Ghosts of Havana

by Todd Moss

  “What are you doing, Brink?” Dennis fidgeted with his fingers.

  “I think we could make it.” Brinkley nodded to himself.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Alejandro put the engine in neutral and joined the conversation.

  “That firehouse, where your family used to live, it’s in what town again?” Brinkley asked.

  “Outside Santa Cruz del Norte. East of Havana,” Alejandro said.

  “You know where it is?”

  “Of course.” He tapped his skull with a forefinger.

  “We aren’t far.” Brinkley pointed at the GPS unit. “We could wait for a few hours, kill the lights, go in dark. We’ve got the gear. We could be in and out before sunrise.”

  “Sunrise?” Crawford threw down his fishing rod. “What the fuck are you talking about, Brink?”

  “Alejandro’s diamonds. We’re nearly there already. Maybe we could go get it. Tonight.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Crawford said. Dennis’s fidgeting accelerated.

  “It’s not that crazy,” Alejandro said. “We’ve got all the gear we need. I’ve got wet suits, shovels, even night vision goggles, down in the hold.”

  “You are seriously suggesting that we land in Cuba?” Crawford’s eyes were wide.

  “We’d need one of us to set a fire,” Brink said. “To draw the firemen away from the station. Then—”

  “Set a fire? Are you fucking crazy? No way.”

  “Yesterday, you both said you were in,” Alejandro said. “You were up for it, Deuce. You said, ‘I’m up for a treasure hunt.’”

  “That’s true,” Brinkley nodded. “Those were your exact words.”

  “I was drunk. I thought you were kidding!” Dennis said, his eyes fluttering.

  “Well, I’m not kidding,” Alejandro said. “We can go get my family treasure right now.”

  “Is this why you fucking brought us down here?” Crawford growled. “For fucking diamonds?”

  “You were joking!” Dennis squealed. “I thought you were joking!”

  “Let’s do it,” Brinkley said, making a fist. “Dennis, you’re our communications expert. You stay on the boat and monitor the radios. Crawford, we need our Navy SEAL to land on the beach undetected and then set the diversion fire. Once they are all clear, Al and I will go to the firehouse to get the diamonds.”

  “Treasure hunting. Just like pirates.” Alejandro grinned.

  “Pirates hunting for treasure? Are you out of your fucking mind?” Crawford put both hands on his head in frustration. “You think we’re pirates?”

  “We’re so close,” Brinkley said, tapping the GPS.

  “We’ll all be rich. We can do it,” Alejandro agreed.

  “No we can’t!” Crawford’s eyes were wide. “We aren’t fucking pirates. We live in the suburbs. I’m retired. Brink’s retired. You’re a goddamn real estate agent, Al. Deuce isn’t a comms officer. He writes software code!”

  “Take it easy, Craw,” Brinkley said, holding his palms up.

  “We can go in and out,” Alejandro said. “We can do it. Just like pirates.”

  “Pirates don’t drive minivans, dammit!”

  Alejandro was about to reply when he heard the first shot.

  Booosh!

  PART TWO

  THURSDAY

  16.

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

  THURSDAY, 7:11 A.M.

  I don’t think we’ve had a crisis like this since the 1980 Mariel boatlift!” The commentator sitting next to the studio anchor adjusted his round tortoiseshell glasses and made a face of feigned exasperation.

  “Well, I think it’s worse than that, Wolf,” interrupted a voice from a box in the corner of the screen. “I think we’ve got to go back to the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962 and the Bay of Pigs in 1961. I mean, to have innocent American citizens captured in international waters—kidnapped, really—and then to have them paraded on television like that, it’s really shocking. It’s an act of unprecedented hostility from the regime in Havana.”

  “Is this unprecedented?” asked the anchor.

  “We have to remember that, despite the diplomatic thaw and the reopening of embassies, Cuba is still a one-party communist state,” said the commentator in the studio. “I just don’t see how our negotiations with Cuba can continue now. The State Department is in a real bind. The Secretary had staked a lot on continuing to negotiate with Cuba. But that’s all coming to a screeching halt.”

  Landon Parker paced around his office as the television blared.

  “The Secretary of State really looks weak,” said another voice on the screen. “Melanie Eisenberg has been leading the negotiations. Critics have attacked her for making too many concessions to the Cubans. And now this. I just don’t know what the administration is thinking.”

  “If you are just joining us now, we are covering the unfolding crisis in Cuba,” the anchor announced. At the bottom of the screen CAPTURED IN CUBA! was flashing in bold red letters behind black bars. “We’ll be covering this unfolding drama out of Havana as it happens. This is a special early-morning edition of The Situation Room. Only on CNN.”

  Parker pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Call the Ops Center and get me the Chief of Mission in Havana.”

  “If you’re just joining us now,” Wolf Blitzer continued. “Here’s what we know. Around five-thirty last night, a distress signal was sent out to the U.S. Coast Guard by a private American fishing boat reporting they were under attack by a Cuban naval vessel. Contact was lost with the fishing boat several minutes later. This morning, four men who appear to be American citizens were shown on Cuban state television. We have this brief clip.”

