“The Big Pig? Alejandro Cabrera.”
“Yes, him,” Jessica said. “He’s Cuban American.”
“So? What does that mean?”
“He’s not just anybody. The Cabreras are well connected in Little Havana and in the exile community in Miami. Alejandro’s grandfather was a leader of Brigada Asalto 2506.”
“Twenty-five oh six? What does that mean?”
“The Bay of Pigs invasion.”
“So . . . what are you saying?” Judd asked.
“And one of the other men—”
“Dobson? Jackson?”
“No, the other one,” she said.
“Brinkley Barrymore? The lawyer?”
“He’s the grandson of Randolph Nye,” she said.
“Who’s Randolph Nye?”
“Back in the early years of the Cold War, he was the Deputy Director of . . . a three-letter agency. The Bay of Pigs was his operation.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Don’t you get it, Judd?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“So Cabrera and Barrymore have family history tied back to the Bay of Pigs. So what? What are you suggesting, Jess?”
“Think about it, Judd.”
“Are you saying that a bunch of soccer dads, or whatever they are, who were out fishing in Florida were actually trying to invade Cuba . . . to redeem their grandfathers?”
She didn’t reply.
“Are you telling me,” Judd continued, “that the four middle-aged guys from suburban Washington were trying to launch another Bay of Pigs?”
“I don’t know, Judd. But I think you need to find out.”
“I’ll add this to the list of things that don’t make sense,” he said. “But, Jess, how . . . do you know all this?”
“Once you told me you were working on the hostages, I did a little research.”
“What else do you know?”
“Judd, dear,” she said, trying to calm him down. “You need to be careful. Very careful. I know Landon Parker asked you to take this on and you’re working hard to show S/CRU can be a success. But I’m worried you don’t know what you are getting yourself into.”
“You’re worried?”
“I’m worried about you, Judd.”
“Well, don’t be. I can handle this.”
“Cuba policy is a minefield in Washington.”
He looked around at the room again, the old suit, the fake beard he was supposed to wear, and thought, I’m definitely not in Washington.
51.
RONALD REAGAN WASHINGTON NATIONAL AIRPORT
FRIDAY, 9:03 A.M.
We aren’t going to let them take away Social Security!” Brenda Adelman-Zamora was speaking too loudly into her Bluetooth headset as she walked through the arrivals lounge. “I’m just getting off the plane now . . . I don’t give two shits what committee he sits on . . . No deal. You tell him I said that!”
Behind her trailed a young woman pulling two suitcases, a travel dog bag slung over one shoulder with the head of a black-and-tan Yorkshire terrier poking through the top flap. The girl struggled to keep up with the congresswoman, who was barreling through the crowded terminal.
“No . . . No . . . Hell no!” Adelman-Zamora shouted into the phone. “I won’t allow it! You tell Arnie that I said it’s not happening until hell freezes over.”
Travelers, aware of the approaching storm but avoiding eye contact, gave the woman wide berth.
“He’s offering how much more for Everglades restoration?” She stopped dead in her tracks. “What about federal funds for widening I-95? Do we dare? Oh my goodness! Hold!”
Adelman-Zamora spun around, lowering her brow as she searched the throng for her aide with her luggage and her dog. The young woman finally appeared.
“Where have you been? Never mind. Leave the bags and little Desi Arnaz here. I’ll watch them. Bring me one nonfat peach yogurt for the car. Not the disgusting one with the granola, the one with the fresh fruit. I need a copy of the Washington Post. And I see the newsstand has the CIA T-shirts back in stock. They love those at the constituent office in Fort Lauderdale. Bring me four in the red and two in the blue.” She paused. “And two in the pink. All size small. Hurry. Go.”
The congresswoman shooed away the aide and turned back to her phone call. “If we can get that deal, let’s take it! I’ll be in soon. I’m just leaving the airport, if I can get through these dreadful crowds. It’s just too busy. I can’t stand the airport this time of year. Don’t worry, I’m on my way into the office!”
52.
GEORGE WASHINGTON MEMORIAL PARKWAY, McLEAN, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, 9:11 A.M.
Ma’am, I’m just on my way back into the office,” Sunday said into his headset.
Sunday had left downtown Washington, D.C. after his clandestine meeting with Isabella Espinosa from the Department of Justice. He had driven along Constitution Avenue, between the Lincoln Memorial and the U.S. Department of State headquarters. The Eisenhower Bridge then took him over the Potomac River. He was driving northwest on the parkway when Jessica Ryker called.
“Do you know anything about an Oswaldo Guerrero?”
“Never heard of him, ma’am.”