“Why? What does Sandoval want?”
“What do any big donors want? They want power. They want influence. They want to stroke their own egos. They want to impress their girlfriends. Play the big shot.”
“Big shot,” Judd repeated.
“Why do you care about Sandoval?” Mariana asked.
“Do you need to know why?”
“Only if you want to tell me, darling,” Mariana said in her most soothing voice.
“Is Sandoval connected to Cuba?”
“I’m hearing Middle East. My sources tell me Egypt or Jordan,” she said. “That’s about as far from Cuba as you can get.”
“But I want to know if he’s a player on Cuba policy,” Judd said. “Do you know?”
“Then forget the White House. POTUS won’t touch Cuba until it’s a slam dunk. They won’t make that mistake again.”
“So where should I be looking?” Judd asked.
“Good Lord, Judd,” Mariana said.
“Congress?”
“Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“So you’re saying yes, Congress.”
“Not just anyone in Congress. Start with the Free Cuba Caucus,” Mariana said.
“You mean Brenda Adelman-Zamora?”
“That’s her,” Mariana said. “Is Sandoval connected to Adelman-Zamora?” she then asked.
“I don’t know,” Judd said. “That’s why I called you.”
“Judd, darling . . .” She paused and exhaled loudly. “Only because it’s you am I doing this.”
“Thank you, Mariana.”
“Give me five minutes,” she said, and hung up.
Judd thought about Brenda Adelman-Zamora. She was the chair of the House Intelligence Committee. She held the press conference today about the soccer dads. She was the Cuba hawk. But was she linked to Sandoval? If so, how?
Judd wrote BAZ with a big red question mark on his whiteboard and drew a box around it. How does the congresswoman fit?
His phone buzzed with a text message from Mariana.
Adelman-Zamora $raiser 2nite @7pm. I can get u in.
Bingo! Judd hit reply: Thx. Where?
9900 Coconut Vista, Las Olas, FL.
I’m in DC.
U know anyone in South FL?
32.
LAS OLAS, FLORIDA
THURSDAY, 7:08 P.M.
Jessica pulled back on the throttle of the Deputy Director’s Cobalt bowrider powerboat as she approached the bright lights of her destination. The river that was the backbone of the South Florida Intracoastal Waterway was busy that evening, filled with noisy family day cruisers, long, gleaming sportfishing boats, and gargantuan party catamarans blasting hip-hop dance music.
Her target, the house at 9900 Coconut Vista Lane, was easy to find. Illuminated palm trees along the waterfront framed a brightly lit modern glass-and-steel structure that appeared to be more art museum than residence.
It had seemed absurd to Jessica to go to a party in a speedboat. She was arriving alone—wife, mother of two small children, agronomist, the furthest thing from a flashy celebrity. Her CIA training had taught her always to assume a low profile, to go unseen whenever possible. James Bond pulling up to black-tie parties in an Aston Martin was only for the movies. Real spies slipped in through the back door and then left unnoticed. Arriving at a fancy party wearing a designer wrap dress and in a luxury boat seemed precisely the wrong move.
But she had followed Judd’s clear instructions from Mariana Leibowitz, who assured her that at a Florida political fund-raiser this was exactly how to fit in. With her light black skin, the partygoers would probably assume she was Puerto Rican or, even better, Cuban. No need to correct anyone’s presumptions. No need to explain. Mariana had promised to tell the party host nothing more than she was sending over a rich young woman who had taken a strong interest in local politics, low taxes, and the protection of endangered manatees. That would be plenty to get Jessica in the door.
“Bienvenido a Casa Libre!” shouted a young Latino man standing on the shore, dressed in white shorts and a white golf shirt. Dozens of boats were rafted up, tied together like a marine parking lot. The valet waved for her to pull the powerboat alongside a teal-and-orange cigarette racing boat that was already secured to the dock.