morning.”

“Don’t call me madam, dammit,” Brenda Adelman-Zamora hissed. “It makes me sound like an old woman. And don’t blow smoke up my ass about the hearing. I don’t have much time. Where are we?”

He cleared his throat. “We’re proceeding.”

“How’re you going to do it?” She leaned toward him.

“I believe we agreed that it was better that I not share any operational details.”

“I’m the goddamn chair of the House Intelligence Committee. I have constitutional oversight of your agency. I think I can handle a few details.”

“I promised to update you on progress. That’s why I’m here now,” he said with as much patience as he could muster. “But we also agreed that it was best if specifics be kept to a minimum. If there’s anything you need to know, I will tell you.”

She sat back and frowned. “I’ve heard that need-to-know shit before. I won’t stand for another screwup.”

“We won’t have another failure. I’m personally taking charge of this operation,” the Deputy Director said.

The congresswoman harrumphed.

“I’m sticking my neck out,” he said, hiding his irritation.

“I am fully aware of our deal. You make this happen and I will ensure that you are the next Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

He winced at her words, their arrangement laid out so crudely. So
quid pro quo
.

“You just make sure you hold up your end,” she said.

He grunted again.

“What else do you need from me?” she asked.

“The less you’re involved, the less you know, the better. I don’t think we should meet again. Not until the operation is over.”

“I’ve heard that all before. You think I can just trust the CIA to get this done for good? How many times have we been down this road?”

“This time is different. I told you. This is
my
operation.”

“I hope so,” she said. “No excuses. So I’m asking you again: What do you need?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Nothing? I’ve never heard that one before. You don’t need money?”

“No.”

“How’s that possible? How are you running a major covert operation and you don’t need cash?”

“Your committee oversees the intelligence budget. You know we have resources.”

“You buy that constitutional bullshit I just threw at you? You think we have oversight?” She laughed. “I don’t know shit. That budget is a long list of black accounts.”

“I have all the resources I need. We agreed it’s in both our interests that the sources of any financing remain undisclosed. For operational security.”

She eyed him. “For deniability, you mean. In case it all goes wrong again.”

He didn’t reply.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I don’t want to hear later that this thing flopped because you were short of cash.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t want any excuses this time.”

“There won’t be.”

“Christ, it’s almost midnight,” she said, checking her watch and turning the ignition back on. “I’ve got to go. I’m on the first flight tomorrow morning down to my constituency for another fund-raiser. You may not need cash, but I do.”

12.

RONALD REAGAN WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT

WEDNESDAY, 6:42 A.M.

J
udd nudged the steering wheel to ease off the George Washington Memorial Parkway at the exit for the airport.

“You really didn’t have to drive us,” Jessica said. “We could’ve taken a cab.”

Judd patted the dashboard of his car, an aging silver Honda Accord that he’d bought off one of his Amherst College students. Jessica hated the car and had been urging him to replace it for months. But Judd liked this small piece of his old life back in New England. His grandmother had driven a silver Honda until she died in her farmhouse in Vermont. Every time he drove this car, which wasn’t often, he thought of her.

“It’s really no problem. I have plenty of time to drop you and then get to the office. And I get to see my family off,” Judd said with a forced smile.

“Plane!” shouted Noah, their three-year-old son, strapped in his car seat.

“Is that our plane?” asked his older brother, Toby, pointing at
a low-flying Boeing 737 making its final approach for landing at Reagan National Airport, just across the Potomac River from downtown Washington, D.C.

“It could be, baby,” Jessica said. “Are you excited?”

“Yes, Mommy,” Toby said. Noah, sucking on the remains of what was once a raisin bagel, nodded in agreement.

Judd weaved through the heavy early-morning airport traffic and squeezed his car into a tight space at the departure zone between two black Lincoln Town Cars. Jessica busily helped the two boys and their Ninja Turtle backpacks out of the car while Judd extracted a small orange wheelie suitcase from the trunk. Once the whole Ryker family was assembled on the sidewalk, Judd hugged and kissed his children.

“Be good . . . for Mom.” Then, turning to his wife, he gave her a long kiss, “Have a great time, Jess.”

“Who’s that, Mommy?” Toby interrupted, pointing at a woman getting out of one of the Town Cars. She was in her early sixties, with heavy makeup, a golden tan, and wearing a red designer pantsuit. An aide unloaded several matching Valextra leather suitcases and carried a tiny Yorkshire terrier. “Is she a movie star?” asked the six-year-old boy.

Noah was staring, too. “Is she a princess?”

“Congresswoman,” Judd said. “You remember the big white building shaped like a snow cone? She works there.”

Jessica nudged Judd in the ribs. “Is that Adelman-Zamora?”

“Yep. Brenda Adelman-Zamora. House intel committee chair.”

“I’ve seen her on TV.”

“Maybe she’s on your flight,” Judd offered, raising his eyebrows.

