—
Eight minutes later, Landon Parker was in a windowless room in the basement of the State Department, consoling a crying Mrs. Penelope Barrymore.
“Pippa, why didn’t you just call me?”
“I did!” she wailed. Parker handed her a tissue. “They told me someone would get back to me, but of course no one did.”
“I’m sorry, Pippa, I didn’t know.”
“You should have called me, Landon!”
“Yes, you’re right. I should have, Pippa. I’ve been busy.”
“That’s why I had to just come over. Those horrible men pushed me on the ground!”
“Security is a little nervous about trucks rushing the State Department gate. You know how dangerous that was? It was stupid, Pippa. You could have been killed.”
“I’m not here about me, Landon. I’m here about Brinkley. I can’t believe what’s happened. I need your help!”
“Yes, I know,” Parker said.
“So you can help him? You can get him free from those terrible Cubans?”
“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.