Sunday logged off of the CIA network and on to a Department of Defense database of covert operations. Again, nothing of use.
“Hey, you still chasing the Ayatollah’s Somali pirates?” boomed a voice from above Sunday’s head.
“Go away, Glen,” Sunday said, shaking his head at his colleague, who was leaning over the cubicle wall.
“Aw, don’t be like that, S-man. If you’re still here digging, that means you haven’t finished your assessment.” Glen waddled around the wall and peered over Sunday’s shoulders at the computer screen. “You need some help?”
“No.” Sunday turned off his screen. “If you want to help me, you can start by going away.”
“You’re no fun anymore, Sunday. I thought Nigerians were supposed to be party animals.”
“I’m American.”
“Whatever.”
“I grew up in California.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. So that’s why you’re no fun?”
“No time for fun. I’ve got to finish this by COB.”
“The CIA doesn’t have a ‘close of business,’ Sunday. Didn’t they tell you that, like, on the first day?”
“Go away.”
“No, sir,” Glen said with a mock salute. “We are twenty-four/seven! We never close! Not the Central fucking Intelligence Agency. Not even on Christmas.”
Sunday turned his back on Glen.
“Hey, if you’re Muslim, they probably have you working on Christmas, right? Used to call that shift the Jew Crew around here.”
“I’m ignoring you,” Sunday said.
“I guess it’s more Muslims than Jews now, dontcha think?”
“Glen, I’m going to turn my computer back on and finish my work. If I turn around again, I expect to see that you’ve gone away.”
“Okay, okay,” Glen huffed. “Don’t get so damn testy, Sunday. I thought you Nigerians were supposed to be laid-back.”
Sunday waved Glen away over his shoulder. “Shoo.”
“I know you’re supposed to be compartmentalized on this Iran thing, but I’m not going home yet. If I can help, let me know. Maybe run some Google searches or something.” Glen laughed to himself and wandered away.
Google?
Sunday closed the Pentagon database on his classified computer and opened a web browser on his unclassified machine. Into Google he typed 2506. The search results were long lists of addresses. Nothing notable. He was about to close the window when he glanced at the search results at the bottom of the screen. There was something he didn’t expect: an orange-and-blue flag of a silhouetted soldier with a bayonet-tipped gun and a banner reading BRIGADA ASALTO 2506.
A Spanish Assault Brigade 2506? He typed this into a new search field and the result:
Brigada Asalto 2506 was a CIA-sponsored group of Cuban exiles formed in 1960 to attempt the military overthrow of the communist Cuban government.
Ay! He carried on reading.
It carried out the abortive Bay of Pigs invasion landings in Cuba on 17 April 1961.
The Bay of Pigs?
38.
EVERGLADES CITY, FLORIDA
THURSDAY, 10:04 P.M.
Jessica blocked out the bone-deep cold she felt from wearing a damp cocktail dress on a high-speed motorcycle for the past ninety minutes. She had tailed Ricky Green all the way from Port Everglades, onto Highway I-595, down Alligator Alley, and again when he turned south toward Everglades City. The road was so flat and straight, Jessica turned off the Kawasaki’s lights and just followed the red rear lights of the Hummer.
As she passed the WELCOME TO EVERGLADES CITY sign, she thought “City” might be an exaggeration. The town was more like a small island with modest sixties-style clapboard houses, amply spaced on large plots of land. Sure, it was late, but the streets were wholly abandoned.
They passed the turnoff for the Everglades Airport, and just as the town appeared to end in darkness, Ricky veered off the main road and down a dirt driveway.
Jessica waited until the lights of the Hummer had disappeared from view, then she hid the motorcycle in the bushes and followed the dirt path on foot. After about a hundred yards, she came upon the parked Hummer and could see moving lights through the brush in a clearing ahead. She could hear Ricky banging on metal and grunting but couldn’t see what he was doing. Jessica pushed deeper into the brush to try to get a better look.
Suddenly, she heard a motor start up, followed by an incredibly loud hum, like a giant hair dryer. A second later, she was blasted by a gust of warm tropical air. Jessica shielded her eyes and backed away from the bushes. Was he taking off on a seaplane? Or a boat? It sounded like both.
As the noise and wind receded, she returned to the Hummer and ran down the path that Ricky must have taken toward the machine. She arrived at the shoreline just in time to see Ricky strapped high in a chair at the front of a low, flat boat with a massive spinning fan at the back. A fanboat.
Fuck! Where the hell is he going now? Jessica wondered as Ricky evaporated into the infinite darkness of the Florida swamps.
39.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.