The party host hugged Adelman-Zamora, then turned and raised his hands. “This is why we are all here tonight. We are all here to support the reelection of Brenda Adelman-Zamora and to send a message to Washington that we will not rest until there is a free Cuba! I know everyone has come here to be generous. Checks are now being collected by the staff. Enjoy the party! Viva Cuba Libre!”
Jessica moved silently, eyes fixed on her target, skillfully weaving her way through the buzzing crowd, toward a skinny man in an immaculate white embroidered guayabera shirt. He was clean-shaven and his hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. She watched the target hug the party host and hand him a thick envelope.
Once the transaction was complete, Jessica walked up and stood behind him. She could smell cigarettes and cologne.
“Hola, Ricky,” she said.
He slowly turned around and narrowed his eyes. “Do I . . . know you, chiquita?”
“Sure you do. I’m Alexandra. We met in Marathon.”
“I don’t know any Alexandra,” he said, turning away.
She touched his arm. “Sure you do, Ricky.”
He spun back and gripped her hand on his arm.
“I remember your tattoos, Ricky,” she said, squeezing his arm. “En la Gloria de Dios. I remember that one.” Jessica traced the outlines of the mermaid on his arm with her finger. “You don’t remember me?”
“I don’t know you,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And you don’t know me.”
“And I remember this one, too,” she said, touching his other arm and stroking his tattoo of a naval ship with a cross and the numbers 2506. “Ricky, are you . . . in the navy?” she asked, her eyes meeting his.
He pulled away. “You have the wrong guy. You don’t know me,” he said, and marched off.
Jessica waited a few seconds, then followed him through the crowd toward the back of the house. She watched Ricky talk excitedly to the valet and then climb into the teal-and-orange cigarette boat. He glanced back at the house as Jessica ducked behind one of the palm trees. From out of sight, she heard the boat fire up and roar off.
Jessica ran up to the valet, “Oh no!” she wailed. “That man who just left in the big racing boat. He forgot his cell,” she said, holding up her own phone. “Do you know who he is?”
“No, se?orita. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know where he was going in such a rush?”
“No, ma’am. But he went that way,” he said, pointing down the channel.
“South?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Toward Port Everglades.”
“Cast me off,” she instructed, handing him a twenty-dollar bill. She jumped in the Cobalt and started up the engine. Once the lines were free, Jessica punched the throttle, gunning the engine. This sent her wake splashing up against the waterfront and jostling the other boats. The valet stood on the shore, dumbfounded, watching the dazzling woman disappear into the darkness.
33.
FOREIGN SERVICE INSTITUTE, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, 7:28 P.M.
Ruben Sandoval punched in the code as he had been trained to do earlier that day. The airlock to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility gave way with a satisfying Tsssssss! He pulled on the heavy steel door and flipped on the light.
The SCIF was a drab room that looked just like any standard government office. The difference was that a SCIF was a room within a room, separated by a vacuum that prevented listening devices, bugging, or any other way that communications could be intercepted.
“How do they do this?” he had asked the instructor that afternoon. “How do they suspend a room within a room?”
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s classified.”
“Okay. But what about the phone lines? How are those secured?”
“Also classified, sir. But I can tell you that all communications into or out of any SCIF are hardwired and we utilize the latest encryption technology. No radio or cell phone signals here. Just a scrambled landline using exponential bit technology. It’s unbreakable, sir.”
Unbreakable. Ruben liked the sound of that.
He picked up the handset on the telephone and was relieved to hear a dial tone. He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it, and read the number he had scrawled in pencil. He punched in the number.
“Who the hell is this?” answered a gruff voice on the other end.
“It’s me. It’s Ruben.”
“Why are you calling my emergency line? And what the fuck are you doing using your name on an open line? Are you fucking crazy? I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t hang up! I’m on a secure phone.”
“What?”
“I’m in a SCIF. I’m calling you from a secure line inside a SCIF.”
“How are you in a SCIF? How’s that possible?”
“I can’t say.” Ruben smiled smugly to himself.
“Where are you?”
“I’m sorry. It’s need-to-know,” Ruben said.
“Ha!” the man barked. “You hear that shit from some movie? You think you’re James fucking Bond now?”
Ruben didn’t answer.
“So what’s the big emergency?” asked the man on the other end.
“I saw the news. How’d they get caught?” Ruben asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” the voice said.
“They were essential to the plan and now they’re in prison. What do you mean don’t worry?”