Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(59)

Where’s my taxi? He was sweating more. His beard was itching fiercely. He had no phone, no ID, no money—nothing. He was standing in Cuba, alone, waiting for a car that might never come. Then what?

Judd looked up to the sky. Vultures flew high above in wide, lumbering circles. At least his back spasms had settled down.

Just then, he heard the soft rumble of a car’s engine. Through the vapors of the hot morning sun on the road suddenly appeared what looked like a smiling face. The mouth of a shiny chrome grille, the bright eyes of the headlights, a V-shaped nose in the center. Just above the nose was the giveaway: CHEVROLET. Judd rubbed his eyes as a 1957 Chevy Bel Air rolled to a gentle stop in front of him. The car was an immaculate turquoise blue like the Caribbean Sea, with a white roof, the insets of the rear wings also a perfectly polished white.

The door swung open with a slight creak. Judd bent over to peer into the car at the driver. A short Hispanic-looking man with muscular arms and black eyes looked back at him.

“Taxi, se?or?”





55.


CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

FRIDAY, 10:08 A.M.

The bottle was calling him, but he knew it was too early for scotch. The Deputy Director of Operations needed something else to calm himself. This often happened just as an operation was moving into the critical phase. It was mostly an adrenaline rush, he knew, but he didn’t want the excitement of the moment to cloud his judgment. He would need to make important decisions in the coming hours. He needed to have a clear mind.

His ex-wife used to make him protein shakes with a raw egg on the mornings when she knew he was hyped-up. But now she was making breakfast for an investment banker in Chicago. His second wife, he barely even saw her anymore.

The Deputy Director swore to himself then flipped on a headset. He touched his earpiece. “Connect me to Romeo Papa Eight.”

A few moments later, his earpiece clicked and he heard a familiar “Sir?”

“What’s your status, Romeo Papa Eight?”

“We’ve got an inbound bird, ETA Luanda, Angola, in just under an hour. They can run an accelerated turnaround and be wheels up by 1800 local time departure. That’s 1200 Eastern, sir.”

“What’s the bird?”

“Dassault Falcon 7X.”

“Meets all our specs?”

“Yes, sir. It’s right at the limit of the range, but Luanda to Cuba can be done nonstop if the load is light.”

“One passenger.”

“No problem, sir.”

“Fingerprints?”

“The Falcon is registered to a Brazilian agroprocessing firm, via S?o Paulo, Dubai, and the Caymans. Pilots are from Odessa, hired through a third party in Cape Town. It’s so clean, you can eat off the fuselage.”

“Better be,” he said, and tapped his ear to hang up. He opened his drawer, pulled out a short glass tumbler, and set it on the desk. He ran his finger around the rim as he tried to slow his breathing.

The Deputy Director tapped his ear again. “Connect me to Oscar Sierra Two.”

Seconds later, he was on the line with another of his operations teams.

“What’s your status, Oscar Sierra Two?”

“The package is being extracted. Bravo Zero is on his way to the site. It’ll be ready to fly in two hours.”

“What’s the weight?”

“Two hundred and four pounds total.”

“Bundled how?”

“Just as you requested, sir. Five cases, forty pounds each.”

“That’s two million per case?”

“Yes, sir. Ten million total. Do you need more? We can pack whatever you need, sir.”

“Ten will do for now. But be ready in case we need a second shipment.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want it at the gator drop near Homestead by twenty-one thirty. That’s as far as I need Bravo Zero to take it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up. The pieces were falling into place. He had compartmentalized the entire operation. He was the one person on the planet who knew how it all fit together. That was the only way to make it work, he knew. That was the downfall of Rainmaker, Pandora, Pit Boss, and all the other operations that had failed before. Too many cooks, too much groupthink, too many leaks. The only way to beat Oswaldo Guerrero in his own backyard was to do it all himself.

One more tap of the ear. “I want Yankee Tango Four.”

While he waited to connect, he walked over to an antique credenza on the far side of his office. He opened one of the doors and extracted a bottle of eighteen-year-old Oban Single Malt Scotch Whisky. He had bought that bottle on a long-ago trip to Scotland, an excursion after visiting GCHQ in Cheltenham. He’d been waiting for a reason to celebrate.

Click-click! “What’s your status, Yankee Tango Four?” he asked, returning to his desk and setting the bottle next to the tumbler.

“No bread tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wheat stocks are down. The imports won’t be arriving. We’ve made sure of that. When Mama Bear goes to the cupboard, the cupboard will be bare.”

He poured two fingers of scotch into the glass.

“And the streets?” he asked.

“Yankee Tango Four is ready in Santiago. Just waiting for the payouts to arrive.”