U.S. STATE DEPARTMENT HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
THURSDAY, 8:22 P.M.
Where the hell is Jessica?” Judd shouted to his empty office. He slammed down the phone.
He hadn’t wanted help from his wife. But he hadn’t seen any option, so he’d reluctantly asked Jessica to go to the fund-raiser for Brenda Adelman-Zamora and see what she could find out. He was hoping she would discover a link to Ruben Sandoval. Or at least a clue as to the political activities of the Cuban exile community in Florida. Something. Anything.
But she hadn’t called him back. Jessica also hadn’t replied to his text messages and now she wasn’t answering her phone. It was going straight to voicemail as if her phone were turned off. Or lost. That wasn’t like her.
Judd tried to concentrate on his work, on figuring out the connections between Sandoval, Richard Green, the captured Americans, the White House, and the U.S. Congress. Judd knew he was missing something, probably something big. And he was now reliant, yet again, on Jessica to find the lost piece of the puzzle.
Where they hell was she? Assist was rule one. This was why Judd and Jessica had promised to help each other when they could. They wouldn’t become entangled in each other’s missions, but they were supposed to be a team. So where was she?
Maybe asking his wife to go to a party at a fancy house in South Florida was a mistake? Party . . . Judd thought. I’m stuck here in the stale air of a State Department office while Jessica is probably sipping champagne?