Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(20)

“She’s bigger than Rogerson. Eisenberg has the ear of the Secretary. A direct line.”

“What’s her relationship with Landon Parker?”

“She knows to give him his due respect,” Serena said. “I heard she rolled him on Cuba.”

“Eisenberg did an end run around Landon Parker on Cuba policy?”

“Yes. And that’s not all. Word on the seventh floor says the Deputies Committee is considering her for P.”

“P? Melanie Eisenberg is going to be the next Undersecretary? Number three in the building?”

“I told you she’s a shark.”





15.


STRAITS OF FLORIDA


WEDNESDAY, 5:21 P.M.

Ten hours later, the fishermen were getting cranky.

After a whole morning of fishing and no sign of any marlin, Brinkley had suggested they head farther offshore to the Seminole Flats to try their luck catching bonefish. “Per pound, bonefish are the strongest fish in the world,” Brink had told them proudly. “And the Seminole Flats in the Florida Straits is the best place in the whole world to catch them.” Alejandro had navigated The Big Pig due south.

But it was now early evening and they still had no sign of any fish.

“I think we’re over the line,” Dennis muttered. He glared down at the GPS unit in his hand. “Brink, you gotta take a look at this.”

Brinkley set down his fishing rod and walked over.

“Right here, this looks like we are over the line,” Dennis said, pointing to the little screen. “I think we are . . . in Cuban waters.”

“No way. I don’t think that’s accurate. We may be close, but we’re still in international waters, don’t worry. Where’s your gear?”

“Close? I don’t want to be close to Cuba.”

Brinkley took the GPS unit from Dennis and examined the map again. “Alejandro, what time is sunset?”

“Seven o’clock sharp,” he called from the cockpit.

Brinkley checked his watch. “Ninety minutes . . .” he mumbled, scanning the horizon with a pair of high-tech binoculars.

“What are you doing, Brink?” Dennis fidgeted with his fingers.

“I think we could make it.” Brinkley nodded to himself.

“What’re you talking about?”

Alejandro put the engine in neutral and joined the conversation.

“That firehouse, where your family used to live, it’s in what town again?” Brinkley asked.

“Outside Santa Cruz del Norte. East of Havana,” Alejandro said.

“You know where it is?”

“Of course.” He tapped his skull with a forefinger.

“We aren’t far.” Brinkley pointed at the GPS unit. “We could wait for a few hours, kill the lights, go in dark. We’ve got the gear. We could be in and out before sunrise.”

“Sunrise?” Crawford threw down his fishing rod. “What the f*ck are you talking about, Brink?”

“Alejandro’s diamonds. We’re nearly there already. Maybe we could go get it. Tonight.”

“Are you f*cking crazy?” Crawford said. Dennis’s fidgeting accelerated.

“It’s not that crazy,” Alejandro said. “We’ve got all the gear we need. I’ve got wet suits, shovels, even night vision goggles, down in the hold.”

“You are seriously suggesting that we land in Cuba?” Crawford’s eyes were wide.

“We’d need one of us to set a fire,” Brink said. “To draw the firemen away from the station. Then—”

“Set a fire? Are you f*cking crazy? No way.”

“Yesterday, you both said you were in,” Alejandro said. “You were up for it, Deuce. You said, ‘I’m up for a treasure hunt.’”

“That’s true,” Brinkley nodded. “Those were your exact words.”

“I was drunk. I thought you were kidding!” Dennis said, his eyes fluttering.

“Well, I’m not kidding,” Alejandro said. “We can go get my family treasure right now.”

“Is this why you f*cking brought us down here?” Crawford growled. “For f*cking diamonds?”

“You were joking!” Dennis squealed. “I thought you were joking!”

“Let’s do it,” Brinkley said, making a fist. “Dennis, you’re our communications expert. You stay on the boat and monitor the radios. Crawford, we need our Navy SEAL to land on the beach undetected and then set the diversion fire. Once they are all clear, Al and I will go to the firehouse to get the diamonds.”

“Treasure hunting. Just like pirates.” Alejandro grinned.

“Pirates hunting for treasure? Are you out of your f*cking mind?” Crawford put both hands on his head in frustration. “You think we’re pirates?”

“We’re so close,” Brinkley said, tapping the GPS.

“We’ll all be rich. We can do it,” Alejandro agreed.

“No we can’t!” Crawford’s eyes were wide. “We aren’t f*cking pirates. We live in the suburbs. I’m retired. Brink’s retired. You’re a goddamn real estate agent, Al. Deuce isn’t a comms officer. He writes software code!”