No one said anything.
“Al? Brink?” Dennis squealed. “I almost died. You have to tell us!”
No reply.
Dennis calmed his voice to a whisper. “What is 1961?”
Brinkley shook his head and turned away. “We’re all getting out of here alive.”
54.
GUANTáNAMO BAY NAVAL BASE, CUBA
FRIDAY, 9:56 A.M.
The yellow school bus carrying Judd passed by a large concrete pillar wrapped in barbed wire, ENTER IF YOU DARE painted on the side. The bus climbed a hill and then stopped. The hydraulic doors released with a pucker and swung open.
“Northeast Gate! Last stop for Cuba!” shouted the driver, a uniformed Marine, who eyed Judd warily in the rearview mirror. Judd, wearing the old suit he had been given, pulled down his hat and stroked his false beard. It was a convincing disguise, but he was beginning to sweat and the beard tickled.
“Just you today, Grandpa?” the driver asked.
Judd shrugged and rose to leave.
“Can’t believe you old guys are still working after all these years. Helluva commute, se?or.”
Judd coughed, his hand covering his face, as he descended the steps. Outside the bus, a modest gatehouse was surrounded with yellow-and-red concrete barriers, the closest ones painted with the letters USMC. A six-foot-high fence topped with razor wire ran in both directions as far as the eye could see.
“Make sure you stay on the road, Grandpa!” the Marine shouted. “It’s a minefield out there!” He laughed as he closed the door and pulled away.
Judd turned back to the security gate in front of him. On the other side of a narrow no-man’s-land was a second gate about eighty feet away. A friendly, soft-pink-and-white building with a prominent, not-so-friendly sign: REPUBLICA DE CUBA / TERRITORIO LIBRE DE AMERICA.
Judd walked slowly, with a slight hobble, and, as promised, was waved through both gates without incident. On the other side, tall cacti grew on the hills overlooking the border post.
Where’s my taxi? He was sweating more. His beard was itching fiercely. He had no phone, no ID, no money—nothing. He was standing in Cuba, alone, waiting for a car that might never come. Then what?
Judd looked up to the sky. Vultures flew high above in wide, lumbering circles. At least his back spasms had settled down.
Just then, he heard the soft rumble of a car’s engine. Through the vapors of the hot morning sun on the road suddenly appeared what looked like a smiling face. The mouth of a shiny chrome grille, the bright eyes of the headlights, a V-shaped nose in the center. Just above the nose was the giveaway: CHEVROLET. Judd rubbed his eyes as a 1957 Chevy Bel Air rolled to a gentle stop in front of him. The car was an immaculate turquoise blue like the Caribbean Sea, with a white roof, the insets of the rear wings also a perfectly polished white.
The door swung open with a slight creak. Judd bent over to peer into the car at the driver. A short Hispanic-looking man with muscular arms and black eyes looked back at him.
“Taxi, se?or?”
55.
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, 10:08 A.M.
The bottle was calling him, but he knew it was too early for scotch. The Deputy Director of Operations needed something else to calm himself. This often happened just as an operation was moving into the critical phase. It was mostly an adrenaline rush, he knew, but he didn’t want the excitement of the moment to cloud his judgment. He would need to make important decisions in the coming hours. He needed to have a clear mind.
His ex-wife used to make him protein shakes with a raw egg on the mornings when she knew he was hyped-up. But now she was making breakfast for an investment banker in Chicago. His second wife, he barely even saw her anymore.
The Deputy Director swore to himself then flipped on a headset. He touched his earpiece. “Connect me to Romeo Papa Eight.”
A few moments later, his earpiece clicked and he heard a familiar “Sir?”
“What’s your status, Romeo Papa Eight?”
“We’ve got an inbound bird, ETA Luanda, Angola, in just under an hour. They can run an accelerated turnaround and be wheels up by 1800 local time departure. That’s 1200 Eastern, sir.”
“What’s the bird?”
“Dassault Falcon 7X.”
“Meets all our specs?”
“Yes, sir. It’s right at the limit of the range, but Luanda to Cuba can be done nonstop if the load is light.”
“One passenger.”
“No problem, sir.”
“Fingerprints?”
“The Falcon is registered to a Brazilian agroprocessing firm, via S?o Paulo, Dubai, and the Caymans. Pilots are from Odessa, hired through a third party in Cape Town. It’s so clean, you can eat off the fuselage.”
“Better be,” he said, and tapped his ear to hang up. He opened his drawer, pulled out a short glass tumbler, and set it on the desk. He ran his finger around the rim as he tried to slow his breathing.
The Deputy Director tapped his ear again. “Connect me to Oscar Sierra Two.”