Ghosts of Havana (A Judd Ryker Novel) by Todd Moss Page A

were his favorites—at least once a week. She also graciously hosted an unending parade of Nigerian visitors in their suburban Los Angeles home, an occasion that often was accompanied by a feast of a whole roasted lamb.
    This combination of cunning, patriotism, and meticulousness, paired with links to a foreign culture, made Sunday an idealrecruit for the Central Intelligence Agency. It was only natural that he became a scholar of politics and the motivations of organized violence. In hindsight, it was almost inevitable that one day Sunday would fall under the wing of Professor BJ van Hollen. That eventually he would use his gifts to help the United States of America better understand what was happening in a faraway corner of the globe. That was what had brought him to this tidy cubicle.
    But unlike his Africa Issue colleagues, Sunday had little time for silly competitions over weapons or street signs. Like many Americans working undercover, Sunday really had two jobs. His day job was as a Directorate of Intelligence analyst, currently assigned to a special task force on piracy in Somalia. Yet Sunday was also working covertly for the supersecret Purple Cell, an autonomous operational unit within the National Clandestine Service run by Jessica Ryker. That, too, was thanks to BJ van Hollen.
    —
    S omeone on an upper floor of the CIA was convinced that Iran was using criminal gangs in Somalia to fund violent extremist cells, and Sunday’s current assignment was to hunt for financial fingerprints. He scanned the screen on his classified computer, running an algorithm that was trying to discern a pattern in banking transactions between Tehran and the informal hawala banks in Somalia. It was looking like another all-nighter.
    “Hey, S-Man, who’s this?” a voice shouted from behind Sunday. He spun around to find an overweight colleague, holding a stuffed moose head with a wide-brimmed safari hat. Before Sunday could reply, Glen answered, “Moose-eveny . . . Get it?”
    Glen roared with laughter.
    Sunday smiled politely, “President Museveni from Uganda. Ay. I get it.”
    “Museveni, Moose-eveny!”
    “Did you steal the president’s hat?”
    “I bought it off a coffee farmer in Kampala. Moose-eveny! I love it! I’m going to hang him up by the front door. Hey, Sunday, you want half my muffin?”
    “No thanks,” said Sunday, turning back to his computer.
    Glen occupied a faraway cubicle, but he always seemed to be hanging around this side of the office with his snacks. This morning he was brandishing an extra-large dark-chocolate muffin. “Okay, more for me,” Glen said.
    He ripped off the muffin top and shoved it into his mouth. “So . . . you find anything yet?” Glen asked while still chewing.
    “Not yet,” Sunday replied, his back still turned to his colleague.
    “Nothing?” he mumbled through a mouthful of muffin. “I’ve got SIGINT on more than a dozen pirate gangs. And I’m mapping their scouting routes correlated with the tides in the Gulf of Aden. Cutting edge analytics. The task force team chief is gonna love it. And you’ve got nothing, S-Man?”
    “No, Glen,” Sunday said. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. We are compartmentalized on this. Everything goes through the team chief, remember?”
    “I know,” he said, choking down the last of the muffin top and taking another bite. “But I thought you were supposed to be some kind of expert at tracking financial data?”
    “I’m not going to tell you that either.”
    “Hall chatter says the DNI is waiting on this one.” Glen nodded to himself. “Iran is the big leagues.”
    “I wouldn’t know, Glen.”
    Just then, Sunday’s desk phone rang. The screen showed an external line with a code he recognized. “Sorry, Glen, I’ve got to take this. Can you scarf your muffin somewhere else?”
    Glen snorted. “I’ve got pirates to catch,” he said, tucking the moose under one arm. “See you later, S-Man!”
    Once Glen was safely