Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(37)

“You’re sorry? You and Al tricked us into some bullshit fishing trip or treasure hunt or who the f*ck knows what. And now we’re in a Cuban prison!”

“I’ll get us out. But there’s no point in rehashing now what went wrong,” Brinkley said. “There will be plenty of time later for an after-action. Right, Al?”

Alejandro continued to stare out the window.

“After-action?” Crawford barked. “We’re in a f*ck-ing prison in Cu-ba!”

“We all have to stay calm,” Brinkley said. “That’s how we’ll get through this. That’s how we’ll get out. Al, back me up here.”

“Look at goddamn Deuce!” The two men turned to face Dennis Dobson, sitting in the corner of the cell. He had one bandaged arm in a sling, the other arm wrapped tightly around his knees. Dennis was rocking gently back and forth, his eyes glazed over. “He’s still in shock.”

“Deuce will be fine,” Brinkley said quietly. “Hey, Deuce!” he then shouted. “You’re going to be fine! Are you hearing me?”

No reply. Just more rocking.

“Hey, Deuce! We’re going to get you out of here. Do you understand?”

Still no reply.

“Why haven’t they let us call the U.S. embassy?” Crawford asked. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?”

“I don’t know,” Brinkley said.

“How the hell does our government even know we’re here?”

“They know.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Our government isn’t just going to let us rot. They aren’t going to leave us in Cuba, just sitting here exposed.” Brinkley shook his head.

“Are you kidding me?” Crawford’s eyes were wide. “You think our government is going to save us? You don’t think Washington will see us as some kind of pawn? They would sell us out without blinking if they can gain an advantage! Or just leave us here! I was in the Navy, too, you know. I know how this works!”

“They won’t leave us exposed again,” Brinkley said.

“Again? What the f*ck’re you talking about? Brink, we are in f*ck-ing Cu-ba!”

Alejandro, who had been quiet all along, suddenly spoke up. “Craw’s right.”

“What?” the other two men gasped in unison.

“They’re gonna do it again. No air cover. No backup. No admission. It’s all happening again. Just like mi abuelo.”

“What the f*ck’re you talking about, Al?” Crawford growled.

“Look, we’re all under stress,” Brinkley said, showing his palms. “Let’s all calm down.”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen again,” Alejandro said. “That was the whole goddamn point.”

“Shut up, Al!” Brinkley hissed.

“They’re going to abandon us,” Alejandro said. “Just like our grandfathers.”

“No they’re not!” Brinkley insisted.

“What the f*ck are you two talking about?” Crawford narrowed his eyes in a mix of confusion and anger.

“Nobody’s leaving anyone,” Brinkley said. “This isn’t 1961.”





31.


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

THURSDAY, 5:04 P.M.

I’m missing something, Judd thought to himself. He took a step back to examine his puzzle. He had tacked photos of the four Americans up on a whiteboard: Dennis Dobson, Brinkley Barrymore III, Crawford Jackson, Alejandro Cabrera. Who are these guys? What are they up to?

Landon Parker had asked Judd to help find a way to get them back without appearing to talk directly to the Cuban government. Judd was supposed to initiate a backchannel while Assistant Secretary Melanie Eisenberg was the public face of the U.S. government. So far, Eisenberg hadn’t been saying much. She was playing diplomatic chess, waiting out the Cubans to see their next move. Hoping it would all go away so she could resume with her plans for diplomatic normalization. But what was Parker’s angle? “I need creative thinking, Ryker!” Parker had insisted. But it didn’t quite add up.

What am I missing? Judd wondered. He scrawled the name RICHARD GREEN in a box next to ALEJANDRO CABRERA and drew a solid line connecting the two men. Next, he printed a photo of Ruben Sandoval that he had found on the Internet, wrote his name underneath the picture, and attached it to the board with another solid line to Green. Above all the pictures, he wrote CUBA in a large red circle and drew dotted lines connecting the circle to Cabrera and Sandoval. He still had one more clue. In the upper corner he scribbled his best drawing of the White House and then connected dotted lines to Sandoval.

Judd stood back again and visualized the web he had just created. Maybe this was nothing? Maybe he was imagining some grander network that didn’t really exist? A lost fisherman and his beer buddies, a Florida drifter, a yoga and juice bar tycoon, a connection to the White House. This all sounded crazy. He certainly couldn’t mention any of this to Landon Parker. Judd considered wiping the whiteboard clean and starting over. He grabbed the eraser and was about to swipe when the White House gave him pause. If there was anything meaningful here, anything really treacherous, it would be the link to someone powerful. If these men were really all linked, then who was this Ruben Sandoval? Was he a power broker or a pawn? Who would know?