Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(56)

“Hey!” he shouted. “Let me out!”

The door lock clacked and a soldier in uniform blocked the doorway. “I can’t allow you to take that out of the SCIF, sir,” he said, pointing at the paper in Judd’s hand. “I’m under orders to assist you, but only after you have destroyed that document.”

Judd took a deep breath, read it one more time, memorized the key details, then struck a match, lit the paper, and watched it burn.

“Where’s the other guy?” Judd asked.

“What other guy, sir?”

“The one with the beard. The one who—” Judd stopped himself. “I need a secure phone right now.”

“Right there, sir,” he said, pointing to a black phone on a desk in the corner. “That’s an encrypted line to Washington.”

“I need five minutes. And then a ride to the Northeast Gate.”

The soldier nodded and closed the door.

Judd started to punch in the number for the State Department Operations Center, which could connect him to Parker. What kind of horseshit assignment was this? He stopped just before he hit the last number. He set the phone down. Wrong move. Judd snatched the handset again and tapped in another number.

“Who’s this?” Jessica answered.

“Me, sweets.”

“What number is this? Where are you?”

“I’m on a government phone. It’s a secure line.”

“Is everything okay?” Jessica sounded worried.

“Yeah. You said we should speak tomorrow. That’s why I’m calling you.”

“I’m at the pool,” she said breezily. Judd glanced at the concrete-block walls of the room at Guantánamo and imagined his wife, sunbathing in a bikini, beside a crystal-blue pool, sipping a fruity tropical drink. “I’m rereading Treasure Island. It’s just as wonderful as I remembered, Judd. I’m up to the part where they’ve hired Long John Silver as the cook for the voyage to the Caribbean.”

“I remember that part. Little do they know, right?”

“When are you coming to join us?” Jessica asked.

“Soon. I’m . . . stuck at work.”

“Is that why you’re calling? Do you need me to go to another party or something? I’m good at that,” she joked.

“No . . .” Judd said, “Not that. You ever heard of someone named . . . Oswaldo Guerrero?”

Jessica was silent on the other end of the line.

“Jess?”

“I’m still here,” she said.

“Well, have you? Does the name Oswaldo Guerrero mean anything to you?”

“What have you gotten yourself into, Judd?” Her breeziness was gone.

“So you have heard of him?”

She paused. “No.” She winced at Lie Number Eight. “Judd, I thought you were trying to get those fishermen free?”

“Yes, that’s right. The Soccer Dad Four in Cuba.”

“I . . . wouldn’t assume they’re soccer dads,” Jessica said.

“Why do you say that? How would you know, Jess?”

“The one who owns the fishing boat—”

“The Big Pig? Alejandro Cabrera.”

“Yes, him,” Jessica said. “He’s Cuban American.”

“So? What does that mean?”

“He’s not just anybody. The Cabreras are well connected in Little Havana and in the exile community in Miami. Alejandro’s grandfather was a leader of Brigada Asalto 2506.”

“Twenty-five oh six? What does that mean?”

“The Bay of Pigs invasion.”

“So . . . what are you saying?” Judd asked.

“And one of the other men—”

“Dobson? Jackson?”

“No, the other one,” she said.

“Brinkley Barrymore? The lawyer?”

“He’s the grandson of Randolph Nye,” she said.

“Who’s Randolph Nye?”

“Back in the early years of the Cold War, he was the Deputy Director of . . . a three-letter agency. The Bay of Pigs was his operation.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Don’t you get it, Judd?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“So Cabrera and Barrymore have family history tied back to the Bay of Pigs. So what? What are you suggesting, Jess?”

“Think about it, Judd.”

“Are you saying that a bunch of soccer dads, or whatever they are, who were out fishing in Florida were actually trying to invade Cuba . . . to redeem their grandfathers?”

She didn’t reply.

“Are you telling me,” Judd continued, “that the four middle-aged guys from suburban Washington were trying to launch another Bay of Pigs?”

“I don’t know, Judd. But I think you need to find out.”

“I’ll add this to the list of things that don’t make sense,” he said. “But, Jess, how . . . do you know all this?”

“Once you told me you were working on the hostages, I did a little research.”

“What else do you know?”

“Judd, dear,” she said, trying to calm him down. “You need to be careful. Very careful. I know Landon Parker asked you to take this on and you’re working hard to show S/CRU can be a success. But I’m worried you don’t know what you are getting yourself into.”