Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(57)

“You’re worried?”

“I’m worried about you, Judd.”

“Well, don’t be. I can handle this.”

“Cuba policy is a minefield in Washington.”

He looked around at the room again, the old suit, the fake beard he was supposed to wear, and thought, I’m definitely not in Washington.





51.


RONALD REAGAN WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT


FRIDAY, 9:03 A.M.

We aren’t going to let them take away Social Security!” Brenda Adelman-Zamora was speaking too loudly into her Bluetooth headset as she walked through the arrivals lounge. “I’m just getting off the plane now . . . I don’t give two shits what committee he sits on . . . No deal. You tell him I said that!”

Behind her trailed a young woman pulling two suitcases, a travel dog bag slung over one shoulder with the head of a black-and-tan Yorkshire terrier poking through the top flap. The girl struggled to keep up with the congresswoman, who was barreling through the crowded terminal.

“No . . . No . . . Hell no!” Adelman-Zamora shouted into the phone. “I won’t allow it! You tell Arnie that I said it’s not happening until hell freezes over.”

Travelers, aware of the approaching storm but avoiding eye contact, gave the woman wide berth.

“He’s offering how much more for Everglades restoration?” She stopped dead in her tracks. “What about federal funds for widening I-95? Do we dare? Oh my goodness! Hold!”

Adelman-Zamora spun around, lowering her brow as she searched the throng for her aide with her luggage and her dog. The young woman finally appeared.

“Where have you been? Never mind. Leave the bags and little Desi Arnaz here. I’ll watch them. Bring me one nonfat peach yogurt for the car. Not the disgusting one with the granola, the one with the fresh fruit. I need a copy of the Washington Post. And I see the newsstand has the CIA T-shirts back in stock. They love those at the constituent office in Fort Lauderdale. Bring me four in the red and two in the blue.” She paused. “And two in the pink. All size small. Hurry. Go.”

The congresswoman shooed away the aide and turned back to her phone call. “If we can get that deal, let’s take it! I’ll be in soon. I’m just leaving the airport, if I can get through these dreadful crowds. It’s just too busy. I can’t stand the airport this time of year. Don’t worry, I’m on my way into the office!”





52.


GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA

FRIDAY, 9:11 A.M.

Ma’am, I’m just on my way back into the office,” Sunday said into his headset.

Sunday had left downtown Washington, D.C. after his clandestine meeting with Isabella Espinosa from the Department of Justice. He had driven along Constitution Avenue, between the Lincoln Memorial and the U.S. Department of State headquarters. The Eisenhower Bridge then took him over the Potomac River. He was driving northwest on the parkway when Jessica Ryker called.

“Do you know anything about an Oswaldo Guerrero?”

“Never heard of him, ma’am.”

“Also known as O. Anything?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“I need you to find out ASAP. It’s urgent. Anything you can find on Oswaldo Guerrero or O. The minute you’re back.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on it.”

“What else have you got for me?”

“I met with your husband’s Justice Department contact. That’s where I’m coming from.”

“She give you anything new on Ricky Green?”

“Not exactly, ma’am. I think I have something better.”

“Spill, Sunday,” she said.

“One of the missing men from the fishing boat, Alejandro Cabrera, had a brother Ricardo who dropped off the radar in 1983.”

“Keep talking.”

“I found him in the records, but they stop in 1983.”

“So what happened in eighty-three, Sunday?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. Ricardo last appears to have been arrested in a drug bust in South Florida in 1983 and then he just vanishes.”

“So he was killed? Drug dealers disappear all the time. Especially in Florida.”

“This wasn’t local police, ma’am. It was a major federal interagency operation. I’m talking about FBI, DEA, and at least half a dozen other agencies.”

“So you’re thinking Ricardo was flipped by the FBI? That he disappeared into witness protection?”

“Maybe. DOJ won’t say. But now his brother suddenly appears on our radar? Alejandro’s fishing boat is captured in Cuban waters, he’s the grandson of a leader from the Bay of Pigs, and this mysterious Ricky seems to be in the middle of it all. Seems awfully coincidental, ma’am.”

“This drug bust. Don’t tell me it was in—”

“Everglades City, ma’am.”

Jessica was silent on the line for moment, then spoke up. “You’re thinking . . . Ricky Green is Ricardo Cabrera.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m pretty sure of it.”

Jessica was quiet again.

“Ma’am, that’s not even the best part,” Sunday said, just as his car passed the exit sign for the GEORGE BUSH CENTER FOR INTELLIGENCE.