by Todd Moss
“We’re working on it.”
“Working on it? What good are you, Landon?” she shrieked.
“Pippa, you have to be patient. We are still trying to figure out how your husband wandered into Cuban national waters.”
“I don’t care. I just want to know when they’re going to set him free.”
“I don’t know, Pippa,” he said.
“You are going to get him freed, aren’t you, Landon?”
“I’m trying. The Cubans aren’t saying anything yet, beyond what you’ve probably seen on TV.”
“I saw that. Parading my Brinkley on television like a common criminal. And Alejandro, Crawford, and”—she burst into tears—“poor Dennis!”
Parker looked away as the woman blubbered.
Penelope inhaled deeply and composed herself. “Landon, how could the Cubans possibly think those fools are spies?”
“I don’t know, Pippa,” he said, making eye contact again. “What do you know?”
“Brinkley’s not a spy.” She began to whimper again.
“Of course. I know that, Pippa. But maybe you know something else that we don’t? Something that could help us get Brinkley back home as quickly as possible. Anything?”
Mrs. Penelope Barrymore stopped crying and took a deep breath. “I spoke with Mariposa Cabrera—that’s Alejandro’s wife.”
“He’s the owner of the boat.”
“Right. And Brinkley’s friend. He coaches the girls’ soccer team.”
Parker leaned in close. “So what did Cabrera’s wife tell you?”
“It’s almost too dumb to say out loud.”
“Dumber than gate-crashing the State Department?”
She shrugged.
“Tell me, Pippa, anything that might be helpful in getting Brinkley and his friends back home safe. You have to tell me.”
“Mariposa . . . said something about Alejandro’s family in Cuba. Before they fled years ago. They had hidden some . . . diamonds.”
“Diamonds? In Cuba?”
“That’s what she said. They buried them. She said Al always talked about going to get them.”
“Are you telling me Brinkley got caught in Cuba hunting for . . . buried treasure?”
Pippa shrugged again. “I told you it was dumb.”
“We’ve got a major international diplomatic incident because your husband thinks he’s a pirate?”
“He’s no spy,” she said.
“And now I’ve got to rescue him?”
“Yes, you have to save Brinkley. You just have to, Landon!” Pippa Barrymore wiped the running mascara off her face and took a deep breath. “But he’s no pirate either.”
“He’s not?” Parker asked. “Then what is he?”
28.
FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA
THURSDAY, 3:33 P.M.
I could drive straight and be back in Washington, D.C. in fifteen hours, Jessica thought. Instead, she exited Interstate 95 and steered her rented convertible Mustang down Sunrise Boulevard, driving east toward the Deputy Director’s house in Fort Lauderdale.
Her little errand for the Deputy Director was done. She had found Richard Green, the man connected to the missing fishing boat, but he had refused to talk. She had tracked Green back to some rich Cuban American’s house, but then . . . nothing. The trail had gone cold.
It wasn’t Jessica’s style to give up so easy. But this assignment seemed like a waste of time. What was she supposed to do, sit in that mangrove and stake out the house? Where was this all headed? And why?
Sunday back at Langley was digging into the leads, but, really, what more could she do? Return to vacation, she thought. That’s what she should do. Fuck the Deputy Director.
On cue, her phone buzzed with a text message from DANIEL DOLLAR:
News from the Keys?
What to share with him? She could give him the name Richard Green. She could tell him that he’s connected to a Ruben Sandoval. That would lead to more questions . . . and more errands.
Jessica pulled up to the driveway of the vacation house and parked. The afternoon sun was beating down and a light breeze off the ocean filled her nose with the smells of the sea. She looked down at her phone again and pressed a number.
“Hi, sweets,” was the cheery answer.
“You sound happy, Judd,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I? I’m sitting in my office, under fluorescent lights, reading stacks of useless government documents. I’m chasing shadows while my wife and kids are enjoying the beach. What’s not to love?”
“I’ve been doing a little work, too.”
“I thought you were going to relax,” Judd scolded.
“I’ve got something for you.”
“You do?”
“You don’t sound surprised,” she said.
“No comment. What’ve you found?”
“The missing boat . . . the fishing boat that the Cubans seized . . .”
“Yeah, I know,” Judd said, looking down at a photo of The Big Pig and his meager files on each of the four missing Americans.
“I’ve got a name for you: Richard Green.”
Judd looked down at the files for Dennis Dobson, Brinkley Barrymore, Crawford Jackson, and Alejandro Cabrera. “Never heard of him. Who’s he?”
“He looks after the boat. Part-time.”
“How’d you get his name? Are you down in the Keys?”
Jessica hesitated. Lie Number Five? “No,” she said. What’s five lies versus four? “No, I got it from . . . a colleague. Don’t ask me more.”
“Okay . . . maintenance guy in the marina.” Judd scrawled down the name. “Does he know anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s all?”
“I don’t have anything else on Green. I just think it might be relevant.”
“Okay, thanks, sweets. I’ll look into it, but you should go back to the kids. You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
“I have one more name for you. Does Ruben Sandoval ring a bell?”
