Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) (19 page)

The CIA had increasingly been relying on “open source intelligence,” what government officials called any material that was also available publicly. Crucial nuggets of information could often be found in newspapers or on websites that were just as reliable as clandestine sources. Sometimes open source was even better.

So far, Sunday had confirmed from open sources that Brigada Asalto 2506 had, in fact, been a group of Cuban exiles that formed the core team of a covert paramilitary CIA operation to invade Cuba in 1961. The plan, hatched by the Agency’s Deputy Director of Operations at the time, Randolph Nye, was to have 2506 land at Bahía de Cochinos and establish a beachhead. They
would then make contact with a local underground force, inciting a popular counterrevolution and eventually retaking power in Havana. Assassinating the Cuban leader was not a formal objective of the plot, but all members of 2506 knew that wealthy Cuban exiles in Miami had placed a large bounty on the head of El Jefe.

Sunday read in the historical records that President John F. Kennedy had approved the Bay of Pigs operation, but so much had gone wrong that day. The element of surprise was lost after invasion plans leaked. The Bay of Pigs was supposed to be one of America’s most covert operations, but it was spoken about openly in the cafés and bodegas of Little Havana in Miami.

On the fateful day of the operation, Brigada Asalto 2506 attacked a well-armed Cuban force and quickly ran out of ammunition and supplies. The first-wave teams on the beach were trapped and outnumbered. The underground counterrevolutionary cells were also neutralized before they could activate. The promised cash never arrived.

In the end, more than a hundred men from Brigada Asalto 2506 were killed and more than a thousand were captured. The detainees were then publicly paraded back in Havana, a humiliation that was only worsened by a show trial the following year. The leaders of 2506 were executed, while the rest were given lengthy prison sentences. Most of the men were eventually released in a prisoner exchange in late 1962. They returned to Miami, longing for home, seething with hatred for the communists, and burned by the betrayal of the U.S. government.

Sunday found several historians who concluded that Nye’s plan was doomed from the start not by operational mistakes but
rather by a flawed premise of popular support. Few academics believed that the Cuban public was ready at that time to support an American-backed invasion.

But among the exiles in Miami, Sunday learned, that one factor rose above all else as the reason for the debacle: Kennedy’s denial of Nye’s request for U.S. air support.
The planes never came.

Fascinating,
Sunday thought to himself. But what do Randolph Nye and Brigada Asalto 2506 have to do with today? How is this ancient history possibly connected to the Americans captured on
The Big Pig
?

Sunday kept digging. He learned that after the Bay of Pigs failure, Nye resigned, moved to a ranch in Texas, and quietly disappeared from political life. Sunday unearthed his brief 1991 obituary in the
Waco Tribune-Herald
, which noted his lifelong service to the United States government but made no mention of the CIA or of Cuba. Sunday also found a photo of Randolph Nye in the 1932 archives of the
Yale Daily News
, but he was wearing a football helmet so his face was hidden. The only other picture of Nye that Sunday could find was in a long-defunct Spanish-language newspaper of South Florida,
La Gloria.
The grainy photo from February 1961 showed several men around a table at a restaurant. The caption read
Líder local Héctor Cabrera se reúne con Randolph Nye del gobierno federal
.

The name Cabrera lit up on the page like a neon sign. Sunday double-checked his notes and, yes, one of the hostages, the owner of the boat, was Alejandro Cabrera. Sunday quickly searched the open source database for Héctor Cabrera and found an obituary in the
Miami Herald
from 1979:

Héctor Cabrera, a beloved figure in Little Havana . . . Born in Santa Cruz del Norte, Cuba . . . A successful diamond dealer . . . Moved to Miami in 1959 . . . Cuban patriot active in local politics and charitable organizations . . . a champion for democracy and human rights in his homeland . . . Survived by his grandsons, Alejandro Cabrera and Ricardo Cabrera . . . Donations can be made to the Kiwanis Club of Little Havana . . .

Sunday sat back in his chair to absorb what he had just read. The captured American, Alejandro Cabrera, was the grandson of a Cuban exile linked to the architect of the Bay of Pigs. A coincidence? Or did a young Alejandro listen to the war stories of his grandfather and was somehow seeking to redeem his family’s past? Could the seizure of the fishing boat be yet another mistake in a long line of ill-advised covert operations by exiles against the Cuban government? Or by the Central Intelligence Agency? Or, most likely, was Sunday inferring conspiratorial connections that didn’t really exist?