  On the screen, four middle-aged men, in handcuffs and orange jumpsuits, were shown being led by a uniformed soldier from a gray concrete-block building and hustled into a van with blacked-out windows. They marched in order: a tall Caucasian with wispy blond hair, a muscular black man with a shaved head, and a pudgy Hispanic with a goatee. The fourth man, pale white, was shorter and skinnier than the others, his arm in a sling and his shoulder heavily bandaged.

  “The missing vessel is The Big Pig, a fishing boat registered in the state of Florida to one Alejandro Cabrera of Rockville, Maryland. CNN is still confirming if Cabrera is one of the detained men. We are also seeking confirmation of the identities of the other men shown in the video, but we believe they are all from the suburbs of Washington, D.C. and were on a fishing trip. Their last-known location in the Florida Straits is an area popular for bonefishing. I’m turning now to our correspondent in Miami. Christina, what else do we know?”

  “Thank you, Wolf. At this time, we don’t have much more on the exact timeline of events or the identities of the men. We don’t have any information about their condition either. However, from the clip broadcast this morning on Cuban state television, it is clear that one of the men has been injured.”

  “CNN’s chief medical correspondent Dr. Sanjay Gupta has examined the video and told our producers that the bandages visible on the fourth man are consistent with a gunshot wound. Do we know if there were shots fired, Christina?”

  “We don’t have any information about that, Wolf. The U.S. Coast Guard spokesman at Miami Beach Station did not release any details to me beyond confirming that an SOS message was received by the Coast Guard in Key West from a private fishing boat in the Florida Straits at approximately five-thirty p.m. last night. The Cuban government has not responded to CNN’s requests for further information about the incident or the detainees. We are also waiting for a statement from the State Department.”

  “Fuck!” Parker hissed to himself.

  “Do we know why the Cuban government would do this now, just as relations with the United States seem to be going so well? Why would they capture Americans and par
ade them on TV? What would they have to gain?”

  “We don’t know what the Cuban government is thinking, Wolf . . .”

  Parker snatched the remote control off his desk and flipped the channel to Fox News.

  SOCCER DADS DETAINED IN COMMUNIST CUBA scrolled across the bottom of the screen, with a shot of the same four men.

  “Fuck!” he shouted again, and threw the remote control across the room. “Where is the goddamn mission chief?”

  His secretary opened the office door. “Ops is still tracking him down. Is there anyone else you want me to call? Assistant Secretary Eisenberg, perhaps?”

  Parker glanced back at the screen. The announcer was urging viewers to follow events via #soccerdad4 on Twitter.

  “What the fuck is bonefishing?”

  “I have no idea, sir. Do you want me to call someone to find out?”

  Parker sat down heavily into his chair and swiveled in a circle. After two spins, he stopped abruptly. “Get me Judd Ryker.”

  17.

  FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA

  THURSDAY, 8:25 A.M.

  The beach along the Fort Lauderdale strip was still quiet. The boardwalk was slowly filling up with runners in tight exercise clothes and neon-colored running shoes, darting between steady streams of elderly walkers in all whites and nursing-home shoes.

  The sand was mostly abandoned. Jessica established camp as far from other beachgoers as she could, laid out two large white towels, a small red plastic cooler of drinks and bagel sandwiches, and set up a low-slung chair for herself. A few feet away, Toby and Noah, generously slathered in sunscreen, played noisily with buckets and shovels in the wet sand on the water’s edge. They dug a moat and built a high wall to try to protect their sand castle from the incoming waves.

  Jessica watched her sons for a moment, then adjusted her peach-colored bikini top and settled into her chair. She dug her toes deep into the sugarlike warm white sand and stared up into the cloudless blue sky. She felt the light breeze through her hair.

  This was just what she needed. A relaxing day on the beach with her sons. She tried to push any thoughts of the past few days, the past years, from her mind. No stress, no work. Just relax.

  Jessica pulled Treasure Island out of her bag and opened to chapter one.

  Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted . . .

  Her phone buzzed. She groaned but decided she had to check it. On the screen flashed DANIEL DOLLAR, her code name for the Deputy Director. What could he want? Against her better judgment, she pushed ANSWER.

  “Hel-lo?”

  “How’s the house? Everything all right?” the Deputy Director asked.

  “Yes, thank you. It’s lovely,” she said. “We just got in yesterday morning.”

  “Have you gotten to the beach yet?”

  “Yes, we’re here now.”

  “Wonderful. Did you find the towels?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “The white towels are for the house. The big blue ones are for the beach.”

  She glanced up just in time to watch Noah drop a bucket of wet sand on one of the white towels. “Yes, got it. Thanks again. I really needed this break.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’m glad you could use the house. It’s been in my family for years, but I rarely have time to get down to Florida.”

  “Okay . . .” she said. “Is there anything else?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Sir?” she said.

  “I know you need a break, Jessica.”

  “Yes, I do. You were right.”

  “And . . .” He paused. “I need you to run a small errand for me.”

  “Sir?” She gritted her teeth.

