“Yes, sir. That’s what we call him in the Caribbean Special Projects Unit. El Diablo de Santiago.”
“So that’s why I’m asking,” the Deputy Director said, trying to calm himself down. “Is O . . . Oswaldo Guerrero . . . El Diablo . . . whatever the fuck we call him”—he jabbed his finger between the eyes of the face in the photograph—“Is this man next in line to run Cuba?”
“We . . . don’t know, sir.”
“Well, then, is he a recruitment target? If we can’t beat him, can we turn him?”
“The HUMINT asset assessment is negative. Human Intelligence sources suggest he’s a nationalist. Loyal to ECP. Raised through the commie schools and clubs, recruited early, now a lifer. He’s a true believer.”
“Pshaw!” the Deputy Director scoffed. “True believers. I don’t think there are any pure idealists anymore. Everyone’s got a weakness. Even our man O.”
The Deputy Director started to pace the room, his staff clearing a path.
“So, what’s our leverage?” he asked. “He’s got to have something hidden. Everyone does. What’re his anxieties? What’s his fetish?”
“We haven’t found anything. Our past attempts to plant—”
“Fuck me,” the Deputy Director interrupted and held up his hand. The room fell silent while he rubbed his head again. After a moment, he stopped, then scanned the room and made eye contact with every member of the Caribbean Special Projects Unit. “Those Girl Scouts over at the State Department may think they can snuggle up to ECP. That Cuba will change if we just play nice and pretend foreign policy is about friendship circles. We can shake their hands, let them hug the Pope, even allow them to host POTUS for goddamn tea and biscuits. We can stick our fucking heads in the sand. But the United States of America hasn’t surrendered to that pissy little island yet. In this building, we still know who those communist bastards really are.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a list of all potential successors to ECP, with an assessment of their recruitment potential and some leverage points on each one. I want to know who they are, what they dream about, where they shit, and what they think about when they jerk off. And I want this by the end of the day!”
“Today, sir?”
“That’s what I said! You think I called you all to the office before dawn by accident?”
“Is there some special urgency we should know about, sir?”
“Cuba is going to blow up. It could be any day. It could be any minute. Things are heating up in Havana. They are ready to explode in Santiago.”
“Explode, sir?”
“I can feel it. Everything looks calm, but underneath the surface Cuba is a tinderbox. The only thing missing is the spark.”
3.
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
TUESDAY, 6:05 A.M.
Full boat. Jacks over sixes.” Brinkley Barrymore III gently laid down his fan of cards. The total lack of satisfaction on his face aggravated the other three men even more.
“Hijo de puta!” hissed Alejandro Cabrera as he threw down his cards and took a healthy swig of his rum and Coke.
“Captain Barrymore, you are one lucky motherfucker,” Crawford Jackson said. “Was your ass born in butter?”
“Yes, it was!” Al said. “His mother gave birth to him right into a big silver bowl of mantequilla. He’s been swimming in that shit ever since.”
“Jealousy is an ugly sentiment, gentlemen,” Brinkley said, sweeping up the poker chips. “Thou shalt not covet.” He plucked a Cheez Doodle from a bowl in front of Al and popped it into his mouth. “That’s God’s word.”
“The Bible says you’re not supposed to covet your neighbor’s house,” Dennis Dobson said. He scanned his friend Brinkley’s newly renovated basement, outfitted with a sixty-five-inch high-definition television, stainless steel fridge, full bar, billiards, and the centerpiece: a bright-green-felt-topped professional poker table. “But I sure as heck would rather live here in your man cave than my place.”
“Thank you, Deuce,” Brink said, holding up his cocktail. “I can always give you my contractor’s phone number.”
“Fuck you, Brink,” Al snorted.
“I can’t believe we played poker all night again. Beth is gonna kill me. I’ve gotta go home,” Dennis whined, looking at his watch. “Heck, I’ve gotta go to work.”
“Too late,” Alejandro said. “You can sleep tomorrow. We’re playing another hand. Deuce, go get Craw one more beer.”
Dennis dropped his shoulders. “I’m too old for this.”
“Michelob Ultra,” Crawford said, flashing a thumbs-up.
“How do you drink that piss?” Al sneered. “Deuce, make me another Bacardi and Coke. And none of that diet shit. Give me the real thing.”
“Got to watch my weight. I’m running the Marine Corps marathon at the end of this month,” Crawford said, standing up and flexing both biceps. “Navy SEALs got to represent.” He kissed each of his muscles and sat back down.
“Cheers to that, Commander.” Brinkley raised an empty tumbler.