Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(34)

Mrs. Penelope Barrymore stopped crying and took a deep breath. “I spoke with Mariposa Cabrera—that’s Alejandro’s wife.”

“He’s the owner of the boat.”

“Right. And Brinkley’s friend. He coaches the girls’ soccer team.”

Parker leaned in close. “So what did Cabrera’s wife tell you?”

“It’s almost too dumb to say out loud.”

“Dumber than gate-crashing the State Department?”

She shrugged.

“Tell me, Pippa, anything that might be helpful in getting Brinkley and his friends back home safe. You have to tell me.”

“Mariposa . . . said something about Alejandro’s family in Cuba. Before they fled years ago. They had hidden some . . . diamonds.”

“Diamonds? In Cuba?”

“That’s what she said. They buried them. She said Al always talked about going to get them.”

“Are you telling me Brinkley got caught in Cuba hunting for . . . buried treasure?”

Pippa shrugged again. “I told you it was dumb.”

“We’ve got a major international diplomatic incident because your husband thinks he’s a pirate?”

“He’s no spy,” she said.

“And now I’ve got to rescue him?”

“Yes, you have to save Brinkley. You just have to, Landon!” Pippa Barrymore wiped the running mascara off her face and took a deep breath. “But he’s no pirate either.”

“He’s not?” Parker asked. “Then what is he?”





28.


FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

THURSDAY, 3:33 P.M.

I could drive straight and be back in Washington, D.C. in fifteen hours, Jessica thought. Instead, she exited Interstate 95 and steered her rented convertible Mustang down Sunrise Boulevard, driving east toward the Deputy Director’s house in Fort Lauderdale.

Her little errand for the Deputy Director was done. She had found Richard Green, the man connected to the missing fishing boat, but he had refused to talk. She had tracked Green back to some rich Cuban American’s house, but then . . . nothing. The trail had gone cold.

It wasn’t Jessica’s style to give up so easy. But this assignment seemed like a waste of time. What was she supposed to do, sit in that mangrove and stake out the house? Where was this all headed? And why?

Sunday back at Langley was digging into the leads, but, really, what more could she do? Return to vacation, she thought. That’s what she should do. Fuck the Deputy Director.

On cue, her phone buzzed with a text message from DANIEL DOLLAR: News from the Keys?


What to share with him? She could give him the name Richard Green. She could tell him that he’s connected to a Ruben Sandoval. That would lead to more questions . . . and more errands.

Jessica pulled up to the driveway of the vacation house and parked. The afternoon sun was beating down and a light breeze off the ocean filled her nose with the smells of the sea. She looked down at her phone again and pressed a number.

“Hi, sweets,” was the cheery answer.

“You sound happy, Judd,” she said.

“Why wouldn’t I? I’m sitting in my office, under fluorescent lights, reading stacks of useless government documents. I’m chasing shadows while my wife and kids are enjoying the beach. What’s not to love?”

“I’ve been doing a little work, too.”

“I thought you were going to relax,” Judd scolded.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“You do?”

“You don’t sound surprised,” she said.

“No comment. What’ve you found?”

“The missing boat . . . the fishing boat that the Cubans seized . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” Judd said, looking down at a photo of The Big Pig and his meager files on each of the four missing Americans.

“I’ve got a name for you: Richard Green.”

Judd looked down at the files for Dennis Dobson, Brinkley Barrymore, Crawford Jackson, and Alejandro Cabrera. “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”

“He looks after the boat. Part-time.”

“How’d you get his name? Are you down in the Keys?”

Jessica hesitated. Lie Number Five? “No,” she said. What’s five lies versus four? “No, I got it from . . . a colleague. Don’t ask me more.”

“Okay . . . maintenance guy in the marina.” Judd scrawled down the name. “Does he know anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s all?”

“I don’t have anything else on Green. I just think it might be relevant.”

“Okay, thanks, sweets. I’ll look into it, but you should go back to the kids. You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

“I have one more name for you. Does Ruben Sandoval ring a bell?”

Judd heard the name and repeated it to himself. “Ruben Sandoval . . . Sandoval . . . sounds familiar . . .” Then he remembered the name from an intelligence horse trade with his British contact the previous week. “I think Ruben Sandoval is some kind of businessman. And a political fund-raiser in Florida. He’s supposed to be the next U.S. Ambassador to Egypt,” Judd said.