Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(50)

“So what do you have?”

“I’ve been digging into the archives to see what’s gone wrong with so many previous attempts to talk quietly to the Cubans.”

“I don’t need a history lesson, Ryker. I need a plan.”

“I’m developing a four-phase strategy. It starts with a low-profile good faith gesture, something noncontroversial. And then we use that as a cover for negotiations. If it all goes wrong—”

“What’s your good faith gesture?” Parker interrupted.

“Baseball.”

“Sports, Ryker? I asked you for creative and you’re giving me—”

“Yes, I know. Baseball doesn’t sound like much. But sports worked in the past,” Judd tried to explain. “When the Nixon administration needed a way to talk to the Chinese—”

“No time for that, Ryker.” Parker shook his head. “It’s a hell of an idea. I love baseball as much as the next man. I’ve got box seats at the Nats, for God’s sake. But your plan will take weeks. We don’t have weeks. We need something right away.”

“Okay, sir.”

“I thought S/CRU was built for speed?”

“It is. That’s the whole point of the Crisis Reaction Unit. But you asked me to strategize a way—”

“What’s the final phase?”

“Sir?”

“Your strategy, Ryker. Maybe we can jump straight to your final phase. What is it?”

“Incentives to deliver.”

“You’re back to Adam Smith? I thought we agreed there’s no time for academic theories inside government.”

“Incentives are just ways to make sure everyone is motivated to follow through on their promises. We don’t want to give away everything up front. It’s better to hold back. If we got to the final phase of incentives—”

“Look, Ryker,” Parker interrupted, “I know what I said before. That I asked you for new ideas. But things are moving fast. Melanie Eisenberg is holding a press conference tomorrow morning. She’s going to declare that the capture of innocent Americans in international waters is an illegal act and that the United States won’t negotiate. She’s shutting down any possible overture we can make publicly until this thing cools off. Your baseball idea is dead. Forget it.”

“So you want me to work on another plan? Something covert?”

“No time for that either, Ryker.”

“So . . . what do you want me to do, sir?”

“I need someone I can trust to go talk to the Cubans directly. Like, right now.”

“You’re sending me to Cuba?”

“In a way, yes.”

Judd stood up from his chair. “Should I go pack?”

“No,” Parker said, shaking his head with impatience. “The way you’re getting there, you can’t bring a suitcase.”

“How am I going?” Judd didn’t like the sound of this.

“You’ll see, Ryker,” Parker said, revealing nothing with his facial expression. “You’re leaving in five hours.”

“When?”

“I’ve arranged a special undercover departure out of Andrews at oh five hundred. When you get there, you need to negotiate the release of the four men from The Big Pig. I want them home as soon as possible. That’s your new assignment.”

“What, exactly, am I offering the Cubans in exchange for the hostages?”

“You’ll figure that out with O.”

“What’s O?”

“Not what, Ryker, who. Oswaldo Guerrero, Cuba’s head of military intelligence.”

“I’m going to meet Cuba’s chief spy?”

“That’s right, Ryker. Face-to-face. You’re going to be the first American to ever meet O.”





45.


HAVANA, CUBA

THURSDAY, 11:57 P.M.

Oswaldo Guerrero sipped his tiny cup of thick coffee. The breeze off the Bay of Havana kept him cool, but he didn’t feel at all relaxed tonight. The café overlooking the beach was still jammed with locals enjoying a warm evening and loud conversation. Despite the crowd, Oswaldo sat alone and undisturbed. The staff—the few that mattered—knew to give this regular customer his privacy. Even those who weren’t directly on his payroll knew to give the short man with powerful arms plenty of space.

After the waiter silently delivered another cup, Oswaldo dropped a white sugar cube into it and slowly stirred with a dainty spoon for nearly a full minute. The ripples of the muscles on his tan forearm highlighted the scars of past battles. His flat, crooked nose, dead black eyes, and a shiny gold front tooth suggested this was a man with an eventful past. He gently set the spoon aside and took a sip.

Off in the distance, the lights of Morro Castle taunted Oswaldo. The Americans. Los yumas. Los yanquis. These gringos rotting in his cell didn’t know anything. Just more fools. He should slit their throats and toss them back in the sea where he had found them. They should die like the dogs that they are. Just like all the others that came before them trying to poison his homeland with their money and their selfish ways.

If the Americans were going to call him El Diablo, then why not show them what a real Devil can do?

“Ach!” he scolded himself for being emotional. Those four dupes in Morro Castle were nothing. But what about their reckless bosses back in Washington? He knew the Americans were up to something. They always were. Their bravado, their crude schemes, the arrogance and ignorance of los yanquis. How did such a country become so rich and powerful when they couldn’t even see through the lies of the traitors in Miami? How could they not see the dance of the exiles? How could such a country be so mighty yet unable to keep a simple secret? The United States was a lumbering beast, a giant shadow hanging over his beautiful island, his Cubita bella. The fools in his prison cell were just another insult!