  “I know you’re on vacation. I want you to relax. But, I need your help, too. It’s a small thing. Very small, I promise.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “Is this your secure phone?”

  “Yes, sir,” she sighed.

  “Good girl. I’m going to need you to clean up a mess. A sensitive mess.”

  “You’re reactivating me already? Right now? While I’m at the beach with my children?”

  “I didn’t want to ask you, but it’s time-sensitive. And delicate. You’re the only one I can trust with this.”

  “The only one?”

  “This is why we created Purple Cell. To go anywhere. To do what’s needed. When it’s needed. No bureaucracy. No bullshit.”

  She didn’t say anything. She was steaming inside. Mad at herself for not seeing this coming.

  “Don’t worry about your kids,” he continued. “I’ve got someone on the way already. Her name is Aunt Lulu. I’ve now got your location, so she’ll be there in thirteen, maybe fourteen, minutes.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Lulu will tell you the rest of the details. It’s a quick one. You’ll be back on the beach before you know it.”

  “What am I really doing in Florida, sir?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you really send me down here? What kind of urgent cleanup could I have in South Florida?”

  “Lulu will explain. If you need me, you know how to reach me on the pizza line.”

  “You didn’t lend me your beach house as a favor, did you? You sent me to Florida for a mission.”

  “Jessica, you needed a break. That was obvious.”

  “But?”

  “But good case officers always think ahead. You know that. I taught you that. The best case officers always pre-position assets.”

  18.

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

  THURSDAY, 8:42 A.M.

  Judd was checking the cost of last-minute flights to Fort Lauderdale when Serena burst into his office.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Ryker. I know you asked not to be disturbed, but I have to interrupt.”

  “It’s fine, Serena. I was about to call you. Can you clear my schedule for the rest of the week? I’m going to join my family in Florida since I’m done. I’ve just sent my memo to Landon Parker.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Dr. Ryker,” she said, out of breath, “Mr. Parker is on his way down.”

  “He’s coming here? What for?”

  “I don’t know, but his assistant just called to give me a heads-up that he’s on his way right now.”

  “Now?”

  She nodded and left to stand guard in the outer lobby. Judd tidied his desk and groaned to himself. So much for Florida.

  “Ryker!” Parker barked from the next room.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker,” Serena said as she escorted him in.

  “Love your ideas on Cuba, Ryker. Adam Smith didn’t go over too well with Melanie Eisenberg.” Parker smirked. “But I like how you think. That’s why we have S/CRU in the first place. To throw out new ideas. To shake things up.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Judd said, offering the chief of staff a seat, which Parker declined with a wave. “I’ve just sent you the memo on potential problems in Cuba and a menu of responses. The first—”

  “Oh, right,” Parker interrupted. “That’s OBE now. Overtaken by events, I’m afraid. I need you on a special project that’s just come up. I need creative thinking and fast. You’ll need to drop everything and help me on this. Now.”

  “On . . . what, sir?”

  “We don’t negotiate with hostage takers. That’s a redline, of course. But I need someone who understands the subtleties. Someone not stuck in the bureaucracy. Someone not worried about the media. Or covering his ass. I like how you don’t care about sticking your neck out. No matter how crazy your id
ea, you don’t care what people think.”

  “Okay . . .” Judd furrowed his brow.

  “That’s what I need, Ryker.”

  Judd nodded—to what, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

  “We’ll let Melanie Eisenberg run the front channel.” Parker flicked his hand dismissively. “Let WHA be visible. Let her handle the press and the interagency. Let Mel run the show. She’ll insist on that anyway.” Parker placed both hands on Judd’s desk and leaned in. “You told me I need a backchannel. Well, that’s you.”

  “Me?”

  “I need S/CRU to be my backchannel. This will be delicate. I need someone I can trust. Someone discreet. Someone to operate in the shadows.”

  “Thank you, sir. But what are we talking about?”

  “The AMCITs, of course.” Parker stood up straight. “I need you to come up with a way to get them back. You’ll be helping me. You’ll be helping the Secretary. And you’ll be helping to prove S/CRU. It’s a win-win-win, Ryker. Are you in?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Good. Figure out what the hell those bastards are up to. Why now? What are they getting out of this? What are they thinking?”

  “Who, sir?”

  “The Cubans, Ryker! Who the hell else could I mean?”

  Judd nodded.

  “And, Ryker, you have to figure out how we’re going to get the AMCITs back without giving anything away. Who do we even talk to? I want some creative ideas! No more oldthink!” Parker turned to leave.

  “I’m in, Mr. Parker. I’m in one hundred percent,” Judd said. “But I’ve been on lockdown all morning with this memo. What citizens are you talking about?”

  Parker didn’t turn around as he walked out of Judd’s office. From the outer lobby, he called out, “Turn on your TV.”

  19.

  MIAMI, FLORIDA

  THURSDAY, 10:02 A.M.

  The television camera zoomed in on the chairwoman’s face as she approached the podium. A bouquet of microphones clustered at the front. A large American flag hung in the background, perfectly positioned by her press secretary to frame the screenshot.