“No, Miguel,” Oswaldo scolded, “That would be disrespectful. I need something modest for this important journey.”
“I have a Cessna we captured from the terrorist traitors in Miami.”
“Yes, Miguel! I will fly myself in the Cessna!”
“But to where, Oswaldo?”
“I need to inform our closest friends and to seek their continued support for the revolution!”
“Venezuela or Bolivia?”
“Yes, Miguel! I’ll be back!” he said as he ran out the door.
But in his mind, Oswaldo knew he was taking the plane on a one-way journey to Costa Rica. To a secret jungle airfield in the southwest of that country. To a modest villa high in the mountains above the little village of Ojochal. For six months. To lay low, out of sight. Before he and his duffel bag full of all those American dollars could move, incognito, to Madrid or Mexico City. Or maybe even one day . . . to Florida.
83.
FORT LAUDERDALE, FLORIDA
SATURDAY, 9:12 A.M.
Jessica glared at the screen on her phone, unsure of her next move.
She and Judd had flown back from the Granma Nueva to the United States in silence. The only words were Judd’s as they took off: “So, you fly helicopters?”
Jessica had just nodded in response, and thrust the cyclic control stick forward, pitching the Raider’s nose down and shooting them both back toward Florida, toward their children, closer to their next, unavoidable, confrontation.
Judd and Jessica were both processing what had just happened. Each was still unsure whether his or her own mission was fulfilled or not. The Rykers each stared ahead, recalling the chain of recent events, counting the lies, reliving how close they came to being killed in that floating Cuban tin can. How they nearly wound up dead and dumped in the Caribbean by the Devil of Santiago. Both still unclear what they had just accomplished. Or what was coming next.
Just as the sun peeked over the horizon, they had crossed back into American airspace and landed at Homestead Air Reserve Base. They then drove in the rented Mustang convertible north, past Miami, back to Fort Lauderdale. Again, in total silence.
Four times on the seventy-minute car journey Jessica’s phone had rung. Each time, DANIEL DOLLAR flashed on her little screen. Each time, she pushed DIVERT TO VOICEMAIL. Not yet, she told herself.
Once back at the house, she had dismissed Aunt Lulu and put Justice League cartoons on the television for her children, then climbed in bed for a hard-earned nap. Judd had joined her, too, exhausted from the all-nighter, drained from the agony of their unresolved chess game.
—
Now, waking in crisp sheets next to her husband but still yet to face him, she glared at that tiny screen, knowing that it was better to get this first battle over. Before turning to the bigger one with Judd.
She got up without waking her husband and walked out onto the terrace, overlooking the water. She dialed a number.
“Coney Island Pizza.”
Jessica took a deep breath. “I have a special order for urgent delivery.”
“We’re closed.”
“Closed?” she asked. “What—”
The phone went dead.
Before Jessica could redial or react, she heard a loud, gruff voice calling her name from inside.
“Someone’s in the house!” Judd was up.
“It’s okay,” she said, coming back into the bedroom.
“I definitely heard someone in the house!” he said. He threw open the closet door and grabbed a 3 iron golf club.
“Judd,” she said calmly, placing her hand on his shoulder, “it’s okay. I will deal with this.”
“Jessica Ryker!” bellowed the voice again from downstairs.
“And when I’m done dealing with this,” she said, “we’ll take the boys to the beach and we can finally talk. We can sit in the sun. We can figure it all out. Okay?”
“Jessica Ryker!” boomed the voice.
“I’m going to do this now,” she said. She stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door.
“It’s about fucking time,” the intruder said just as Jessica appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“I was sleeping. You just walked in.”
“It’s my fucking house,” said the Deputy Director.
She nodded.
“What did you do?” he said, shaking his head.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“You were supposed to hand over the cash to Charlie at Bacanao, but you never arrived. You fucked the whole thing up. You killed Operation Triggerfish.”