Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(32)
Ruben snapped out of his daydreaming and interrupted the speaker. “Excuse me. You’re saying that discussions and phone calls in a SCIF are entirely private? They can’t be bugged or decoded?”
“Yes, sir. That’s where any information that has been classified as TS/SCI can be handled and discussed.”
“And phone calls from a SCIF are undetectable?”
“Yes, sir. All communication in and out of a SCIF is encrypted and untraceable. It’s fully secure.”
“Where are these SCIFs?” Ruben asked.
“Everywhere. In the State Department. Inside our embassies. Anywhere that a cleared USG official needs to handle Top Secret information.”
“Is there a SCIF here?”
“Yes, sir. We have a SCIF on campus. Would you like to see it?”
26.
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, 2:15 P.M.
Sunday had never heard of Ruben Sandoval, but there was plenty of information on him.
The immigration and naturalization database listed Ruben Sandoval as arriving in the United States from Cuba in 1962 at the age of six. He had arrived unaccompanied and in the custody of the Catholic Church of western New York. In the church records shared with the government, his father was recorded as Fulgencio Sandoval, age thirty-eight, and his mother as Yanitse Sandoval, age twenty-nine, along with one sibling, Ernesto, three years old. But Ruben is the only one in the family who appeared to have ever entered the country.
From tax records at the Internal Revenue Service, Sunday learned that Ruben Sandoval had moved around to different addresses in South Florida for years with little income. He had started a string of failed ventures until the Sunshine Yoga Studio & Juice Bar, Inc., made a small profit. The real money flowed once the business expanded. Then, three years ago, he sold out. Sandoval’s income shifted from the yoga and juice business to a portfolio of investments, an erratic mix of real estate in Nevada and Arizona, a chain of check-cashing outlets in Texas, and a hotel complex in Naples, Florida. Sandoval’s most recent financial statements showed that he had abruptly disposed of a significant minority shareholding in a defense contractor Kinetic Xelaron Systems in Tampa and paid tax on $78 million in capital gains.
Sunday sat back. What he could do with $78 million! He would buy his parents a big house, maybe in the Hollywood Hills or out in the desert near Palm Springs. Ay, would the cousins come from Nigeria in droves! Everyone expecting their share of the payout. And the goats! And lambs! He’d probably have to buy a ranch to keep all the livestock for feasts! Ay! Sunday laughed to himself at the thought and returned to his research.
For such a successful and wealthy self-made businessman, the newspapers didn’t have much on Ruben Sandoval. Sunday found a grainy Miami Herald photo of him at a charity gala for marine wildlife protection. In the picture, Sandoval wore a white tuxedo and a much younger woman on each arm. The caption described him only as “a local businessman and two party guests.” The Tampa Bay Times business section reported on the Kinetic Xelaron sale, but had no further details or any mention of Sandoval. The Washington Post’s political gossip column mentioned Sandoval only once, noting that he was a rising political fund-raiser and reporting a rumor that his name was on a short list of potential ambassadorships.
“Fund-raiser?” Sunday muttered to himself. He opened a new window on his computer and logged on to the Federal Election Commission database, which showed that Sandoval was indeed active. He had given the maximum allowable contribution of $2,700 to virtually every prominent politician in Florida and Nevada, and to the President’s reelection campaign. Nothing unusual here, he thought. Rich guy spreading around some cash to make friends. But $2,700 doesn’t buy anyone an ambassadorship. There must be more to Sandoval’s story. More details . . . somewhere.
27.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 2:33 P.M.
The freshly washed pearl-white Lexus LX SUV roared up Constitution Avenue and squealed around the corner toward the dead end of 22nd Street Northwest. The driver whipped tightly around a line of waiting taxicabs and veered up onto the curb, coming to a screeching halt at the steel gate perimeter.
A Diplomatic Security officer stepped on a silent alarm and immediately raised the anti–car bomb barriers. Inside the State Department’s Harry S. Truman Federal Building, all the security gates automatically locked and the reception desk computers froze. The earpieces of dozens of armed guards erupted with emergency instructions to seal all the doors and execute an immediate lockdown. Shelter-in-place orders flashed on every computer screen in the building.
The officer at the front gate unsnapped his sidearm and aimed it at the Lexus. The taxi drivers ducked into their cars as pedestrians shrieked and ran for cover.
“Driver!” the guard shouted. “Exit your vehicle with your hands up!”
He crouched and took a few steps toward the SUV. The engine cut and the door of the Lexus swung open heavily.
“Hands! Hands! Hands!” the officer shouted.
Out of the Lexus stepped a tall blond woman, middle-aged and handsome, wearing a peach-colored designer business suit.
“Driver! Hands now!”
Behind the officer, more guards in heavy Kevlar, matte black helmets, and automatic weapons emerged from the main doors. The woman threw off her sunglasses and squinted in the sun, revealing long black streaks of eyeliner running down her cheeks. She took a step toward the officer.