Judd heard the name and repeated it to himself. “Ruben Sandoval . . . Sandoval . . . sounds familiar . . .” Then he remembered the name from an intelligence horse trade with his British contact the previous week. “I think Ruben Sandoval is some kind of businessman. And a political fund-raiser in Florida. He’s supposed to be the next U.S. Ambassador to Egypt,” Judd said.
“Egypt?”
“If I’m remembering correctly, yes,” Judd said.
“How do you know that?” she asked.
Judd recalled that Serena had gotten Ruben Sandoval’s name from one of her friends who worked on the State Department’s seventh floor. Judd had then given that name to a British Foreign Office official in London in exchange for inside information he had needed in Zimbabwe. “Eh, I don’t remember,” he mumbled. “Probably just State Department chatter.”
Jessica frowned. “But Egypt? That’s odd.”
“Sure is,” Judd said. “What’s our future Ambassador to Egypt got to do with the missing boat?”
“Richard Green works for Ruben Sandoval.”
“Okay . . . So this Green, who we know nothing about, watches the missing boat and also works for Sandoval, who is rich and politically connected.”
“Right,” Jessica said. “Suspicious, don’t you think, Judd?”
“Could be. But that’s a pretty tenuous thread, Jess.”
“It’s worth digging deeper, that’s all,” she said. “I’m just saying that there’s a connection.”
“Let’s assume you found something important and Sandoval is linked to the four Americans.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Then what are Sandoval and these poor dupes really up to? Is this a big mistake, a bunch of amateurs who got caught, or someth
ing bigger? If it’s something bigger, then what? And why Cuba?”
“Good question, Judd. What the hell is going on in Cuba?”
29.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 4:01 P.M.
What the hell is going on in Cuba?” Melanie Eisenberg was steaming.
The Assistant Secretary for Western Hemisphere Affairs sat forward in her chair and eyed the long conference table in front of her. “Those were the very words of the Secretary of State.” Several of the assembled staff shuffled papers and someone cracked their knuckles, but no one spoke. “What the hell is going on in Cuba?” she repeated. “We can’t have it. The Secretary can’t wonder what’s happening. She can’t have doubts about what’re we doing in Cuba. It reflects badly on all of us! Does everyone get that?”
Most heads bobbed in agreement.
“I don’t know what she’s been hearing, but we’ve got to put a stop to it. I’ve assembled all of you now to update the team on what we know and to clarify our course of action. Sybil, put up the slides.”
The screen behind Eisenberg lit up with a photo of The Big Pig, a long white fishing boat with a bright pink stripe along the side.
“This is the vessel that the Cubans seized. We believe it’s a private U.S.-registered fishing boat. Next.” The slide switched to a screengrab from CNN. “These are the four civilians who’ve been detained. We’re still running background checks on the men, but, so far, nothing of interest. They all live in suburban Maryland, just outside D.C. As far as we can tell, the only connection between them is that their children are on the same sports team. Isn’t that right, Sybil?”
“Yes, ma’am. Girls’ soccer.”
“Sybil, do we have anything more than what the cable news is reporting?”
“No, ma’am. But we’re working on it.”
“Fine.” Eisenberg exhaled. “The most likely scenario is that these are just ordinary AMCITs. Regular civilians on a fishing trip and they drifted over the border. The currents in the Florida Straits are strong. I’ve been there many times myself. It’s plausible that they just had too many beers and floated into Cuban waters. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
A hand went up at the table. “So, these guys are drunken yahoos and got lost—that’s our story?”
“It’s not our story, Marty.” Eisenberg frowned. “Those are the facts. Human error or faulty navigation equipment . . . or something like that,” Eisenberg said, scowling. “We are proceeding on this basis until we have reason to believe otherwise. I don’t want the Secretary hearing rumors or paranoid fantasies. We don’t want her spun up about something that’s not true.”
“What are the other scenarios?” asked a young woman at the end of the table.
“Excuse me?”
“If it wasn’t human error or some mistake, what are the other explanations?”
“There aren’t any other likely scenarios right now.”
“What about the boat owner?” she asked. “Alejandro Cabrera could be a Cuban name. Does he have ties to Cuba? Maybe to the Miami exiles?”
Eisenberg turned to her aide, “Sybil?”
“We’re looking into it.”
“Good. But even if we find out this Alejandro Cabrera is the long-lost grandson of Fulgencio Batista, we’re still talking about four American civilians who are now in a Cuban prison and on all the cable networks.” Eisenberg pointed at the screen. The four men appeared slumped over, fear and exhaustion on their faces. “Could anyone seriously suggest these guys are anything other than a mistake? I mean, look at them.”
“Ma’am, if the men are connected to Cuban exiles, that would change the equation,” said another man at the table.
“It will certainly change how the Cubans respond,” said yet another. “The conspiracy theories are going to fly.”
“Even if their incursion was a mistake, if this guy is a Cuban exile, the press is going to have a field day.”
“The Cubans are going to want a pound of flesh to let them go.”
