“How much?”
“One of the ringleaders who went to prison was later caught on a wiretap claiming that los federales had stolen two hundred million cash that he had hidden in the Everglades.”
“Why would anyone hide that much cash in a swamp?” Sunday asked.
“The Everglades have always been a magnet for criminals. It’s close to the Caribbean and far from authorities. In the 1920s, rumrunners used to bring the stuff into the swamps from Cuba and Jamaica. In the 1980s, it was cocaine and marijuana. Whatever the mob runs into the United States. Makes sense they would try to keep their operations in a place that’s remote and impenetrable, but also not far from the source. And close to Miami. That’s the Everglades.”
“Anyone ever find the two hundred million?”
“Probably never existed,” Isabella said. “Just another Florida swamp legend. They still catch guys trying to find it. Modern-day treasure hunters.”
“More pirates,” Sunday said.
“What pirates?”
“Never mind,” Sunday said. “It’s quite a coincidence that Ricardo Cabrera goes missing at the same time as a huge amount of money, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.” Isabella shrugged. “What’s your interest?”
“I’m trying to find Ricky Green. Could he be . . . Ricardo Cabrera?”
“Can’t help you,” Isabella said.
“You already did.”
50.
GUANTáNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA
FRIDAY, 8:51 A.M.
Judd stared down at the page in front of him.
TOP SECRET/EYES ONLY: JUDD RYKER
Via Station Jtf-Gtmo
Take the blue and white Chevy Bel Air taxi from the Northeast Gate at 10.00. You will meet your contact at a neutral location. Seek release of innocent Americans. Maximum approved offer: $1 million and baseball exchange. No prisoner exchange. No change in US policy. Find a good faith gesture and explore breakthrough on other issues. Good luck. –LP
Landon Parker? What the hell is this? What kind of instructions are these? And what happened to Oswaldo Guerrero? Judd tried to open the door, but it was locked.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Let me out!”
The door lock clacked and a soldier in uniform blocked the doorway. “I can’t allow you to take that out of the SCIF, sir,” he said, pointing at the paper in Judd’s hand. “I’m under orders to assist you, but only after you have destroyed that document.”
Judd took a deep breath, read it one more time, memorized the key details, then struck a match, lit the paper, and watched it burn.
“Where’s the other guy?” Judd asked.
“What other guy, sir?”
“The one with the beard. The one who—” Judd stopped himself. “I need a secure phone right now.”
“Right there, sir,” he said, pointing to a black phone on a desk in the corner. “That’s an encrypted line to Washington.”
“I need five minutes. And then a ride to the Northeast Gate.”
The soldier nodded and closed the door.
Judd started to punch in the number for the State Department Operations Center, which could connect him to Parker. What kind of horseshit assignment was this? He stopped just before he hit the last number. He set the phone down. Wrong move. Judd snatched the handset again and tapped in another number.
“Who’s this?” Jessica answered.
“Me, sweets.”
“What number is this? Where are you?”
“I’m on a government phone. It’s a secure line.”
“Is everything okay?” Jessica sounded worried.
“Yeah. You said we should speak tomorrow. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“I’m at the pool,” she said breezily. Judd glanced at the concrete-block walls of the room at Guantánamo and imagined his wife, sunbathing in a bikini, beside a crystal-blue pool, sipping a fruity tropical drink. “I’m rereading Treasure Island. It’s just as wonderful as I remembered, Judd. I’m up to the part where they’ve hired Long John Silver as the cook for the voyage to the Caribbean.”
“I remember that part. Little do they know, right?”
“When are you coming to join us?” Jessica asked.
“Soon. I’m . . . stuck at work.”
“Is that why you’re calling? Do you need me to go to another party or something? I’m good at that,” she joked.
“No . . .” Judd said, “Not that. You ever heard of someone named . . . Oswaldo Guerrero?”
Jessica was silent on the other end of the line.
“Jess?”
“I’m still here,” she said.
“Well, have you? Does the name Oswaldo Guerrero mean anything to you?”
“What have you gotten yourself into, Judd?” Her breeziness was gone.
“So you have heard of him?”
She paused. “No.” She winced at Lie Number Eight. “Judd, I thought you were trying to get those fishermen free?”
“Yes, that’s right. The Soccer Dad Four in Cuba.”
“I . . . wouldn’t assume they’re soccer dads,” Jessica said.
“Why do you say that? How would you know, Jess?”
“The one who owns the fishing boat—”