Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(58)

“What else?” Jessica asked.

“A large amount of cash went missing,” he said. “Drug money that should have been seized during the bust . . . it just disappeared.”

“Happens all the time.”

“But this haul was huge. Could be as much as two hundred million dollars in cash.”

“Who keeps that much cash?”

“Operation Everglades took down a major cocaine cartel. It’s plausible.”

“Okay . . . So, how do two hundred million ghost dollars fit with Ricardo Cabrera going into witness protection and becoming Ricky Green? Why would the FBI even allow that?”

Sunday pulled onto the exit ramp past a sign warning AUTHORIZED CIA EMPLOYEES ONLY.

“Ma’am . . . I don’t think it was the FBI.”





53.


MORRO CASTLE, HAVANA, CUBA

FRIDAY, 9:45 A.M.

Are you in the goddamn CIA?” Crawford Jackson poked his fingers hard into the chest of Alejandro Cabrera.

“Let’s not get crazy here,” Brinkley Barrymore III said, stepping between his two friends. “We can’t turn on each other.”

Crawford’s eyes locked with Brinkley’s. “I asked Al a question.”

“Just look at him,” Brinkley said. Alejandro was slumped in a chair, his belly stretching the filthy orange jumpsuit. “Al’s not CIA.”

“Are you?” Crawford narrowed his eyes.

“This is just what they want,” Brinkley said. “To make us turn on each other.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Brink,” Crawford said.

“I’m not even going to dignify it,” Brinkley shot back.

“The gear, the boat, the last-minute trip—”

“Bonefish,” Dennis Dobson spoke up, his first words since they had been detained some forty hours ago.

“What?” The others all turned to face Dennis.

“Bonefish,” Dobson said again. “You told us we were marlin-fishing, but then you changed your mind and had us go after bonefish in the Seminole Flats. That’s how we wound up in Cuba. That’s how you got us into this. Bonefish.”

“See!” Crawford shouted. “Deuce’s with me. What the f*ck’re you two really up to?”

“And the bonefish turned into diamonds. But, why did you need all those guns, Al?” Dennis was waking up.

“Is this another Agency clusterf*ck? I’m the SEAL. Dennis is, what, the techie? What’s Al supposed to be? Is this your half-assed operation, Brink?”

“This was all a huge mistake,” Brinkley insisted. “A big misunderstanding.”

“Either you are a fool or someone set you up, Brink,” Craw said. “Someone set us all up. No other way to explain it.”

“All that matters is that we’re getting out of here soon,” Brinkley insisted.

“I don’t care what you and Al are up to. Go ahead, get yourself killed on some weekend warrior yahoo bullshit,” Crawford said. “But why would you drag us into it?”

“I want to know what we were really doing?” Dennis shrieked. “If we weren’t fishing, and we weren’t treasure hunting, then what the heck were we really doing out there?”

No one said anything.

“Al? Brink?” Dennis squealed. “I almost died. You have to tell us!”

No reply.

Dennis calmed his voice to a whisper. “What is 1961?”

Brinkley shook his head and turned away. “We’re all getting out of here alive.”





54.


GUANTáNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA

FRIDAY, 9:56 A.M.

The yellow school bus carrying Judd passed by a large concrete pillar wrapped in barbed wire, ENTER IF YOU DARE painted on the side. The bus climbed a hill and then stopped. The hydraulic doors released with a pucker and swung open.

“Northeast Gate! Last stop for Cuba!” shouted the driver, a uniformed Marine, who eyed Judd warily in the rearview mirror. Judd, wearing the old suit he had been given, pulled down his hat and stroked his false beard. It was a convincing disguise, but he was beginning to sweat and the beard tickled.

“Just you today, Grandpa?” the driver asked.

Judd shrugged and rose to leave.

“Can’t believe you old guys are still working after all these years. Helluva commute, se?or.”

Judd coughed, his hand covering his face, as he descended the steps. Outside the bus, a modest gatehouse was surrounded with yellow-and-red concrete barriers, the closest ones painted with the letters USMC. A six-foot-high fence topped with razor wire ran in both directions as far as the eye could see.

“Make sure you stay on the road, Grandpa!” the Marine shouted. “It’s a minefield out there!” He laughed as he closed the door and pulled away.

Judd turned back to the security gate in front of him. On the other side of a narrow no-man’s-land was a second gate about eighty feet away. A friendly, soft-pink-and-white building with a prominent, not-so-friendly sign: REPUBLICA DE CUBA / TERRITORIO LIBRE DE AMERICA.

Judd walked slowly, with a slight hobble, and, as promised, was waved through both gates without incident. On the other side, tall cacti grew on the hills overlooking the border post.