Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(33)

“Freeze! Hands! Now!”

The other guards fanned out in a perimeter around the woman.

“Down on the ground! Now! Now! Now!”

The woman showed her palms. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, wiping her cheek with her sleeve.

—

At that very moment, up on the seventh floor of the State Department’s headquarters, a security officer burst into the office of the Secretary of State’s chief of staff and slammed the door.

“What the hell’s going on?” Landon Parker howled, holding a phone in each hand.

“Sir, we’ve got a security breach at the front gate. I’m here to lockdown your office.”

“I’ll call you back,” Parker said, and set down both handsets. “Where’s the Secretary?”

“She’s not in the building, sir. She’s over at the West Wing. She’s secure.”

“Is all this really necessary? What kind of breach?” Parker huffed.

“Unknown at this time. I’m checking now,” he said, touching a finger to his earpiece.

Parker walked over to the window, pulling on the blinds.

“Sir, stand away from the window!”

Parker peered out and witnessed a dozen armed guards surrounding a pretty woman with golden hair in an orange suit. He glared as the woman reluctantly raised her hands and took several tentative steps toward the guards, igniting a round of shouting and the appearance of more officers from every direction.

“What the f*ck?” Parker said to himself.

“I’m checking now, sir,” the guard repeated.

Parker watched the guards swarm over the woman, force her to the ground, and handcuff her. He could see a second security team secure a pearl-white SUV parked nearby while other officers cleared the area of bystanders.

“Looks like they have it under control,” Parker said. “Doesn’t look like anything serious.”

“Let’s wait for the all clear, sir.”

“I’m going back to work,” Parker said, turning away from the window and eyeing one of his telephones. “Tell me, once you know what happened.”

“I’m in touch with the commanding officer at the front gate right now, sir.”

As Parker started to press redial, something about the woman—her shape, the color of her hair perhaps—suddenly seemed . . . familiar.

Parker set down the phone and returned to the window. The officers were forcing the woman up to her feet. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out her face. “Officer, I want a full report. Who is . . . that suspect?”

“Sir?”

“I just watched DS detain a woman at the front gate. I want to know who she is.”

“Mr. Parker”—the officer paused and touched his earpiece—“DS is reporting that she’s here to see someone on the seventh floor. She’s insisting she’s here to see . . . you.”

—

Eight minutes later, Landon Parker was in a windowless room in the basement of the State Department, consoling a crying Mrs. Penelope Barrymore.

“Pippa, why didn’t you just call me?”

“I did!” she wailed. Parker handed her a tissue. “They told me someone would get back to me, but of course no one did.”

“I’m sorry, Pippa, I didn’t know.”

“You should have called me, Landon!”

“Yes, you’re right. I should have, Pippa. I’ve been busy.”

“That’s why I had to just come over. Those horrible men pushed me on the ground!”

“Security is a little nervous about trucks rushing the State Department gate. You know how dangerous that was? It was stupid, Pippa. You could have been killed.”

“I’m not here about me, Landon. I’m here about Brinkley. I can’t believe what’s happened. I need your help!”

“Yes, I know,” Parker said.

“So you can help him? You can get him free from those terrible Cubans?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Working on it? What good are you, Landon?” she shrieked.

“Pippa, you have to be patient. We are still trying to figure out how your husband wandered into Cuban national waters.”

“I don’t care. I just want to know when they’re going to set him free.”

“I don’t know, Pippa,” he said.

“You are going to get him freed, aren’t you, Landon?”

“I’m trying. The Cubans aren’t saying anything yet, beyond what you’ve probably seen on TV.”

“I saw that. Parading my Brinkley on television like a common criminal. And Alejandro, Crawford, and”—she burst into tears—“poor Dennis!”

Parker looked away as the woman blubbered.

Penelope inhaled deeply and composed herself. “Landon, how could the Cubans possibly think those fools are spies?”

“I don’t know, Pippa,” he said, making eye contact again. “What do you know?”

“Brinkley’s not a spy.” She began to whimper again.

“Of course. I know that, Pippa. But maybe you know something else that we don’t? Something that could help us get Brinkley back home as quickly as possible. Anything?”