“Hold it!” Eisenberg snorted. “So . . . in all these scenarios, these four soccer dads were doing what? Invading Cuba? In a fishing boat? Is that what you’re suggesting? I don’t think even the Cubans are paranoid enough to believe that. I call that a fantasy. Anything else?”
“Ma’am . . .” The young man hesitated. “There’s a rumor going around the building that one of the missing men has, um . . .”
“Yes,” Eisenberg beckoned the staffer. “Spit it out.”
“Um . . . friends in the building.”
“What?” Eisenberg spun around toward her assistant. “Sybil?”
“There was a security incident this afternoon at the front gate, ma’am.”
“And?”
“A woman crashed her car near the main entrance. I’ve heard she may be linked to one of the missing men.”
“You’ve heard? What do we know for sure?”
“I’ll check with Diplomatic Security.”
“Is this the rumor?” Eisenberg asked.
The young man nodded.
“That’s ridiculous. Until we have some actual facts, people, we’re not changing course.”
Eisenberg brushed the front of her jacket and collected herself. “Unless anyone has something else to add—something factual—here’s how this is going to play out.” She placed both hands on the table, a thick gold ring with a pale blue gemstone clacked on the wood. “We are going to issue a public call for the release of the four innocent men. No escalation, no negotiations. Let’s just diffuse the situation. That’s how we make this go away.”
“What about Congress, ma’am? The Free Cuba Congressional Caucus has issued some pretty strong statements. Adelman-Zamora was on all the networks today.”
“And the Cuba desk has been flooded with calls, ma’am.”
“It’s trending on Twitter.”
“Twitter?” She closed her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. Hashtag freesoccerdad4.”
Eisenberg swore under her breath. “That’s . . . all . . . fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Congress will make its views known. We respect that. The public, too. But we are not going to allow one lost fishing boat to become a political weapon. I won’t allow this to spin out of control. It’s unfortunate. But it’s not in anyone’s interest to escalate this incident any further. Not for Cuba. Not for the United States. Not for these men and their families. The Cubans will release them once they realize they have nothing to gain. That’s it. That’s our objective.”
“Do we bring in the other bureaus on this, Madam Assistant Secretary?”
“Negative. We are going to put this fire out by suffocating it. By denying oxygen. We keep this within our team.”
“What about S/CRU?”
“Judd Ryker?”
“Yes, ma’am. Aren’t we supposed to call the Crisis Reaction Unit during a crisis?”
“Ryker, the academic?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“When someone says ‘That’s academic,’ what do they mean?” Eisenberg asked.
“They mean ‘irrelevant.’”
Melanie Eisenberg raised her eyebrows. “Meeting adjourned.”
30.
MORRO CASTLE, HAVANA, CUBA
THURSDAY, 4:45 P.M.
The cell was built out of stone blocks and covered in a soft green moss. Brinkley Barrymore III ran his hand over the wall and felt the moistness on his fingertips. Through the sole window’s iron bars, Brinkley could see palm trees and the shadows of late-afternoon light. He took a deep breath. The air smelled both fresh from the sea air outside and stale from the ammonia of the urine left behind by the cell’s previous inmates.
“We’re in some sort of old castle or fort,” he said to the others. The K Street lawyer, usually most comfo
rtable in a gray tailored suit, was wearing a dirty orange jumpsuit that hung on his body like an oversized sack. He shook his head. “This isn’t a real prison. At least not anymore.”
Alejandro Cabrera, wearing an identical jumpsuit, only tighter and even dirtier, gripped the window bars and pulled himself up to look out.
“It sure as shit smells like a real prison,” Crawford Jackson said.
“No. This is for show.” Brinkley shook his head.
“I don’t care where we are,” Crawford said. “I want to know when we’re getting the hell out.”
“I told you not to worry, Craw,” Brinkley said. “Think about it. They have no reason to hold us. The Cubans have nothing to gain by keeping us.”
“Fuck you!” Crawford barked.
“We just have to be patient. We can’t panic.”
“How the fuck did we let you get us into this?” Crawford clenched his fists.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way,” Brinkley said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You and Al tricked us into some bullshit fishing trip or treasure hunt or who the fuck knows what. And now we’re in a Cuban prison!”
“I’ll get us out. But there’s no point in rehashing now what went wrong,” Brinkley said. “There will be plenty of time later for an after-action. Right, Al?”
Alejandro continued to stare out the window.
“After-action?” Crawford barked. “We’re in a fuck-ing prison in Cu-ba!”
“We all have to stay calm,” Brinkley said. “That’s how we’ll get through this. That’s how we’ll get out. Al, back me up here.”
“Look at goddamn Deuce!” The two men turned to face Dennis Dobson, sitting in the corner of the cell. He had one bandaged arm in a sling, the other arm wrapped tightly around his knees. Dennis was rocking gently back and forth, his eyes glazed over. “He’s still in shock.”
“Deuce will be fine,” Brinkley said quietly. “Hey, Deuce!” he then shouted. “You’re going to be fine! Are you hearing me?”
No reply. Just more rocking.
“Hey, Deuce! We’re going to get you out of here. Do you understand?”