Jessica scowled and then gave him another kiss.

“Don’t do any work when you’re down in Florida, Jess. Just try to enjoy yourself. Try to relax.”

“That’s the idea,” she said.

“I got you this,” he said, handing her a dog-eared copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Treasure Island
.

“Awww,” she purred. “You remembered.”

“I know it was your favorite.” Judd shrugged.

“It is,” she said, touching her chest. “I still don’t know how mine got lost when we moved from Massachusetts.”

“I thought it might help you forget about work. You know, for the beach.”

She accepted the gift and slid it into her handbag, already stuffed with children’s books and small baggies of corn snacks and pretzels. “Enjoy the quiet while we’re away.” Then she paused for a moment. “Scratch that.” Jessica leaned forward and whispered, “Kick some ass.”

13.

MARATHON, FLORIDA KEYS

WEDNESDAY, 7:23 A.M.

A
soft pink glow on the horizon hinted at the imminent sunrise. The predawn water was calm, barely a hint of a cool breeze off the Caribbean Sea. The only sounds were seagulls and a gentle sloshing of waves against the pier at the Marathon Marina and Boat Yard.

“Motherfucker!” bellowed Alejandro Cabrera, bear-hugging a thin man with sunken cheeks, long greasy black hair, and skin that was dark from a mix of sun and motor oil. He was wearing flip-flops and a dirty T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing tattoos on both arms.
“Que bolá, asere?
You’re so skinny! Don’t you eat down here? You’re wasting away!”

“You’re
gordo
,
asere
,” said the man.

They hugged again and slapped each other aggressively on the back.

“We all good?” Alejandro asked.

The beach bum nodded.

“You staying out of trouble, brother?”

“Doing my best to stay off the grid and outta trouble,” the man replied.

The two men fist-bumped and then turned to face the others.

“Boys, this is Ricky. We go way back,” Alejandro said. “Ricky, you know Brink already. And this is Craw and Deuce.” The men all exchanged firm handshakes and head nods. “These are all guys from the neighborhood up north.”

Then with a dramatic flourish, Alejandro opened his arms wide and announced, “And this is
The Big Pig
.”

“It’s fabulous, Al,” Dennis said, gawking at the sparkling-white sportfishing boat docked beside them. “But what’s with the pink stripe?”

“Fuck you, Deuce!” Al said. “You don’t know style when you see it.”

“Florida, baby,” Crawford said.

“Fuck you, too.”

“She’s impressive,” Crawford said, running his hand along the bow of the boat. “What can she do? Thirty, thirty-five knots?”

“Forty-two,” Ricky said. “She’s fully loaded.”

“How’s that possible?” Crawford asked.

“Custom-built,” Brinkley explained. “Alejandro made some modifications to the standard engine package.”

“Ricky juiced it for me,” Alejandro said, his face again beaming with pride.

“
The Big Pig
flies,” Ricky said, hands on his hips. “But if you boys want to catch some marlin today, you need to get going.
Vamanos.
”

Ricky started unloading cases from a huge red Ford pickup truck on oversized tires.

Al whistled. “When’d you get this?”

“New F-150 Raptor SuperCrew. A 6.2-liter V-8 under the hood.” Ricky strained with the weight of a large steel case, his muscles flexing and showing off his tattoos. “And
las chicas
, they love it.”

“I’ll bet.” Al raised his eyebrows. “It’s fucking beautiful,
asere
.”

“Geez, Al,” Dennis said. “A private plane, this fishing boat, monster trucks. What the heck is going on down here?”

“What can I say? We Latinos are lovers. And we love the toys. Same goes for the brothers. Isn’t that right, Craw?”

“Am I your
only
black friend?” Crawford joked.

“Nah. We Cubans are all black. Don’t you know that—”

“I don’t want to interrupt your discourse on contemporary race relations,” Brinkley interrupted. “But we’ve got marlin to catch. Can we get the boat loaded, gentlemen?”

“I’ve got this one,” Ricky said as he hauled a large case onto the boat and then disappeared down the hold.

A few seconds later, Ricky’s head reappeared. “Let’s get the rest of these down below and then I’ll run an engine check for you, Al.”

“
Bueno
, Ricky. Where’s the new GPS?”

“In the secure case in hold four. It’s with the backup satellite phone. I’ll leave you with a spare battery, too.”

“You’re not coming with us?” Dennis asked.

“Not today.”

“I’m the fucking captain of
The Big Pig
,” Al said. “Plus I’ve got two Navy boys with me. You can be my radio officer, Deuce. Not a bad crew for a little fishing expedition.”

Crawford set down a crate. “This is a shitload of gear for a fishing trip, Al. What the hell are we loading?” he asked.

“Provisions,” Al said. “You never know what you’ll need hunting out in the open ocean. And we can’t run out of beer and Cuban sandwiches.” Al winked, then lifted a red cooler.

“All this for marlin fishing?” Dennis asked.