Quick response by the United States government made intuitive sense to Judd, even if he didn’t quite fully believe the numbers himself. Correlation does not equal causation. That was the very first lesson he taught his students. But inside the American government, quantitative evidence was seen as proof, and thus was a powerful weapon in the policy trenches. Whether the numbers were right or not was entirely beside the point. That was the very first lesson he had learned from Landon Parker.
Now he was tasked with helping Parker foresee problems in Cuba. However, this morning Judd wasn’t finding much. He looked at his two computer screens. The one on the left was unclassified, connected to the Internet. The monitor on the right was connected to SIPRNet, the government’s computer system cleared up to level Secret.
—
On his unclassified computer, he opened an online window to access the Amherst College library and searched the political science journals for determinants of popular mass revolts. One study from Stanford pointed to ratios of ethnic composition of cabinet ministers. Another from the University of Texas suggested that the concentration of land and livestock ownership was a factor. A third study from Tufts University found correlations between political unrest and changes in the prices of an index of rice, cooking oil, and fuel. Nothing particularly helpful.
“Dr. Ryker?” Judd looked up from his computer to see the familiar face of his assistant, Serena. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I thought this might be useful,” she said, brandishing a bright red folder. “I compiled all the cables from Havana and highlighted the most critical sections.”
“Thank you, Serena. I don’t pay you enough.”
“No comment, Dr. Ryker. I’ve also forwarded to you the latest intel assessments on SIPRNet. Will you be needing a SCIF today?” she asked. For really squirrely information, anything classified as Top Secret, Judd would have to go down the hall to a special room called a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—a SCIF, in government shorthand.
“No, thank you, Serena.”
“I also printed you a copy of Assistant Secretary Eisenberg’s speech that she gave last month at the Miami Chamber of Commerce. I think you’ll find it useful.”
“Melanie Eisenberg . . .” Judd muttered to himself. “Have you found out anything that . . . I should know?”
“The Assistant Secretary is a shark.”
“A shark?” Judd eyed his assistant. “I heard that she’s close with Bill Rogerson over in African Affairs. Is that what you mean?”
“She’s bigger than Rogerson. Eisenberg has the ear of the Secretary. A direct line.”
“What’s her relationship with Landon Parker?”
“She knows to give him his due respect,” Serena said. “I heard she rolled him on Cuba.”
“Eisenberg did an end run around Landon Parker on Cuba policy?”
“Yes. And that’s not all. Word on the seventh floor says the Deputies Committee is considering her for P.”
“P? Melanie Eisenberg is going to be the next Undersecretary? Number three in the building?”
“I told you she’s a shark.”
15.
STRAITS OF FLORIDA
WEDNESDAY, 5:21 P.M.
Ten hours later, the fishermen were getting cranky.
After a whole morning of fishing and no sign of any marlin, Brinkley had suggested they head farther offshore to the Seminole Flats to try their luck catching bonefish. “Per pound, bonefish are the strongest fish in the world,” Brink had told them proudly. “And the Seminole Flats in the Florida Straits is the best place in the whole world to catch them.” Alejandro had navigated The Big Pig due south.
But it was now early evening and they still had no sign of any fish.
“I think we’re over the line,” Dennis muttered. He glared down at the GPS unit in his hand. “Brink, you gotta take a look at this.”
Brinkley set down his fishing rod and walked over.
“Right here, this looks like we are over the line,” Dennis said, pointing to the little screen. “I think we are . . . in Cuban waters.”
“No way. I don’t think that’s accurate. We may be close, but we’re still in international waters, don’t worry. Where’s your gear?”
“Close? I don’t want to be close to Cuba.”
Brinkley took the GPS unit from Dennis and examined the map again. “Alejandro, what time is sunset?”
“Seven o’clock sharp,” he called from the cockpit.
Brinkley checked his watch. “Ninety minutes . . .” he mumbled, scanning the horizon with a pair of high-tech binoculars.
“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?”