Sunday decided he needed more information on Alejandro before taking any of this back to Jessica. He logged on to the FBI database and found that Alejandro Cabrera had a long list of minor criminal infractions but nothing serious. From what Sunday could tell, Cabrera seemed to be a genuine real estate agent from Maryland, the father of three girls, a second-generation immigrant who was living the suburban American dream. Maybe the historical Bay of Pigs link was a fluke?

Sunday carefully reread Héctor Cabrera’s obituary. What was he missing?

Héctor Cabrera . . . Born in Santa Cruz del Norte . . . A successful diamond dealer . . . Cuban patriot active in local politics . . . Survived by his grandsons, Alejandro Cabrera and Ricardo Cabrera . . .

Ricardo? The FBI files showed that Ricardo Cabrera of Miami had been arrested at age eighteen during a drug bust in Everglades City, Florida, in 1983. After that, the records stopped. No tax filings, no police rap sheet, nothing. Sunday checked for a death certificate but came up blank. Ricardo Cabrera ceased to exist in 1983. It was probably nothing, just a criminal who disappeared underground. Or maybe incomplete records, Sunday told himself.

It was now after eleven o’clock and Sunday knew the Purple Cell team leader was waiting to hear from him. Plus he still had to finish his Iran-Somalia assessment for the Director of National Intelligence. Sunday made a mental notation to follow up on Ricardo Cabrera once he got time rather than chase another ghost tonight.

Sunday started to call the number Jessica had given him as her temporary phone in Florida. But before pressing the final digit, he suddenly knew exactly what she would say. Sunday set the phone back down. He couldn’t miss anything obvious.

Sunday pulled up research on Dennis Dobson. Software engineer, family all clean, nothing of note. He found the same for Crawford Jackson, a former Navy SEAL, now a contractor at Carderock Naval Surface Warfare Center, with the highest level security clearances. His background was scrubbed every year, no blemishes, nothing suspicious.

The last man, Brinkley Barrymore III, was probably the least likely to have something big to hide. Barrymore was ex–Naval Academy, Georgetown Law, a JAG naval lawyer, now a partner at a prestigious D.C. law firm. Open sources reported that his grandfather was the scion of a well-known Annapolis family that claimed lineage back to one of the original settler families at Jamestown, Virginia. The style pages of the Washington press were filled with stories of the Barrymores at Annapolis Yacht Club regattas, at black-tie charity galas, symphonies at the Kennedy Center, and other socialite events of the Washington-Annapolis blue-blooded glitterati.

Brinkley Barrymore III’s wedding to Penelope Anderson of Memphis was covered in a gaudy half-page spread in the
Washington Post.
In the story, buried among the achievements of the Barrymore family, was a small notation that Brinkley’s maternal grandmother, Henrietta Nye, had also attended the wedding.

Ay!
Sunday’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
Nye?

41.

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

THURSDAY, 11:11 P.M.

T
he ringing phone startled Judd, shaking him from his intense concentration. Without checking caller ID, he snatched the handset, “Sweets! Is everything all right?”

“Dr. Ryker, it’s me, Sunday.”

“Oh, sorry,” Judd said, deflated. “I was . . . waiting for a call.”

“Is everything okay, sir?”

“Yes, it’s fine. My wife’s away with the kids and . . . It doesn’t matter . . . It’s good to hear from you, Sunday. I . . . I appreciate your work on Zimbabwe last week. You were a huge help.”

“I can’t believe you pulled it off, Dr. Ryker. It’s really something.”

“
We
pulled it off, Sunday. No way Gugu Mutonga would be president without you,” Judd said. “You sent me just the right information at just the right time. Right when I needed it.”

“I’m just happy to help out,” Sunday said, suddenly wondering if calling Judd Ryker had been the right move.

“You seem to have an eerie intuition, Sunday.” Judd knew he was pressing too far, but couldn’t help it. “A magic touch.”

“I’m, um . . . just an analyst doing my job, sir.”

