Ghosts of Havana (Judd Ryker #3)(60)

The Deputy Director nodded to himself and took a healthy sip of the Oban.

“Operation Triggerfish is a go.”





56.


FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

FRIDAY, 10:15 A.M.

Jessica tried to concentrate on Treasure Island. Her sons, Noah and Toby, were splashing in the pool, the sun was hot, the day was perfect. Except that Judd wasn’t there.

Late the previous night, she had told the Deputy Director of the CIA that she was opting out of his Cuba operation, whatever he was up to. She had fed Judd a few clues and had Sunday digging for more back at Langley. She had helped her husband because he asked. That was their deal. Assist. But don’t get too close. Jessica was pulling back from Cuba. She was putting an end to the unavoidable lies. Eight lies already was enough. This was the only way.

Jessica tried to relax. That was why she was here in Florida, she told herself. She stared at the words on the page. But she couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t read. She couldn’t clear her mind.

The Deputy Director had agreed to let her off . . . too easily. That wasn’t his way. He must have sent her down to South Florida for . . . something else. It couldn’t have been to just check out one missing fishing boat. He could have sent a rookie operative to do that. Hell, he could have sent Aunt Lulu. No, Jessica was certain there was something else going on here and that the Agency—her Agency—was deeply involved.

She had pieced together a lot and had told Judd what she knew. She had gone to the fund-raising party for him, too. That was the deal. Did that make up for the lies? Then Ricky Green had tried to kill her at the party. She had decided not to tell Judd about that. And now Judd—her Judd—was in the middle of some murky diplomatic backchannel. It didn’t add up. It made her nervous. But she had decided to let it go. To avoid.

Then Judd had called that morning and asked about one Oswaldo Guerrero. That was why she couldn’t relax. The web of lies—to her boss, to her husband, to herself—wasn’t clearing. It was thickening. That wasn’t the plan.

The deal with Judd was supposed to unburden herself. Assist, avoid, admit. Rather than rise above all the lies, she was somehow getting in deeper. And the more she tried to pull back, the farther in she waded. There was nothing left to do but . . . to push through and come out the other side.

She stared again at the pages of Treasure Island without seeing the words. She was plotting. She decided the logical next step was figuring out exactly who Judd was meeting. How to help him succeed one more time so they could start all over again? So many unanswered questions, but right now what she needed to know most of all was . . . who is this Oswaldo Guerrero?

On cue, her phone rang.

“It’s me, ma’am,” Sunday said.

“Why are you out of breath?”

“I ran into the parking lot to make this call. It’s not good.”

“What’s not good?”

“You asked me to look into O. To find out what I could about Oswaldo Guerrero.”

“I’m worried that he isn’t real. Don’t tell me you found nothing.”

“Just the opposite. The file on O is as thick and ugly as I’ve seen.”

“What does that mean?”

“Guerrero is the Cuban military intelligence chief. The one who’s foiled virtually every U.S. covert action to destabilize the regime over the past twenty years.”

“So O’s smart,” she said.

“More than that. O’s ruthless. You ever hear what went wrong in Santiago?” Sunday asked.

“Tell me,” she said as her heart rate quickened.

“An op that went bad a few years ago. The last real attempt to incite a counterrevolution in eastern Cuba. In the city of Santiago. We sent in some of our people and it was”—Sunday coughed and cleared his throat—“a bloodbath.”

She exhaled loudly. “Rainmaker,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am. Our operatives walked right into O’s trap,” Sunday said.

“And?” Jessica’s heart raced.

“That’s why they call Oswaldo Guerrero . . . El Diablo de Santiago.”





57.


EASTERN CUBA


FRIDAY, 10:23 A.M.

The taxi had driven in silence, away from the gate at Guantánamo Bay. For the past fifteen minutes, the ’57 Chevy Bel Air had wound down a dirt road that cut through the hills of rural Cuba. Judd tried to keep track of their direction—first northeast, then east, then north again—but he lost his bearings in the twists and turns of the road. He tried to memorize markers just in case he needed to make his own way back to the base. He made a mental note of a small tobacco farm, a pink-and-blue dilapidated shack, an abandoned church.

Judd eyed the driver. “Where . . . are we going?”

The driver shrugged without turning around. Then he reached forward to the dashboard. Judd could see scars along the driver’s muscular forearms and a nose that must have been badly broken at least once. An ex-boxer, perhaps? The man grabbed the radio’s knob, twisted, and suddenly the cab was filled with the rhythmic drums and a wailing trumpet of Cuban rhumba.

“Are you taking me to Oswaldo?” Judd asked over the music.

The car screeched to a halt.

Judd looked through the windshield. Nothing in the road. He looked out the windows both ways. No homes. No buildings. They were in the middle of nowhere.