Ricardo? The FBI files showed that Ricardo Cabrera of Miami had been arrested at age eighteen during a drug bust in Everglades City, Florida, in 1983. After that, the records stopped. No tax filings, no police rap sheet, nothing. Sunday checked for a death certificate but came up blank. Ricardo Cabrera ceased to exist in 1983. It was probably nothing, just a criminal who disappeared underground. Or maybe incomplete records, Sunday told himself.
It was now after eleven o’clock and Sunday knew the Purple Cell team leader was waiting to hear from him. Plus he still had to finish his Iran-Somalia assessment for the Director of National Intelligence. Sunday made a mental notation to follow up on Ricardo Cabrera once he got time rather than chase another ghost tonight.
Sunday started to call the number Jessica had given him as her temporary phone in Florida. But before pressing the final digit, he suddenly knew exactly what she would say. Sunday set the phone back down. He couldn’t miss anything obvious.
Sunday pulled up research on Dennis Dobson. Software engineer, family all clean, nothing of note. He found the same for Crawford Jackson, a former Navy SEAL, now a contractor at Carderock Naval Surface Warfare Center, with the highest level security clearances. His background was scrubbed every year, no blemishes, nothing suspicious.
The last man, Brinkley Barrymore III, was probably the least likely to have something big to hide. Barrymore was ex–Naval Academy, Georgetown Law, a JAG naval lawyer, now a partner at a prestigious D.C. law firm. Open sources reported that his grandfather was the scion of a well-known Annapolis family that claimed lineage back to one of the original settler families at Jamestown, Virginia. The style pages of the Washington press were filled with stories of the Barrymores at Annapolis Yacht Club regattas, at black-tie charity galas, symphonies at the Kennedy Center, and other socialite events of the Washington-Annapolis blue-blooded glitterati.
Brinkley Barrymore III’s wedding to Penelope Anderson of Memphis was covered in a gaudy half-page spread in the Washington Post. In the story, buried among the achievements of the Barrymore family, was a small notation that Brinkley’s maternal grandmother, Henrietta Nye, had also attended the wedding.
Ay! Sunday’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. Nye?
41.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 11:11 P.M.
The ringing phone startled Judd, shaking him from his intense concentration. Without checking caller ID, he snatched the handset, “Sweets! Is everything all right?”
“Dr. Ryker, it’s me, Sunday.”
“Oh, sorry,” Judd said, deflated. “I was . . . waiting for a call.”
“Is everything okay, sir?”
“Yes, it’s fine. My wife’s away with the kids and . . . It doesn’t matter . . . It’s good to hear from you, Sunday. I . . . I appreciate your work on Zimbabwe last week. You were a huge help.”
“I can’t believe you pulled it off, Dr. Ryker. It’s really something.”
“We pulled it off, Sunday. No way Gugu Mutonga would be president without you,” Judd said. “You sent me just the right information at just the right time. Right when I needed it.”
“I’m just happy to help out,” Sunday said, suddenly wondering if calling Judd Ryker had been the right move.
“You seem to have an eerie intuition, Sunday.” Judd knew he was pressing too far, but couldn’t help it. “A magic touch.”
“I’m, um . . . just an analyst doing my job, sir.”
“Well, we made a pretty good team, didn’t we?”
“Yes, sir, we did.”
Judd weighed his options on whether to ask the question he really wanted to ask, but Sunday quickly changed the subject.
“Sir, I’m actually calling you for a favor.”
“You’re asking me for a favor? I think I owe you quite a few.”
“I’m working on a special project right now—”
“Don’t tell me you’re working on Cuba!”
“Um . . . no, sir,” Sunday said. “I’m not supposed to discuss details of any of my special projects, but . . . it’s not Cuba . . . Is that what you’re working on, Dr. Ryker?”
“I’m not supposed to say either, Sunday.”
“I understand. I’m sorry to have to ask you a favor. A big favor.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“In Zimbabwe, you had a Department of Justice official on your delegation, didn’t you?”
“Isabella Espinosa?”
“She’s the one. Is she . . . any good?”
“Isabella is five feet four inches of twisted steel who hunts war criminals. If you’re a bad guy, she’s one hundred and five pounds of pure devastation. Are you chasing monsters?”
“Not exactly. But I’m tracking a suspect and I’ve hit a brick wall. I need someone inside Justice to help me break through. Someone at DOJ who might be willing to take a risk and help a friendly CIA analyst on the side.”
“An unofficial inquiry?”
“Yes. Someone discreet. Someone I can trust.”
“That’s Isabella. I’ll set it up.”
42.
ALLIGATOR ALLEY, FLORIDA
THURSDAY, 11:19 P.M.