Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(38)

Judd smacked himself on the forehead. Of course. He dialed a number.

A few seconds later, his phone erupted. “Judd, darling!”

“Hello, Mariana. I’m sorry to call out of the blue.”

“Not at all, my darling,” responded Mariana Leibowitz, the Washington lobbyist who had worked closely with Judd on his missions to Mali and Zimbabwe. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

“Where are you?” Judd asked.

“I’m still in Zimbabwe. I’m here with Gugu.”

“You mean President Mutonga? Are you celebrating her victory?”

Mariana laughed. “Yes, President Gugu Mutonga. Of course! I don’t think I’ve slept at all since Monday, my dear! What a ride!”

“I’m sorry I missed the party,” Judd said.

“Party? Oh, Judd, you’re sweet. We’ve been up for days because we’ve been working! The president doesn’t want to waste any time. It’s almost midnight here and we’re still in the president’s office. We’re going to roll out her plan for the first one hundred days in the morning. A national television and radio address. Gugu’s gonna bring it!”

“That’s great. I’m doubly sorry to call, then.”

“What is it?”

“I need your help, Mariana.”

“Of course you do, darling. I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?”

“We just finished Zimbabwe and you’re already onto another crisis,” she said.

“Well, not really. I have to navigate a problem in Washington and—”

“Of course, darling,” she said, “after all we’ve been through.”

“Do you know Ruben Sandoval?”

“Not personally,” she said.

“But you do know of him?”

“Of course, Judd! What kind of lobbyist would I be without keeping a pulse on the heavy hitters?”

“Who is he? Who’s he backing?”

“A better question is, who isn’t he backing?”

“So one of them’s the President?” Judd asked.

“Of course.”

“Why? What does Sandoval want?”

“What do any big donors want? They want power. They want influence. They want to stroke their own egos. They want to impress their girlfriends. Play the big shot.”

“Big shot,” Judd repeated.

“Why do you care about Sandoval?” Mariana asked.

“Do you need to know why?”

“Only if you want to tell me, darling,” Mariana said in her most soothing voice.

“Is Sandoval connected to Cuba?”

“I’m hearing Middle East. My sources tell me Egypt or Jordan,” she said. “That’s about as far from Cuba as you can get.”

“But I want to know if he’s a player on Cuba policy,” Judd said. “Do you know?”

“Then forget the White House. POTUS won’t touch Cuba until it’s a slam dunk. They won’t make that mistake again.”

“So where should I be looking?” Judd asked.

“Good Lord, Judd,” Mariana said.

“Congress?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“So you’re saying yes, Congress.”

“Not just anyone in Congress. Start with the Free Cuba Caucus,” Mariana said.

“You mean Brenda Adelman-Zamora?”

“That’s her,” Mariana said. “Is Sandoval connected to Adelman-Zamora?” she then asked.

“I don’t know,” Judd said. “That’s why I called you.”

“Judd, darling . . .” She paused and exhaled loudly. “Only because it’s you am I doing this.”

“Thank you, Mariana.”

“Give me five minutes,” she said, and hung up.

Judd thought about Brenda Adelman-Zamora. She was the chair of the House Intelligence Committee. She held the press conference today about the soccer dads. She was the Cuba hawk. But was she linked to Sandoval? If so, how?

Judd wrote BAZ with a big red question mark on his whiteboard and drew a box around it. How does the congresswoman fit?

His phone buzzed with a text message from Mariana.


Adelman-Zamora $raiser 2nite @7pm. I can get u in.


Bingo! Judd hit reply: Thx. Where?


9900 Coconut Vista, Las Olas, FL.


I’m in DC.


U know anyone in South FL?





32.


LAS OLAS, FLORIDA

THURSDAY, 7:08 P.M.

Jessica pulled back on the throttle of the Deputy Director’s Cobalt bowrider powerboat as she approached the bright lights of her destination. The river that was the backbone of the South Florida Intracoastal Waterway was busy that evening, filled with noisy family day cruisers, long, gleaming sportfishing boats, and gargantuan party catamarans blasting hip-hop dance music.

Her target, the house at 9900 Coconut Vista Lane, was easy to find. Illuminated palm trees along the waterfront framed a brightly lit modern glass-and-steel structure that appeared to be more art museum than residence.

It had seemed absurd to Jessica to go to a party in a speedboat. She was arriving alone—wife, mother of two small children, agronomist, the furthest thing from a flashy celebrity. Her CIA training had taught her always to assume a low profile, to go unseen whenever possible. James Bond pulling up to black-tie parties in an Aston Martin was only for the movies. Real spies slipped in through the back door and then left unnoticed. Arriving at a fancy party wearing a designer wrap dress and in a luxury boat seemed precisely the wrong move.