Pitt scrounged some mangoes, a pineapple, and two half-ripened tomatoes. They ate as they walked. Several vehicles, mostly trucks loaded with sugarcane and cirtrus fruits, passed them. Once in a while a military transport carrying militia swept by. Jessie would tense and look down at her tightly laced boots nervously while Pitt lifted his rifle in the air and shouted "Saludos amigos!"
"A good thing they can't hear you clearly," she said.
"Why is that?" he asked in mock indignation.
"Your Spanish is awful."
"It always got me by at the dog races in Tijuana."
"It won't do here. You'd better let me do the talking."
"You think your Spanish is better than mine?"
"I can speak it like a native. I can also converse fluently in Russian, French, and German."
"I'm continually amazed at your talents," Pitt said sincerely. "Did Velikov know you spoke Russian?"
"We'd have all been dead if he had."
Pitt started to say something and suddenly gestured ahead. They were rounding a curve, and he pointed at a car parked by the highway. The hood was up and someone was leaning over the fender, his head and shoulders lost in the engine compartment.
Jessie hesitated, but Pitt took her by the hand and tugged her along. "You handle this," he said softly. "Don't be frightened. We're both in military uniform, and mine belongs to an elite assault force."
"What should I say?"
"Play along. This may be a chance to get a ride."
Before she could protest, the driver heard their feet on the gravel and turned at their approach. He was a short man in his fifties with thick black hair and dark skin. He was shirtless and wore only shorts and sandals. Military uniforms were so common in Cuba he scarcely gave them any notice. He flashed a broad smile. "Hola."
"Having motor trouble?" Jessie asked in Spanish.
"Third time this month." He gave a helpless shrug. "She just stopped."
"Do you know the problem?"
He held up a short length of wire that had rotted apart in three different places and was barely hanging together by its insulation. "Runs from the coil to the distributor."
"You should have replaced it with a new one."
He looked at her suspiciously. "Parts for old cars like this one are impossible to find. You must know that."
Jessie caught her mistake and, smiling sweetly, quickly played on Latin machismo. "I'm only a woman. What would I know about mechanics?"
"Ah," he said, smiling graciously, "but a very pretty woman."
Pitt paid little attention to the conversation. He was walking around the car, examining its lines. He leaned over the front end and studied the engine for a moment. Then he straightened and stepped back.
"A fifty-seven Chevy," he said admiringly in English. "One damned fine automobile. Ask him if he has a knife and some tape."
Jessie's mouth dropped open in shock.
The driver looked at him uncertainly, unsure of what to do. Then he asked in broken English, "You no speak Spanish?"
"Faith and what's the matter?" Pitt boomed. "Haven't you ever laid eyes on an Irishman before?"
"Why an Irelander wearing a Cuban uniform?"
"Major Paddy O'Hara, Irish Republican Army, on assignment as an adviser to your militia."
The Cuban's face lit up like a camera flash, and Pitt was pleased to see that the man was duly impressed.
"Herberto Figueroa," he said, offering his hand. "I learn English many years ago when the Americans were here."
Pitt took it and nodded at Jessie. "Corporal Maria Lopez, my aide and guide. She also interprets my fractured Spanish."
Figueroa dipped his head and noticed Jessie's wedding ring. "Senora Lopez.'' He tilted his head to Pitt. "She understand English?" pronouncing it "chee unnarstan Englaise?"
"A little," Pitt answered. "Now then, if you can give me a knife and some tape, I think I can get you going again."
"Sure, sure," said Figueroa. He pulled a pocketknife from the glove compartment and found a small roll of friction tape in a toolbox in the trunk.
Pitt reached down into the engine, cut a few excess lengths of wire from the spark plug leads, and spliced the ends back together. Then he did the same with the extra pieces until he had a wire that stretched from the coil to the distributor.
"Okay, give her a try."
Figueroa turned the ignition key and the big 283-cubic-inch V-8 coughed once, twice, and settled into a throaty roar.
"Magnifico!" shouted Figueroa happily. "Can I give you a ride?"
"How far you going?"
"Havana. I live there. My sister's husband died in Nuevitas. I went to help her with the funeral. Now I'm on my way home."
Pitt nodded to Jessie. This was their lucky day. He tried to picture the shape of Cuba, and he rightly calculated that Havana was very nearly two hundred miles to the northeast as the crow flies, more like three hundred by road.
