Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(16)
“Cool,” Dennis muttered to himself.
“I told you to come on this trip, boys,” Alejandro crowed. “You’re gonna love Florida! Marlin fishing. And who knows what else we’ll find.”
10.
GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D.C.
TUESDAY, 7:55 P.M.
Florida?” Judd was surprised.
“Fort Lauderdale. It’ll be great. For all of us. We could use a break, sweetie,” Jessica said.
Judd opened the fridge, searching for a beer behind jugs of milk and boxes of low-sugar apple juice. “I can’t leave tomorrow. I’ve got work.” He pulled a brown bottle from the back of the fridge, popped the cap, and took a swig. “Impossible.”
“I knew it would be tough. But we could use some quality time together. We could clear our heads. Come back refreshed.”
Judd took another gulp of beer and mulled over Jessica’s offer.
“After what we’ve been through, Judd, we could all use a few days to decompress.”
“Whose house is it again?” he asked.
This was the question that Jessica didn’t want to answer. How could she really tell him without opening the door to a long list of more questions? What did she even know about the Deputy Director? Maybe just a small lie to escape having to answer the big ones?
“I told you already. Sharon borrowed the house from her boss, but now her son is sick and she can’t go.” Her stomach churned as she realized she had already broken her promise. It wasn’t even a full day since their agreement and she was already lying again to her husband. “The vacation house is just sitting there empty. That’s why she’s giving it to us.” And there it was: Lie Number One.
“Sharon?”
“My friend from grad school. From Madison. She was at our wedding.”
“Oh, right,” Judd said. “Since when have you been talking to her?”
“I talk to Sharon all the time.”
Judd shrugged.
“It doesn’t matter, Judd,” she said. “I’ve got a free house in Fort Lauderdale and I want to go. I’m going to take Noah and Toby. They love the beach. I could use some sun. The only question is whether you’re going to join us.”
Judd dropped his shoulders. “I can’t. Work is blowing up again. Landon Parker keeps pulling me onto special projects. I’m in the middle of a memo for him now. The timing is just terrible.”
“I get it,” she said. Jessica took the bottle from Judd’s hand and gave him a kiss on the lips. “I get it,” she repeated. Jessica tipped back a drink and then handed the beer back to him.
“I’m sorry, Jess.”
“Stop apologizing. I need to clear my head. I’m taking the boys.”
“Maybe if things at the office ease up, I’ll come down. Maybe . . . if nothing new blows up . . . I’ll come meet you in a few days. In Florida.”
11.
GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 11:25 P.M.
The 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 f*cking 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.”