Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(54)

“Where do I take him, then?”

“Put him in the black hole.”

“Hey!” Judd shouted as loud as he could. “I’m—”

A firm hand pressed to his throat. “You got a screamer. Better get him there quick.”

Judd felt the hand slide to the back of his neck. “Quiet, 761! You’ll have plenty of time to talk once we get you to the hole.”

What the hell is going on?

Judd was bundled into a vehicle and driven for several minutes. Then he was yanked out and forced to stand. He could hear beep-beep-beep and then the click-clack and woosh of a door release. Judd was shoved forward and felt the sudden coolness of air-conditioning. He was shuffled down a corridor, then through another door lock, and finally into another room.

“Seven sixty-one is here. Your special protocol from Romeo.”

“Leave him.”

Judd could hear the other men depart and the door shut and lock. Once they were gone, the hood flew off his head. Judd shut his eyes against the sudden bright lights.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ryker.” He felt the handcuffs release. “You’re safe here.”

Judd rubbed his wrist and squinted, trying to see who was in front of him.

“Who are you?” Judd asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the man.

“You know who I am,” Judd said. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the silhouette of an older man, with short hair, a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in civilian clothes—black T-shirt, blue jeans.

“I could tell you my name—any name—and it won’t matter. You will never see me again. And I’ll never see you again.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“My orders are to make you invisible. That’s what I’m doing, Dr. Ryker.”

“Whose orders?”

“I can’t say.”

“What are you, State? DOD or CIA?”

The man shrugged. “I can’t say.”

“Are you another agency?”

“Please, Dr. Ryker.”

“So where am I?” Judd asked. “What’s the ‘black hole’?”

“Here. You’re in a SCIF at Guantánamo Bay Naval Base. You don’t need to know any more. You are totally safe and secure, sir.”

“Safe and secure? You just hooded and frog-marched me off an airplane?”

“Yes, sorry about that, sir. Couldn’t be avoided.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Cubans monitor all our incoming flights. They’ve even got moles inside the base. I had to make it look like you were Taliban or ISIS. Even to our own guys.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s an insane world, Dr. Ryker. This is the only way to get you onto the island and be one hundred percent certain you’ve arrived undetected. We used to bring people in via Canada under tourist cover, but we couldn’t take that risk with you. You’ll need to change identities before you leave this room.”

“What identity?”

“This is your new cover, sir,” he said, pointing to a baby blue linen suit and a straw sun hat.

“I have to wear that?” Judd asked.

“And this,” he said, holding up a fake beard. “You’re going native.”

“I don’t understand,” Judd said. “Where am I going?”

“We can’t send you over the wall, as the Cubans mined everything beyond our fence line with locally made POMZ. The commies were good at laying mines, but they didn’t bother to map them. We hear them burn off every once in a while. Flying cooked goat. We find it charred to the fence. Sometimes a dog.”

“You’re saying Cuba is a minefield?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why you need this suit and beard. You’ll go in during the regular shift change with the local staff. Only a few old guys left, so you’ll need to look elderly to avoid being noticed.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Judd said.

“Sir, we can’t send you over the fence. It’s too dangerous. So you are going into Cuba the safest way we know. You’re going to walk out right through the front gate.”

“And then what?”

“And then this.” The man handed Judd a sealed envelope. “Don’t open it until I leave and you are alone. Read it. Then burn it,” the man said, and tossed Judd a book of matches.

“What is this?” Judd asked, holding up the envelope.

“Your mission, sir.”





49.


DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.

FRIDAY, 8:30 A.M.

Sunday blew gently on his cup of coffee, the freshly roasted Ethiopian variety that he always bought from Swing’s whenever he was near the White House. The coffeehouse had been packed with National Security Council staff, badges around their necks, discussing work in subdued tones and nonspecific code.

Sunday crossed 17th Street, walked between the thick car bomb barriers, and onto the pedestrianized Pennsylvania Avenue. To the south was the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where the President’s foreign policy staff worked in a grand edifice that reminded Sunday of a giant haunted house. To the north was Blair House, the President’s official state guest residence, a tasteful, early-nineteenth-century townhome used by only the most prominent VIPs.