FRIDAY, 11:57 P.M.
The Deputy Director never felt so alive. He had tipped the taxi driver generously and was now sitting in the driver’s seat of his wife’s Audi, feeling smug satisfaction over the events of that evening. Operation Triggerfish had gone as smoothly as he could have hoped. All his moving parts—the money, the planes, the teams of operatives, his candidate—had come together under his personal direction. He was a chess master. He was on the verge of triumph.
His deployment of Jessica Ryker had been an especially brilliant move, he thought to himself. She was the perfect operative to send into Cuba for the money drop. Yes, he was going to definitively exorcise the ghost of Randolph Nye and the Bay of Pigs. He was going to be the one to redeem the CIA after half a century of failure in Cuba. He was finally going to beat Oswaldo Guerrero.
The only unplanned incident so far that day had been his rendezvous with Brenda Adelman-Zamora at the Willard Hotel. A delicious, warm-blooded bonus, he decided. “Maybe you’ll go higher,” she had suggested. “Like the next Director of National Intelligence.” For the first time, he allowed himself to consider the possibility.
The Deputy Director turned over the ignition and popped open the glove compartment. He reinserted the batteries in his cell phones, humming to himself and feeling on top of the world.
As the phones sprung back to life, they flashed a long list of urgent messages. All the warmth in his heart turned to ice.
Charlie 3 reporting no show from Alpha 99
Alpha 99 not responding
Bravo 0 hospitalized
Alpha 99 still not responding
Charlie 3 aborting
Oscar Sierra 2 aborting
Yankee Tango 4 aborting
Alpha 99 gone black
Triggerfish dead
79.
OFFSHORE EASTERN CUBA
FRIDAY, 11:59 P.M.
Nothing is dead, Oswaldo.” Judd stepped slowly toward the Cuban intelligence chief. “Our deal is still very much alive. You have ten million dollars now.”
“No,” Oswaldo insisted, pushing the pistol into Judd’s chest. “Our deal was twenty-five.”
“That’s right. And you’ll get the other fifteen. After you deliver.”
“After?” Oswaldo took a step back.
“We never pay it all up front,” Jessica said, sliding out from behind Judd. “Dr. Ryker should have explained. In the United States, we always insist on”—she looked straight at her husband—“aligned incentives.”
“Incentives?” Oswaldo narrowed his eyes and looked Jessica up and down. “Who are you?”
“She’s my partner,” Judd said, shielding his wife again. “And she’s right. In America, deals work best when both sides are—how do I put this?—motivated. Ten million now. You’ll get the rest once everything else is done.”
Oswaldo Guerrero didn’t respond.
“We still have a deal,” Judd said, unsure what was going through Oswaldo’s mind. “This is all in your interest. And in ours.”
The silence was broken by a soft chuckle. Oswaldo’s laugh built louder and then he stopped abruptly. “Self-interest promotes the common good,” he said.
“That’s . . . right.” Judd nodded as he and Jessica exchanged glances.
“Man is an animal that makes bargains,” Oswaldo announced.
Jessica shot Judd a look of confusion.
“No complaint is more common than that of a scarcity of money!” Oswaldo bellowed, waving the gun wildly.
Judd shrugged back at Jessica.
“Little else is requisite to carry a state to the highest degree of opulence from the lowest barbarism but peace, easy taxes, and a tolerable administration of justice,” Oswaldo declared. “All the rest comes about by the natural course of things!”
Judd’s face suddenly relaxed. “Adam Smith . . . ?”
“A good soldier always studies his enemy, Dr. Ryker,” Oswaldo said with a hint of a grin. “He seems appropriate at this moment, no?”
“So, are you saying . . .” Judd said as the fear and bewilderment in his chest was being replaced by a warming satisfaction “. . . we have a deal?”
Oswaldo shoved the pistol into his waistband and stuck out his hand. “Even communists respond to incentives.”
PART FOUR
SATURDAY
80.
HAVANA, CUBA
SATURDAY, 6.05 A.M.
Oswaldo, you look terrible, my friend.” The president was already at his desk, dressed in a freshly pressed battle-green suit with an open-neck collar. In front of him was the daily Communist Party newspaper, Granma, unopened, and his usual breakfast of half a grapefruit. “Did you drink too much Santiago rum last night?”
“I’m sorry, Comrade Presidente.” Oswaldo bowed his head. “I’ve been awake all night, dealing with these foolish yanqui hostages.”
The president shook his head. “I slept like a baby.” Then he flashed a smile and waved his hand over his breakfast. “Come, eat!”
“No time for breakfast, Comrade Presidente. Security of the revolution never rests.”