Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(44)
“I know you’re supposed to be compartmentalized on this Iran thing, but I’m not going home yet. If I can help, let me know. Maybe run some Google searches or something.” Glen laughed to himself and wandered away.
Google?
Sunday closed the Pentagon database on his classified computer and opened a web browser on his unclassified machine. Into Google he typed 2506. The search results were long lists of addresses. Nothing notable. He was about to close the window when he glanced at the search results at the bottom of the screen. There was something he didn’t expect: an orange-and-blue flag of a silhouetted soldier with a bayonet-tipped gun and a banner reading BRIGADA ASALTO 2506.
A Spanish Assault Brigade 2506? He typed this into a new search field and the result:
Brigada Asalto 2506 was a CIA-sponsored group of Cuban exiles formed in 1960 to attempt the military overthrow of the communist Cuban government.
Ay! He carried on reading.
It carried out the abortive Bay of Pigs invasion landings in Cuba on 17 April 1961.
The Bay of Pigs?
38.
EVERGLADES CITY, FLORIDA
THURSDAY, 10:04 P.M.
Jessica blocked out the bone-deep cold she felt from wearing a damp cocktail dress on a high-speed motorcycle for the past ninety minutes. She had tailed Ricky Green all the way from Port Everglades, onto Highway I-595, down Alligator Alley, and again when he turned south toward Everglades City. The road was so flat and straight, Jessica turned off the Kawasaki’s lights and just followed the red rear lights of the Hummer.
As she passed the WELCOME TO EVERGLADES CITY sign, she thought “City” might be an exaggeration. The town was more like a small island with modest sixties-style clapboard houses, amply spaced on large plots of land. Sure, it was late, but the streets were wholly abandoned.
They passed the turnoff for the Everglades Airport, and just as the town appeared to end in darkness, Ricky veered off the main road and down a dirt driveway.
Jessica waited until the lights of the Hummer had disappeared from view, then she hid the motorcycle in the bushes and followed the dirt path on foot. After about a hundred yards, she came upon the parked Hummer and could see moving lights through the brush in a clearing ahead. She could hear Ricky banging on metal and grunting but couldn’t see what he was doing. Jessica pushed deeper into the brush to try to get a better look.
Suddenly, she heard a motor start up, followed by an incredibly loud hum, like a giant hair dryer. A second later, she was blasted by a gust of warm tropical air. Jessica shielded her eyes and backed away from the bushes. Was he taking off on a seaplane? Or a boat? It sounded like both.
As the noise and wind receded, she returned to the Hummer and ran down the path that Ricky must have taken toward the machine. She arrived at the shoreline just in time to see Ricky strapped high in a chair at the front of a low, flat boat with a massive spinning fan at the back. A fanboat.
Fuck! Where the hell is he going now? Jessica wondered as Ricky evaporated into the infinite darkness of the Florida swamps.
39.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 10:16 P.M.
Judd still hadn’t heard anything from Jessica. He had hit a dead end trying to uncover more on the Americans from The Big Pig.
Judd turned away from his whiteboard, with its photos of the men and the lines of the web that still didn’t make sense. Maybe I’ll never know the truth, he thought. Even if he didn’t know who these guys were or what they were up to, he knew he had to focus on his task: a hostage negotiation strategy for Landon Parker. He still needed a backchannel to Havana. And he needed a plan before the end of the day.
Judd had discovered in the archives that every White House since John F. Kennedy had tried to establish a secret dialogue with the Cuban government. LBJ, Nixon, Carter, Bush, Clinton—they all tried. And they all failed. Even the coldest of the Cold Warriors, Ronald Reagan, had attempted to find common ground with Havana by negotiating to end the presence of Cuban troops in Africa. Reagan had to strike a deal with El Jefe. The result of eight grueling years of talks was the departure of Cuban troops from Angola, a withdrawal of South African forces, and the creation of a newly independent Namibia. It was a complex triple agreement of historic proportions. But that diplomatic success in Africa never led to a broader détente between Washington and Havana. Instead, the Angola negotiations followed the same pattern as other attempts at dialogue: Small steps in confidence building eventually gave way to animus.
Judd had read through the history of failed diplomatic overtures to Cuba. It was a long record of missteps and misunderstandings. Minor advances toward compromise were simply swept away by political expediency. Hard-liners on one side or the other had found it too easy to scuttle any progress. Why should Landon Parker believe I can do better? Why should I think I can?
Judd had scrawled down the basic outlines of a plan on a single sheet of paper.
Good faith
Discreet negotiations
Plausible deniability
Incentives to deliver
Judd was stuck on number one. What kind of new gesture could the United States make that might entice the Cubans but not enrage Capitol Hill? How to thread the needle between the old men in Havana and the old men in Miami? How to find common ground between El Comrade Presidente and Brenda Adelman-Zamora? Judd jotted down a list of the least-controversial options that he could present to Landon Parker: