—
Ricky winced at the memory of the gator and that day that everything changed.
He pushed open the door and darted inside the empty wooden hut. The air was humid and thick. Mosquitos buzzed his ears. He waved them away and then began tapping on the floorboards until he heard a comforting change in pitch. Bingo! Ricky lifted up a panel to reveal a black metal hatch with a small plexiglass screen. The old combination lock had long ago been replaced by a modern electronic keypad. Ricky tapped in the code and pulled opened the heavy metal door with a hollow thud.
The sight of all that money still gave Ricky a rush. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his face, and checked over his shoulder through the door one more time. Then he carefully counted out two million dollars and stacked the bills in the suitcase. Satisfied, he shut the case and spun the lock. One down, four to go, he thought.
Ricky checked his watch. Right on time.
64.
OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA
FRIDAY, 4:18 P.M.
Judd Ryker and Oswaldo Guerrero had each finished their plates. The table was covered with empty beer bottles and spilled rum. The two men had talked around in circles, probing each other, trying to find common ground, never quite trusting the other. The alcohol was helping, a convenient diplomatic lubricant.
“What happened to your tooth, amigo?” Judd asked his host.
Oswaldo tapped his golden front incisor. “The same way I broke my nose.” He rubbed the end of his nose. “Boxing.” He held up two meaty fists. “I was a champion of the Rebel Youth Association.”
“We don’t box much back in Vermont,” Judd said.
“You don’t fight, asere? More of a lover, no?” He smiled and winked.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You were wise to give up trying to beat me,” Oswaldo bellowed, slapping Judd forcefully on the back. “You yanquis are just playing cowboy games. We Cubans are fighting for survival.” He held up his fists again and shadowboxed. “If you lose to me, you just go back to your shopping malls and your hamburgers. We have no choice. We cannot afford to lose.”
“We should finish,” Judd suggested, directing Oswaldo’s attention to a scrap of paper in front of him. Judd had scrawled the outlines of their agreement so far.
hostage release → wheat
private enterprise → travel & trade
free elections → recovery package
“Okay, Oswaldo, this is what we’ve agreed. Three phases, three steps.”
Judd was feeling confident that he was close to a breakthrough. He’d bonded with Oswaldo Guerrero over beer and baseball while they negotiated their countries’ futures for hours on a ship floating off the coast of Cuba. The events of today were also deniable. If it all went wrong, Judd wasn’t even officially here. No one would even know . . . And now Judd was sealing the deal with a simple package of incentives. Cuba does this, America does that. Everyone was out for themselves, all in the service of the common good. Whatever Landon Parker and Melanie Eisenberg would have thought, Adam Smith would have been proud.
“Once you release the prisoners, we’ll deliver enough wheat to refill your stocks,” Judd stated. “Once you allow—”
“Yes, yes, Dr. Ryker. We’ll let businesses open and you’ll end what remains of the blockade. We’ve agreed to all of that.” Oswaldo poked Judd’s paper with his finger. “We haven’t dealt with the toughest problem at all. The big thing that will stop us all from success.”
“The return of seized private property.” Judd nodded to himself. “I was hoping that we could leave that tricky issue for the very end. The exiles in Miami are going to insist on something. My thinking is that Cuba would commit to full restitution in exchange for new credit—”
“No, no, no. Not the exiles. Not the traitors. They’re not the issue.”
“Then what?”
Oswaldo threw back another shot of rum. “The boss.”
“El Comrade Jefe?”
Oswaldo shook his head. “El Comrade Presidente. ECP.”
“Are you saying ECP isn’t on board?”
“If the Comrades knew I was here talking you, I would be . . .” Oswaldo dragged a finger across his neck.
Judd sat back in his chair to digest this new piece of information. “You’re rogue?”
Oswaldo poured the two of them another drink. “I’m rogue, Dr. Ryker? What about you? You came to me in disguise, hidden from your own people. Why didn’t you just fly into the airport at Havana? Why are you dressed like a peasant and not a diplomat?”
“Discretion, Oswaldo. Your people are watching the borders.”
“Of course!” Oswaldo laughed. “I must control any knowledge of your arrival. Or we’d both already be”—the Cuban grabbed Judd by the throat and pretended to choke him—“dead.”
“So”—Judd pushed Oswaldo’s hands away—“on whose authority are you negotiating with me?”