“Well, movies are made up,” Judd said. “I don’t know where you expect me to get that much cash. That’s not how it works in Washington.”
“You are rich.” Oswaldo snapped his fingers. “Twenty-five million is nothing for the American government. Twenty-five million is nothing even for those Cubans living in Miami. I should ask you for more. I should ask for a hundred million.” Oswaldo rubbed his chin. “But, no. I am a socialist. I am not greedy. I only need twenty-five million.”
“What for?”
“For me. For my independence. For my total independence. What else do free men truly desire, Dr. Ryker?”
“Free men?”
“I can see where my country is going. I don’t want to be the last one. I want to live, asere.”
“I need another Bucanero,” Judd said. He accepted a beer bottle from Oswaldo and popped the top. “Even if I could get you the money—and I’m not saying I can—but if I could, it would have to be in an account somewhere.”
Oswaldo shook his head.
“We could set it up wherever you want,” Judd continued. “In Miami or New York or maybe . . . Mexico City—”
“No!” Oswaldo slammed his beer down. “You think I would fall for another yanqui trick?”
“Why would I trick you, Oswaldo? What would I have to gain?”
“With respect, Dr. Ryker”—Guerrero calmed himself—“you are nothing. You can say whatever you want here. But you cannot guarantee that the money will appear. You cannot promise to deliver. No. I’ve seen it all before.”
Judd started to reply. “What if I—”
“Untraceable cash.” Oswaldo rubbed his thumb and forefingers together. “Right here. I need to feel it. Or we are finished negotiating. You are finished.”
“That’s unreasonable, Oswaldo.”
“If you are finished, there is nothing left to discuss. I go back to Havana. I cut the throats of your four American fools at Morro Castle. I feed their flesh to the sharks. And you?” Guerrero forced a grin that sent a chill through Judd’s spine.
“Oswaldo, you can see I have nothing.” Judd showed his palms and patted his pants. “How can I just make twenty-five million dollars appear?”
Oswaldo stood up and stumbled over toward a desk. He carefully pulled open the top drawer and reached inside, feeling around clumsily for something.
Panic rose within Judd. A gun? Judd thrust his hands into the air. “What are you doing!?”
“You will make the money appear.” The Cuban turned back and tossed something black and rectangular. Judd caught the object. A satellite phone.
“Call Parker,” Oswaldo demanded.
“I thought satphones were illegal in Cuba?”
“They are. Tell Landon Parker twenty-five million. Unmarked, nonsequential bills.”
67.
FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA
FRIDAY, 4:41 P.M.
Jessica was still steaming when her phone rang. No matter what the Deputy Director says, she decided, I’m still out. But the number displayed on her phone started +882 and then a string of random numbers she didn’t recognize. An anonymous satellite phone.
“Hell-o?”
“State Operations Center? This is Judd Ryker with S/CRU,” her husband’s voice said. “This is an urgent call. Please connect me to Landon Parker.”
“Judd, it’s me,” she said. “You called your wife.”
“This is a priority one call,” Judd replied. “Yes, yes, thank you. I’ll hold for Mr. Parker.”
“Judd, can you hear me? It’s Jessica.”
“Yes, I can hear you, Mr. Parker,” he said. “I’m still in Cuba, but we’ve got a situation and I need your help.”
“I’m listening,” Jessica said.
“I’ve met with our contact. I’m with him right now . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . We’re making progress . . . I’m feeling good . . . Historic, yes, sir. There’s just one problem.”
“I’m listening,” she repeated.
“I need twenty-five million dollars.”
Jessica then heard some muffled noises. “Judd? Judd?”
“Twenty-five million in unmarked, nonsequential bills. It has to be untraceable, sir. That’s what I need right now or it’s all over.”
“Judd, is this for real? Is your life in danger?”
“Yes, yes. That’s correct,” Judd said. “I know it’s impossible, Mr. Parker. That’s what I told our contact, but he’s insisting that you can make it happen. If I don’t come up with twenty-five million, we are dead in the water. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Judd, I have an idea.”
“That’s what I thought, Mr. Parker . . . Very well . . . I will pass that message . . . Yes, I can give you my location.”
More muffled noise. “Here are the GPS coordinates . . .”
Jessica wrote the digits that her husband recited on her arm with a pen and then quickly hung up. She dialed another number.
A young female voice answered. “Coney Island Pizza.”
68.
SANTIAGO, CUBA
FRIDAY, 5:32 P.M.