“Rule two is avoid. We can help each other but let’s not work the same issue. I can help you on your problem. You help me on my problem. But we don’t play each other on the same problem. Got it?”
Judd exhaled. “Avoid. Okay . . . makes sense. What’s your last rule? Does it start with an a?”
“Of course it does. Rule three is admit. If we find ourselves somehow forced to compromise on rules one and two, we have to be open about that. We have to tell the other.”
“No more lies?” Judd asked.
“No more lies,” Jessica said.
“Assist. Avoid. Admit . . . Those are your rules of engagement, Jess?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Do you agree?”
“Do you think rule three is really necessary, Jess? It’s a big world. Lots of problems. What are the chances that we both find ourselves working on the same country again?”
2.
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 5:54 A.M.
Not dead yet.”
“I know that, goddammit,” swore the Deputy Director of Operations. “I don’t give a frog’s ass about El Comrade Jefe. We know he’s staring at the ceiling and drooling all day. He’s still eating and shitting through a tube, right?”
“Yes, sir,” said the team leader, a tall, muscular man with a flattop brush cut.
“So fuck El Jefe,” the Deputy Director scoffed. “If he’s out of the game, then we focus squarely on his little brother. El Comrade Presidente controls the security forces, secret intelligence, and the Party. So we aim our sights on ECP. You got that?”
“Yes, sir. ECP, sir.” Around the windowless room, a dozen heads, a mix of men and women of different ages, all nodded.
“So what’s the latest on his medical prognosis? When’s El Comrade Presidente going to start pushing daisies?”
“We have no indications of ECP having any specific health problems, sir.”
“How’s that possible?”
“He takes Mexican generics of Lipitor and Levitra,” one of the analysts offered.
“Christ! He’s got cholesterol and can’t get his dick up? That’s it?” A thick vein, like a lightning bolt, appeared on his forehead, never a good sign for the team in front of him.
“Other than vitamins, yes. That’s it, sir.”
The Deputy Director aggressively rubbed his bald head. “Don’t these Cuban fuckers ever get sick and just die? What the hell do they eat down there? How old is he now?”
“ECP just turned eighty-six, sir.”
“Christ!” He wiped his hand on his pants. “Are we sure there aren’t any more brothers? Are we sure their mama didn’t have some other half-brother spawn hidden in the jungle? Is there some goddamn cousin waiting to come down from the Sierra Maestras to play Jesús when we least expect it?”
“No, sir. No cousins. Not as far as we know.”
“Fine,” he exhaled. “So, then, who’s next on the list?”
“You mean the successor to ECP, sir?”
The Deputy Director’s face fell lifeless, his eyes dead and his jowls drooping low. This was a common reaction from the longtime intelligence chief, a sign his staff recognized as a prelude to an explosion of anger. “That’s the whole fucking purpose of the Caribbean Special Projects Unit!” he shouted. “That’s why you’re here and not pumping gas at some strip mall in Leesburg, goddammit! That’s why you’re all here!”
“Sir—” The team leader cleared his throat. “Sir, we have no clear successor to ECP identified.”
“No one at all?”
“We believe the Communist Party leadership has kept succession deliberately in the dark. It’s a tactic to prevent factions and infighting. If no one knows who’s next in line, then everyone stays in line.”
“I don’t care what the fucking Cuban politburo knows or doesn’t know. But we are the C-I-fucking-A. We should know. That’s our job. That’s your job.”
“Yes, sir.”
No one spoke up.
“What about O?” the Deputy Director asked.
“Oswaldo Guerrero?”
“That’s what I asked. What about O?”
“Oswaldo Guerrero is their military intelligence chief in charge of running counter-destabilization operations. He—”
“I know who O is! He’s the fucker who keeps embarrassing this goddamn team. He’s why all our people keep getting killed. O’s the reason Operation Rainmaker failed.” The Deputy Director made a fist and ground his teeth.
“Sir, we still don’t know much about him.” The analyst rifled through a stack of papers. “Oswaldo Guerrero, trained in Moscow, new-generation intelligence officer, we believe he’s connected to the Party, the army, the navy—”
“I know all that, goddammit!”
“Here’s the only confirmed image we have, sir,” the analyst said, holding up a grainy photo of a dark-haired man with a small, gentle face, the sole discernible feature a crooked broken nose.
“He looks innocent,” the Deputy Director whispered. “But he’s the Devil.”
“Yes, sir.”
“O is the goddamn Diablo!” he said, his voice rising again.