Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (4 page)

“Got to watch my weight. I’m running the Marine Corps marathon at the end of this month,” Crawford said, standing up and flexing both biceps. “Navy SEALs got to represent.” He kissed each of his muscles and sat back down.

“Cheers to that, Commander.” Brinkley raised an empty tumbler.

“Brink, what are you having?” Dennis asked.

“Gin and tonic, please. With a slice of lime. Thank you, Deuce. So kind.”

Dennis Dobson disappeared behind the bar.

“Well, I don’t covet your house, Brink,” Al said.

“Good for you, Alejandro.”

“I do covet your wife, though.” A wide grin was smeared across Al’s face. “She’s one fine piece of ass.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Pippa you said that, Alejandro. I’m sure she’ll be honored that her daughter’s soccer coach is dreaming about her.”

“Oh, Brink, I’m not asleep when I’m thinking about her,” Al said. “I’m usually wide awake and I’m—”

“All right, Al, enough,” Crawford interrupted. “I don’t want to hear any more about your jerking off.”

“Are you saying you’ve never rubbed one out while thinking about the honorable Mrs. Pippa Barrymore?” Alejandro flopped an arm around Brinkley’s shoulder. “Come on, Commander Jackson. Haven’t you seen Pippa in that yellow sundress?”

“I’ll be sure the dress is ritually burned in the morning,” Brinkley said, deadpan.

“Can we get back to playing poker?” Crawford said, shuffling the deck. “Deuce! Where are those drinks?”

Al kissed Brink on the cheek. “I’ll burn her dress for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”

“U8 championship coach,” Alejandro said, flopping back into his chair with a grunt.

“Excuse me?” Brinkley tilted his head.

“You said I was your daughter’s soccer coach. I’m clarifying that I’m the under-eight girls’
championship
soccer coach. I know that’s what you meant to say.”

“Deuce! Where are those goddamn drinks?” Crawford shouted.

Dennis arrived with the tray of beverages.

“Good Lord! Just in time,” Crawford snatched his Michelob.

“Why do you let him talk to you that way, Brink?” Dennis asked. “I mean, geez, doesn’t it get to you?”

“At Annapolis, Brink never got worked up,” Crawford said,
dealing the cards. “He was unflappable. Even the cadet hazing never bothered him.”

“No, sir,” Brinkley said with a mock salute.

“One time, senior midshipmen burst into our room in the middle of the night,” Crawford recounted. “And they stuffed us into duffel bags up to our necks and held us out the third-story window. I was screaming my head off. One of the guys pissed himself. But you know what Brinkley did?”

“What?” Dennis leaned forward in his seat.

“Just dead in the face. No emotion. No expression. No fear.”

“No kidding?” Dennis said.

“Total zombie face,” Crawford said.

“Zombie face—I like that,” Dennis said. “You ever use that move in court, Brink?”

“All the time,” Brinkley said, peeking at his cards.

Alejandro glanced quickly at his cards and announced, “I’m all in.”

Brinkley cocked his head, studying Al.

“I’ll bet you used your zombie face to buy this house,” Dennis said.

“No wonder people hate lawyers,” Al said. “Fucking zombie-McMansion, little-dick lawyers.”

“I’m in,” Brinkley said. “Call.”

“I’m out,” Dennis conceded, flipping his cards into the middle of the table.

“Me too,” Crawford said. “. . . Al, why’re you such an asshole?”

“It’s what makes me such a good real estate agent,” Al smiled. “Don’t blame me that Brink has to compensate for his little pecker with a trophy wife and this bullshit trophy house.”

“Didn’t you sell him this house, Al?” Dennis asked.

“Let’s just play poker, gentlemen,” Brinkley said.

“Yeah, I made a big fucking commission on this dump. How else could I afford my fishing boat?” Al smirked.

Crawford flipped over five cards.

“Flush,” Brinkley whispered.

“Puta!”
Alejandro erupted. He threw down his cards and drained his drink.

“Darn, you’re lucky, Lord Brinkley Barrymore the Third,” Dennis shook his head. “Why does the rich guy always win?”

“I’m not the rich guy,” Brinkley said, “Al is.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Alejandro barked, lowering his eyes.

“Come on, Al,” Dennis pleaded, “how many houses can you sell?”

“Oh, he’s not rich from selling houses,” Brinkley said. “Don’t believe that for a second.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Alejandro said.

