Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(35)

“Egypt?”

“If I’m remembering correctly, yes,” Judd said.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

Judd recalled that Serena had gotten Ruben Sandoval’s name from one of her friends who worked on the State Department’s seventh floor. Judd had then given that name to a British Foreign Office official in London in exchange for inside information he had needed in Zimbabwe. “Eh, I don’t remember,” he mumbled. “Probably just State Department chatter.”

Jessica frowned. “But Egypt? That’s odd.”

“Sure is,” Judd said. “What’s our future Ambassador to Egypt got to do with the missing boat?”

“Richard Green works for Ruben Sandoval.”

“Okay . . . So this Green, who we know nothing about, watches the missing boat and also works for Sandoval, who is rich and politically connected.”

“Right,” Jessica said. “Suspicious, don’t you think, Judd?”

“Could be. But that’s a pretty tenuous thread, Jess.”

“It’s worth digging deeper, that’s all,” she said. “I’m just saying that there’s a connection.”

“Let’s assume you found something important and Sandoval is linked to the four Americans.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Then what are Sandoval and these poor dupes really up to? Is this a big mistake, a bunch of amateurs who got caught, or something bigger? If it’s something bigger, then what? And why Cuba?”

“Good question, Judd. What the hell is going on in Cuba?”





29.


U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

THURSDAY, 4:01 P.M.

What the hell is going on in Cuba?” Melanie Eisenberg was steaming.

The Assistant Secretary for Western Hemisphere Affairs sat forward in her chair and eyed the long conference table in front of her. “Those were the very words of the Secretary of State.” Several of the assembled staff shuffled papers and someone cracked their knuckles, but no one spoke. “What the hell is going on in Cuba?” she repeated. “We can’t have it. The Secretary can’t wonder what’s happening. She can’t have doubts about what’re we doing in Cuba. It reflects badly on all of us! Does everyone get that?”

Most heads bobbed in agreement.

“I don’t know what she’s been hearing, but we’ve got to put a stop to it. I’ve assembled all of you now to update the team on what we know and to clarify our course of action. Sybil, put up the slides.”

The screen behind Eisenberg lit up with a photo of The Big Pig, a long white fishing boat with a bright pink stripe along the side.

“This is the vessel that the Cubans seized. We believe it’s a private U.S.-registered fishing boat. Next.” The slide switched to a screengrab from CNN. “These are the four civilians who’ve been detained. We’re still running background checks on the men, but, so far, nothing of interest. They all live in suburban Maryland, just outside D.C. As far as we can tell, the only connection between them is that their children are on the same sports team. Isn’t that right, Sybil?”

“Yes, ma’am. Girls’ soccer.”

“Sybil, do we have anything more than what the cable news is reporting?”

“No, ma’am. But we’re working on it.”

“Fine.” Eisenberg exhaled. “The most likely scenario is that these are just ordinary AMCITs. Regular civilians on a fishing trip and they drifted over the border. The currents in the Florida Straits are strong. I’ve been there many times myself. It’s plausible that they just had too many beers and floated into Cuban waters. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

A hand went up at the table. “So, these guys are drunken yahoos and got lost—that’s our story?”

“It’s not our story, Marty.” Eisenberg frowned. “Those are the facts. Human error or faulty navigation equipment . . . or something like that,” Eisenberg said, scowling. “We are proceeding on this basis until we have reason to believe otherwise. I don’t want the Secretary hearing rumors or paranoid fantasies. We don’t want her spun up about something that’s not true.”

“What are the other scenarios?” asked a young woman at the end of the table.

“Excuse me?”

“If it wasn’t human error or some mistake, what are the other explanations?”

“There aren’t any other likely scenarios right now.”

“What about the boat owner?” she asked. “Alejandro Cabrera could be a Cuban name. Does he have ties to Cuba? Maybe to the Miami exiles?”

Eisenberg turned to her aide, “Sybil?”

“We’re looking into it.”

“Good. But even if we find out this Alejandro Cabrera is the long-lost grandson of Fulgencio Batista, we’re still talking about four American civilians who are now in a Cuban prison and on all the cable networks.” Eisenberg pointed at the screen. The four men appeared slumped over, fear and exhaustion on their faces. “Could anyone seriously suggest these guys are anything other than a mistake? I mean, look at them.”

“Ma’am, if the men are connected to Cuban exiles, that would change the equation,” said another man at the table.