“Well, we made a pretty good team, didn’t we?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

Judd weighed his options on whether to ask the question he really wanted to ask, but Sunday quickly changed the subject.

“Sir, I’m actually calling you for a favor.”

“You’re asking me for a favor? I think I owe you quite a few.”

“I’m working on a special project right now—”

“Don’t tell me you’re working on Cuba!”

“Um . . . no, sir,” Sunday said. “I’m not supposed to discuss details of any of my special projects, but . . . it’s not Cuba . . . Is that what you’re working on, Dr. Ryker?”

“I’m not supposed to say either, Sunday.”

“I understand. I’m sorry to have to ask you a favor.
A big favor.
”

“Okay, shoot.”

“In Zimbabwe, you had a Department of Justice official on your delegation, didn’t you?”

“Isabella Espinosa?”

“She’s the one. Is she . . . any good?”

“Isabella is five feet four inches of twisted steel who hunts war criminals. If you’re a bad guy, she’s one hundred and five pounds of pure devastation. Are you chasing monsters?”

“Not exactly. But I’m tracking a suspect and I’ve hit a brick wall. I need someone inside Justice to help me break through.
Someone at DOJ who might be willing to take a risk and help a friendly CIA analyst on the side.”

“An unofficial inquiry?”

“Yes. Someone discreet. Someone I can trust.”

“That’s Isabella. I’ll set it up.”

42.

ALLIGATOR ALLEY, FLORIDA

THURSDAY, 11:19 P.M.

T
he chill was turning to pain. Jessica pulled off the highway at an empty rest stop, parked off in the shadows near a picnic table, and killed the engine on the Kawasaki Ninja. Jessica lifted off her helmet and shook out her hair.
Some fucking vacation,
she thought.

The swamp in front of her was pitch-dark. The loud croaking of frogs and clicking of cicadas filled the night.
Damn, it is late.
She still had over an hour of riding left to get back to Fort Lauderdale and her children. She knew she still had to call Judd. Now was as good a time as any.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Hi, sweetheart, it’s me,” Jessica said.

“Oh, thank God . . . What number is this?”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, my phone died. I’m using a new one.”

“Died? What happened? I’ve been leaving you messages.”

“It got wet,” she said, imagining her phone sitting at the bottom of the Florida Intracoastal. “I picked up a burner to use while I’m still down here on vacation. I’ll get a new phone when
I’m back in Washington. I’m sorry, I didn’t get any of your messages.”

“A burner?” Judd scoffed. “You sound like a drug dealer.”

“You’re cute.” She forced a laugh. “Everything’s fine, Judd. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. You know how crazy it can get putting Noah to bed.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear what happened at the fund-raiser,” Judd said impatiently.

Jessica paused. “Yes, I went to your party in Las Olas. It was quite a house. A palace, really.”

“Did you find anything? Did Adelman-Zamora show her face?”

“Yes, she was there. Gave a rousing stump speech. Lots of cash changing hands. I’m sure she raised lots of money tonight.”

“So, what did you find? Any connections to Ruben Sandoval?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie, I . . . didn’t see any. There were so many people there . . . so many rich people . . . I could have missed him. I don’t think I found you any new leads.”
Lie Number Six.

“What about Richard Green? The maintenance guy on
The Big Pig
that you told me about. Any links to him?”

She paused again. “I’m . . . not sure. I mean, I gave you his name, but I don’t know what he looks like.”
Lie Number Seven.
“I thought you’d be looking into him, Judd. What have you found out?”

“Me? Nothing yet. I’ve been focusing on the hostages for Landon Parker. I’m working on a plan for some kind of quiet diplomatic negotiations.”

“I’m sorry, Judd, I wish I had more for you.”

“I’m sorry, too, Jess. I’m sorry I had to ask you to go to some stupid party while you’re on vacation with the boys. I shouldn’t
have asked you to do it. I broke our rules of engagement by dragging you into my work problem. It was wrong. It won’t happen again.”

“You didn’t break our rules,” Jessica said. “We’re allowed to help each other.
Assist
, remember?”

“I’m just glad you called and you’re okay. I was starting to get worried.”

“I can handle myself,” she said, glancing down at the motorcycle.

“How did your phone get wet?”