“Go on, Al,” Brinkley insisted, “tell them. Tell them about the diamonds.”

“Diamonds?” Crawford sat up.

“Fuck you, Brink,” Alejandro said.

“Come on, Al! I’ll make you another Bacardi,” Dennis offered. “Really, how on earth are you rich? How do you have diamonds?”

“I don’t,” Al said. “My family has money. Or, my family
had
money. That’s true. But I can’t touch any of it. I’ve never even seen it.”

“Never seen it?” Dennis scowled.

“Not one dime.”

“How’s that?” Crawford asked.

“Commies.”

“What?” Dennis and Crawford exchanged looks of confusion.

“Nineteen fifty-nine,” Al said. “My grandfather had a diamond-trading business in Cuba when Fulgencio Batista’s government collapsed and everyone had to flee before the commies took over Havana. My family had to leave everything behind to get to Miami. They buried the diamonds underneath the house.”

“Holy cow, Al!” Dennis said.

“That’s unbelievable!” Crawford said.

“Tell them the rest.” Brinkley poked Alejandro in the ribs.

“
Mi abuelo
is dead now.
Mi padre
, too. But the diamonds are still there. In a lockbox beneath the house.”

“How many?” Dennis asked.

“Plenty.”

“You know where it is?” Dennis was leaning all the way forward.

“Sure.”

“You have a map? You have a
treasure
map?” Dennis’s eyes widened.

“No,” Alejandro said, tapping his temple, “it’s all in here.”

“So, why can’t you just go get it?” Crawford asked.

“It’s now a fire station. Goddamn commie firefighters walking around every day on top of my family fortune. They have no idea.”

“Wow. A real-life treasure chest full of jewels. Just sitting there in Cuba,” Dennis said. “I’m impressed.”

“And you know where it is,” Crawford said, shaking his head.

“Yep, I know exactly where it is.”

“Let’s go get it!” Dennis said. “I’m up for a treasure hunt.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Crawford. “Let’s go.”

“We can’t get it.” Al shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe one day.”

“Tomorrow we can wave at your family jewels from a safe distance,” Brinkley offered.

“Tomorrow?” Crawford and Dennis asked in unison.

“Yeah, we’re flying down to the Florida Keys tonight after work,” Alejandro said. “
Mi asere
Ricky’s got
The Big Pig
moored at Marathon.”

“What the fuck is
asere
? Is he your bitch?” Crawford and Dennis clinked their beers.

“Oye!” Alejandro scowled. “
Asere
is Cuban for ‘amigo.’ What are you, stupid?”

“Relax,
asere
.”

“Fuck you. Brink and I are going marlin fishing at first light tomorrow.
The Big Pig
is down in the Keys. Ricky’s got it all ready for us. You two should come.”

“Tonight?” Crawford shook his head. “I’ve got work.”

“Me too,” Dennis said.

“Work?” Alejandro laughed. “Craw, whatever bullshit you are up to at Carderock can wait. Take a few days off and come down with us. It’s
marlin
, brother!”

“The Naval Surface Warfare Center might disagree with you, Señor Cabrera.”

“I thought you’re retired. You’re not even real Navy anymore.” Alejandro threw a pretzel at Crawford’s head. “You’re a goddamn consultant.”

Crawford ignored the taunting.

“And I know that Deuce can come,” Alejandro said. “All you techie start-up boys love to play hooky. Sit around on beanbags and drink coffee and shit. You’re in for marlin fishing, Deuce.”

“I can’t,” Dennis said. “I’ve got a deadline.”

“You’re telling me that some app you’re writing for kids to watch porn on their iPhones can’t wait until Monday?” Al jeered.

“It’s not porn. It’s not even an app,” Dennis said. “You don’t know anything about what I do.”

“I know that tomorrow you’re fishing for
marlin
, Deuce.” Alejandro held out his hands as wide as he could. “They’re bigger than this! And they fight like hell!”

“It’s cybersecurity. I’ve told you, like, a hundred times,” Dennis huffed. “I design software for unbreakable scrambled communications.”

“We don’t care,” Al replied. “You’re going marlin fishing.”

Crawford and Dennis shook their heads.

“You really should come,” Brinkley said. “It’s good fun. And you should see Al’s fishing boat.”

