Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(17)

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.

Judd 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.