“What identity?”
“This is your new cover, sir,” he said, pointing to a baby blue linen suit and a straw sun hat.
“I have to wear that?” Judd asked.
“And this,” he said, holding up a fake beard. “You’re going native.”
“I don’t understand,” Judd said. “Where am I going?”
“We can’t send you over the wall, as the Cubans mined everything beyond our fence line with locally made POMZ. The commies were good at laying mines, but they didn’t bother to map them. We hear them burn off every once in a while. Flying cooked goat. We find it charred to the fence. Sometimes a dog.”
“You’re saying Cuba is a minefield?”
“Yes, sir. That’s why you need this suit and beard. You’ll go in during the regular shift change with the local staff. Only a few old guys left, so you’ll need to look elderly to avoid being noticed.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Judd said.
“Sir, we can’t send you over the fence. It’s too dangerous. So you are going into Cuba the safest way we know. You’re going to walk out right through the front gate.”
“And then what?”
“And then this.” The man handed Judd a sealed envelope. “Don’t open it until I leave and you are alone. Read it. Then burn it,” the man said, and tossed Judd a book of matches.
“What is this?” Judd asked, holding up the envelope.
“Your mission, sir.”
49.
DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, D.C.
FRIDAY, 8:30 A.M.
Sunday blew gently on his cup of coffee, the freshly roasted Ethiopian variety that he always bought from Swing’s whenever he was near the White House. The coffeehouse had been packed with National Security Council staff, badges around their necks, discussing work in subdued tones and nonspecific code.
Sunday crossed 17th Street, walked between the thick car bomb barriers, and onto the pedestrianized Pennsylvania Avenue. To the south was the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, where the President’s foreign policy staff worked in a grand edifice that reminded Sunday of a giant haunted house. To the north was Blair House, the President’s official state guest residence, a tasteful, early-nineteenth-century townhome used by only the most prominent VIPs.
Sunday entered Lafayette Square, the park directly across from the White House. The square was not yet filled with tourists or protestors. At this early hour, it was mostly government workers on their way to EEOB or the U.S. Treasury or the West Wing. This was a stupid place to meet, he thought. Too many eyes and ears. Too high a chance of running into someone who might recognize him. Or her.
He circumnavigated the park twice, then, satisfied no one was watching him, settled on an empty park bench overlooking a statue of President Andrew Jackson, riding a horse and surrounded by cannons. He slipped on sunglasses, pulled a Boston Red Sox cap from his jacket and placed it on the bench.
After a few minutes, a petite, dark-haired woman sat down next to him and opened the Washington Post. She flipped through the paper, then stopped on the sports page.
“What’s the score of last night’s Red Sox–Yankees game?” Sunday asked the woman while looking straight off into the distance.
“The Nationals beat the Mets, five to four,” she said, and turned the page again.
“Thank you for coming on short notice,” he whispered.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” Isabella Espinosa said. “In fact, I’m not here.”
“Yes, ma’am, understood,” Sunday replied without making eye contact.
“The only reason I even took your call was because I owe Judd a big one.”
“I’m indebted to Dr. Ryker, too.”
“Let’s make this quick,” she said.
“Did you find anything on Ricky Green?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing at all?”
“Doesn’t mean there isn’t something there,” Isabella said, “just that I couldn’t find it.”
“Maybe witness protection?”
She shook her head again. “I can’t get access to that. And if I could, telling you would be a felony.”
“What about Ricardo Cabrera?”
“He was in the system. Low-level drug trafficker. Grabbed in Operation Everglades.”
“What’s that?”
“Massive interagency drug sweep. The Feds flooded Everglades City. It was the biggest cocaine bust in South Florida history. I’m talking FBI, DEA, IRS, the U.S. Marshals, Customs. Even the Coast Guard and DOD got involved. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“So you were there?” Sunday asked.
“I sure hope not,” she said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I was a kid. Operation Everglades was in 1983.”
“They caught Cabrera way back in eighty-three?”
Isabella nodded.
“And then what?” Sunday asked.
“Then nothing. He just disappeared.”
“Cabrera’s been gone since 1983?”
“Him and the cash.”
“What cash?” Sunday raised his eyebrows.
“During the bust, the Feds seized almost a million in cash. But some of those arrested later claimed that there was more. A lot more.”