Seconds later, he was on the line with another of his operations teams.
“What’s your status, Oscar Sierra Two?”
“The package is being extracted. Bravo Zero is on his way to the site. It’ll be ready to fly in two hours.”
“What’s the weight?”
“Two hundred and four pounds total.”
“Bundled how?”
“Just as you requested, sir. Five cases, forty pounds each.”
“That’s two million per case?”
“Yes, sir. Ten million total. Do you need more? We can pack whatever you need, sir.”
“Ten will do for now. But be ready in case we need a second shipment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want it at the gator drop near Homestead by twenty-one thirty. That’s as far as I need Bravo Zero to take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up. The pieces were falling into place. He had compartmentalized the entire operation. He was the one person on the planet who knew how it all fit together. That was the only way to make it work, he knew. That was the downfall of Rainmaker, Pandora, Pit Boss, and all the other operations that had failed before. Too many cooks, too much groupthink, too many leaks. The only way to beat Oswaldo Guerrero in his own backyard was to do it all himself.
One more tap of the ear. “I want Yankee Tango Four.”
While he waited to connect, he walked over to an antique credenza on the far side of his office. He opened one of the doors and extracted a bottle of eighteen-year-old Oban Single Malt Scotch Whisky. He had bought that bottle on a long-ago trip to Scotland, an excursion after visiting GCHQ in Cheltenham. He’d been waiting for a reason to celebrate.
Click-click! “What’s your status, Yankee Tango Four?” he asked, returning to his desk and setting the bottle next to the tumbler.
“No bread tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?”
“Wheat stocks are down. The imports won’t be arriving. We’ve made sure of that. When Mama Bear goes to the cupboard, the cupboard will be bare.”
He poured two fingers of scotch into the glass.
“And the streets?” he asked.
“Yankee Tango Four is ready in Santiago. Just waiting for the payouts to arrive.”
The Deputy Director nodded to himself and took a healthy sip of the Oban.
“Operation Triggerfish is a go.”
56.
FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA
FRIDAY, 10:15 A.M.
Jessica tried to concentrate on Treasure Island. Her sons, Noah and Toby, were splashing in the pool, the sun was hot, the day was perfect. Except that Judd wasn’t there.
Late the previous night, she had told the Deputy Director of the CIA that she was opting out of his Cuba operation, whatever he was up to. She had fed Judd a few clues and had Sunday digging for more back at Langley. She had helped her husband because he asked. That was their deal. Assist. But don’t get too close. Jessica was pulling back from Cuba. She was putting an end to the unavoidable lies. Eight lies already was enough. This was the only way.
Jessica tried to relax. That was why she was here in Florida, she told herself. She stared at the words on the page. But she couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t read. She couldn’t clear her mind.
The Deputy Director had agreed to let her off . . . too easily. That wasn’t his way. He must have sent her down to South Florida for . . . something else. It couldn’t have been to just check out one missing fishing boat. He could have sent a rookie operative to do that. Hell, he could have sent Aunt Lulu. No, Jessica was certain there was something else going on here and that the Agency—her Agency—was deeply involved.
She had pieced together a lot and had told Judd what she knew. She had gone to the fund-raising party for him, too. That was the deal. Did that make up for the lies? Then Ricky Green had tried to kill her at the party. She had decided not to tell Judd about that. And now Judd—her Judd—was in the middle of some murky diplomatic backchannel. It didn’t add up. It made her nervous. But she had decided to let it go. To avoid.
Then Judd had called that morning and asked about one Oswaldo Guerrero. That was why she couldn’t relax. The web of lies—to her boss, to her husband, to herself—wasn’t clearing. It was thickening. That wasn’t the plan.
The deal with Judd was supposed to unburden herself. Assist, avoid, admit. Rather than rise above all the lies, she was somehow getting in deeper. And the more she tried to pull back, the farther in she waded. There was nothing left to do but . . . to push through and come out the other side.
She stared again at the pages of Treasure Island without seeing the words. She was plotting. She decided the logical next step was figuring out exactly who Judd was meeting. How to help him succeed one more time so they could start all over again? So many unanswered questions, but right now what she needed to know most of all was . . . who is this Oswaldo Guerrero?
On cue, her phone rang.
“It’s me, ma’am,” Sunday said.
“Why are you out of breath?”
“I ran into the parking lot to make this call. It’s not good.”