Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(36)

“It will certainly change how the Cubans respond,” said yet another. “The conspiracy theories are going to fly.”

“Even if their incursion was a mistake, if this guy is a Cuban exile, the press is going to have a field day.”

“The Cubans are going to want a pound of flesh to let them go.”

“Hold it!” Eisenberg snorted. “So . . . in all these scenarios, these four soccer dads were doing what? Invading Cuba? In a fishing boat? Is that what you’re suggesting? I don’t think even the Cubans are paranoid enough to believe that. I call that a fantasy. Anything else?”

“Ma’am . . .” The young man hesitated. “There’s a rumor going around the building that one of the missing men has, um . . .”

“Yes,” Eisenberg beckoned the staffer. “Spit it out.”

“Um . . . friends in the building.”

“What?” Eisenberg spun around toward her assistant. “Sybil?”

“There was a security incident this afternoon at the front gate, ma’am.”

“And?”

“A woman crashed her car near the main entrance. I’ve heard she may be linked to one of the missing men.”

“You’ve heard? What do we know for sure?”

“I’ll check with Diplomatic Security.”

“Is this the rumor?” Eisenberg asked.

The young man nodded.

“That’s ridiculous. Until we have some actual facts, people, we’re not changing course.”

Eisenberg brushed the front of her jacket and collected herself. “Unless anyone has something else to add—something factual—here’s how this is going to play out.” She placed both hands on the table, a thick gold ring with a pale blue gemstone clacked on the wood. “We are going to issue a public call for the release of the four innocent men. No escalation, no negotiations. Let’s just diffuse the situation. That’s how we make this go away.”

“What about Congress, ma’am? The Free Cuba Congressional Caucus has issued some pretty strong statements. Adelman-Zamora was on all the networks today.”

“And the Cuba desk has been flooded with calls, ma’am.”

“It’s trending on Twitter.”

“Twitter?” She closed her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. Hashtag freesoccerdad4.”

Eisenberg swore under her breath. “That’s . . . all . . . fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Congress will make its views known. We respect that. The public, too. But we are not going to allow one lost fishing boat to become a political weapon. I won’t allow this to spin out of control. It’s unfortunate. But it’s not in anyone’s interest to escalate this incident any further. Not for Cuba. Not for the United States. Not for these men and their families. The Cubans will release them once they realize they have nothing to gain. That’s it. That’s our objective.”

“Do we bring in the other bureaus on this, Madam Assistant Secretary?”

“Negative. We are going to put this fire out by suffocating it. By denying oxygen. We keep this within our team.”

“What about S/CRU?”

“Judd Ryker?”

“Yes, ma’am. Aren’t we supposed to call the Crisis Reaction Unit during a crisis?”

“Ryker, the academic?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When someone says ‘That’s academic,’ what do they mean?” Eisenberg asked.

“They mean ‘irrelevant.’”

Melanie Eisenberg raised her eyebrows. “Meeting adjourned.”





30.


MORRO CASTLE, HAVANA, CUBA

THURSDAY, 4:45 P.M.

The cell was built out of stone blocks and covered in a soft green moss. Brinkley Barrymore III ran his hand over the wall and felt the moistness on his fingertips. Through the sole window’s iron bars, Brinkley could see palm trees and the shadows of late-afternoon light. He took a deep breath. The air smelled both fresh from the sea air outside and stale from the ammonia of the urine left behind by the cell’s previous inmates.

“We’re in some sort of old castle or fort,” he said to the others. The K Street lawyer, usually most comfortable in a gray tailored suit, was wearing a dirty orange jumpsuit that hung on his body like an oversized sack. He shook his head. “This isn’t a real prison. At least not anymore.”

Alejandro Cabrera, wearing an identical jumpsuit, only tighter and even dirtier, gripped the window bars and pulled himself up to look out.

“It sure as shit smells like a real prison,” Crawford Jackson said.

“No. This is for show.” Brinkley shook his head.

“I don’t care where we are,” Crawford said. “I want to know when we’re getting the hell out.”

“I told you not to worry, Craw,” Brinkley said. “Think about it. They have no reason to hold us. The Cubans have nothing to gain by keeping us.”

“Fuck you!” Crawford barked.

“We just have to be patient. We can’t panic.”

“How the f*ck did we let you get us into this?” Crawford clenched his fists.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” Brinkley said. “I’m sorry.”