Several years ago, when Oswaldo first concluded that the revolution was doomed, he knew the best option was to repair relations with their big neighbor. To find some way to reach an accommodation to avoid a cataclysmic rupture. He would do this on Cuba’s terms. On his terms. But how to trust them? How to know which gestures were tricks and which were real? They were all tricks.
So what was different about this latest offer? Who was this Judd Ryker? Oswaldo had nothing on him in his files except some useless academic publications. If the Americans were serious this time, then why were they sending some professor? Was this his final opportunity to make history? Oswaldo drained his coffee and motioned to the waiter for another.
Or, maybe he should slit this Judd Ryker’s throat? Sending their envoy back in a body bag would get their attention in Washington! That would let them know that they still have something to fear from El Diablo! That Cuba hasn’t yet given up. That the Americans can keep trying but they haven’t beaten Oswaldo Guerrero.
He leaned forward on the table and laughed to himself, his gold tooth flashing like one of the city’s lights. When the gringo professor arrives, he decided, he knew what do to with him.
PART THREE
FRIDAY
46.
JOINT BASE ANDREWS, MARYLAND
FRIDAY, 4:56 A.M.
Judd Ryker felt like Jonah being swallowed by the whale as he stepped onto the steel ramp yawning open at the back of the massive C-140 Hercules. The cold gray plane was mostly empty, his footsteps echoing through the vast cavern of the cargo bay.
“Good morning, sir!” snapped a young Air Force officer who had suddenly appeared.
“Good morning,” Judd replied wearily. “I’m Judd—”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Ryker from State. We’re expecting you, sir.”
“You’re taking me to Cuba in this?” Judd waved his arms around the empty cavern.
“My orders are to brief you on our exact destination only when we are wheels up.”
“But you are taking me to Cuba?” Judd narrowed his eyes and rubbed his neck, which was starting to ache.
“I couldn’t say, sir. I’m just following orders.”
“I don’t understand.” Judd winced at the confusion.
“It’s nearly oh five hundred,” the officer said, showing Judd his watch. “Preflight checks are complete. As soon as you get strapped in, we can go. I have to ask you to remove any cell phone.”
Judd handed over his phone reluctantly, but he ran through in his mind the most important numbers that he had memorized: the State Department’s Operations Center hotline and Jessica’s temporary cell.
“I’m ready.” Judd steeled himself. “Anything else I need to know?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t have any baggage,” Judd said.
“Of course not, sir. I’ll be back once we’re in the air.”
The officer exited the plane and Judd buckled himself into a jump seat along a side wall of the C-140. He watched the giant ramp close, leaving him alone in the dark in the belly of the whale. A pang shot through his spine. What have I gotten myself into?
A few seconds later, a fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating the cargo hold, but not relieving Judd’s sudden anxiety. He then heard the engines fire up and the loud whirring of the four huge propellers.
After a long taxi, the giant plane rumbled down the runway, the walls shuddering violently during takeoff. Within moments, the C-140 reached altitude and leveled off, allowing both the plane’s fuselage and its sole passenger to relax.
Judd slumped back in the jump seat. Exhausted, alone, and ensconced in the white noise of the engines, he fought off the urge to sleep. He hated tight spaces. It wasn’t quite claustrophobia, but, growing up in rural Vermont, he was always more comfortable out in the open, plenty of air, plenty of sky. Tightly packed trains were bad; small, crowded airplanes were worse. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about that in the back of the cavernous C-140. At least— “Sir!”
Judd opened his eyes.
“Sir! We are beginning our descent.”
Judd blinked a few times. He realized that he must have dozed off.
“Where are we?” Judd asked.
“Sir, you need to put this on,” the officer said, handing him an orange jumpsuit.
“I’m not wearing this. It looks like a prison uniform.”
“I don’t know, sir. My orders are to have you wear it before we allow you to deplane.”
“What? I don’t even know where we’re landing.”
“Yes, sir. We will be arriving at GTMO in”—he checked his watch—“fourteen minutes.”
“GTMO?”
“Gitmo, sir.”
“You’re taking me to Guantánamo Bay?” Judd’s eyes widened and his heart raced.
“Yes, sir. That’s our destination.”
“Why would a State Department official wear a prisoner uniform at a military detention camp?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. I’m sure you’ll be briefed on arrival,” he said. “I only know that I have strict orders that you wear it before getting off the plane at Gitmo. The jumpsuit and this.” The officer held up a small black cloth hood.
A hood! Judd’s abdomen convulsed. What the hell have I got myself into?
47.
U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.