“
The Big Pig
,” Crawford chuckled. “Is that you or your boat, Al?”

“I’ve got to go shower for work,” Dennis said, standing up. “Cash me out.”

“Fuck that, Deuce.” Alejandro laughed to himself. “It’s barely six o’clock. I’m buying back in and it’s your deal.” He pushed the cards toward Dennis. “You don’t need to go home. Play one more hand, then call in sick and go take a nap. You’re going marlin fishing,
asere
.”

4.

U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, 8:45 A.M.

N
ice work, Ryker.”

Judd looked up from his desk, which was covered with a mess of intelligence reports and diplomatic cables. “Thank you.” Landon Parker was standing in his doorway. Judd pushed the papers into piles. “I wasn’t expecting you, sir.”

“Sorry to surprise you, Ryker.”

“It’s your building.”

“Yes, it is, Ryker,” Parker said with a satisfied smile. “I came to congratulate you. Good outcome on Zimbabwe. The old man is gone, and I’m hearing positive things about this new Gugu . . . something.”

“Gugu Mutonga.”

“Yes, that’s her. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but good work.”

“Thank you, sir. I had a lot of help. Ambassador—”

“Don’t be so damn gracious, Ryker. I know Tallyberger had nothing to do with it. You got it done. S/CRU got it done. I’m glad to see my confidence in you is starting to pay off. I think people are finally seeing that S/CRU gets results.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We still have work to do, Ryker.”

“You have a new crisis assignment?” Judd raised a sheet of paper scrawled with bubbles and arrows. “I’m still working on breakthrough scenarios for Egypt and Angola—”

“Whoa, Ryker! Slow down.”

Judd dropped his diagram.

“Egypt is being run by the White House. No space for you to get involved there,” Parker said. “Why are you bothering with Angola? That’s not a country on my radar. Is there an opportunity coming?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Judd said, holding up his paper again. “Angola is a closed oil state. Same president in power since 1979. It looks calm, but I think there’s instability under the surface.”

“Are they approaching”—Parker grinned and leaned forward—“
Minute Zero
?”

—

M
inute Zero was what had just happened in Zimbabwe. It was Judd’s concept, his label for the moment of great uncertainty after a shock hits a country. It could be a hurricane or a surprise invasion or the death of the president, anything big and unexpected that causes a seemingly stable political system suddenly to collapse. Minute Zero was when anything could happen next—and so it was the time to act, to shape events the way
you
wanted them to go.

In the past few days, Parker had become a big fan of Minute Zero, which thrilled Judd, but he had to admit, “Angola already had their Minute Zero and we blew it.”

“
We
blew it?”

“In ’75. After the Portuguese pulled out, anything could have happened. But we backed the wrong guy. He talked a good game about killing communists and even drove an old Cadillac around the battlefield. But our man was quickly wiped out with the help of the Cubans. And the same Marxist party has been in control ever since.” Judd waved his paper, “I’m trying to figure out our options today. If Minute Zero arrives once again in Angola, how do we avoid losing a second time?”

Parker grunted. “I don’t want you wasting time on Cold War history, Ryker. It’s a new age. Hell, we’re even making friends with the Cubans.”

“Yes, I know that, sir.”

“That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about, Ryker. I’m going to need your help with Cuba.”

5.

U.S. CAPITOL BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY, 10:00 A.M.

T
his hearing shall come to order,” announced the chair, banging down the gavel to quiet the room.

The dark wood paneling, the high vaulted ceiling, and the elevated seating for the members of Congress gave the appearance of a royal court. But the audience suggested something far less majestic. The seats were swarming with anxious bureaucrats in dark suits, pock-faced interns in ill-fitting button-downs, tourists in tacky, bright-colored T-shirts, and a small band of exhausted journalists.

In the middle of the hearing room, the epicenter for the action, was the committee chair’s seat, which was now occupied by a short woman in her early sixties, well-tanned, dark hair cut in a classic Washington, D.C. bob. Her face was leathery and a little too taut for her age, but the scars were professionally hidden behind her ears. Just behind the nameplate that read
MS. ADELMAN-ZAMORA
, the chairwoman loudly hammered her gavel again.

“This is a special open hearing of the House Permanent Select
Committee on Intelligence. I have called this hearing so the United States Congress and the American people can learn more about intelligence failings that have continued to hamper the global march of freedom and democracy.”