He held the front seat forward as Jessie climbed in the rear. "We're grateful to you, Herberto. My staff car developed an oil leak and the engine froze up about two miles back. We were traveling to a training camp east of Havana. If you can drop us off at the Ministry of Defense, I'll see that you get paid for your trouble."
Jessie's jaw dropped and she stared at Pitt with a classic expression of distaste. He knew that in her mind she was calling him a cocky bastard.
"Your bad luck is my good luck," said Figueroa, happy at the prospect of picking up a few extra pesos.
Figueroa spun gravel on the shoulder as he quickly moved onto the asphalt, shifting through the gears until the Chevy was spinning along at a respectable seventy miles an hour. The engine sounded smooth, but the body rattled in a dozen places and the exhaust fumes leaked through the rusted floorboards.
Pitt stared at Jessie's face in the rearview mirror. She seemed uncomfortable and out of her element. A limousine was more to her liking. Pitt positively enjoyed himself. For the moment, his love of old cars overcame any thoughts of danger.
"How many miles do you have on her?" he asked.
"Over six hundred and eighty thousand kilometers," Figueroa answered.
"She's still got good power."
"If the Yankees ever dropped their trade embargo, I might be able to buy new parts and keep her going. But she can't last forever."
"Do you have any trouble at the checkpoints?"
"I'm always waved on through."
"You must have influence. What do you do in Havana?"
Figueroa laughed. "I'm a cabdriver."
Pitt did not try to suppress a smile. This was even better than he had hoped. He sat back and relaxed, enjoying the scenery like a tourist. He tried to apply his mind to LeBaron's cryptic direction to the treasure of La Dorada, but his thinking was clouded with remorse.
He knew that at some time, somewhere along the road he might have to take what little money Figueroa carried and steal his cab. Pitt hoped he would not have to kill the friendly little man in the bargain.
<<63>>
The President returned to the White House from the Kennedy Space Center late in the evening and went directly to the Oval Office. After secretly meeting with Steinmetz and the moon colonists and hearing the enthusiastic reports of their explorations, he felt exhilarated. Sleep was forgotten as he walked into his office alone, inspired to plan a new range of space goals.
He sat down behind the big desk and opened a lower drawer. He lifted out a walnut humidor and removed a large cigar. He peeled off the cellophane, stared a moment at the dark brown, tightly wrapped leafy cover, and inhaled the heady aroma. It was a Montecristo, the finest cigar Cuba made, and banned from American import by the trade embargo on Cuban goods.
The President relied on an old trusted school pal to smuggle him a box every two months from Canada. Even his wife and closest aides were unaware of his cache. He clipped one end and exactingly lit the other, wondering as he always did what kind of uproar the public would raise if they discovered his cland
estine and slightly illegal indulgence.
Tonight he did not give a damn. He was riding high. The economy was holding, and Congress had finally got around to passing tough budget cuts and a flat-tax law. The international scene had entered a cooling-off period, however temporary, and his popularity polls showed him up five percentage points. And now he was about to make a political profit on his predecessors' foresight, just as Nixon did after the success of the Apollo program. The stunning success of the moon colony would be the high-water mark of his administration.
His next goal was to enhance his image on Latin American affairs. Castro had cracked open the door with his offer of a treaty. Now, if the President could slip his foot over the threshold before it slammed shut again, he might have a fighting chance to neutralize Marxist influence in the Americas.
The prospects appeared gloomy at the moment. It was most likely that Pitt and Jessie LeBaron had been either shot or arrested. If they had not, then it was only a matter of hours before the inevitable happened. The only course of action was to slip someone else into Cuba to make contact with Castro.
His intercom buzzed. "Yes?"
"Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. President," said a White House operator, "but Mr. Brogan is calling and he says it is urgent he speak with you."
"It's quite all right. Please put him on."
There was a slight click and Martin Brogan said, "Did I catch you in bed?"
"No, I'm still up. What's on your mind that couldn't wait until tomorrow's briefing?"
"I'm still at Andrews Field. My deputy was waiting for me with a translated document that was taken from Cayo Santa Maria. It contains some pretty hot material."
"Can you fill me in?"
"The Russians are going to knock off Castro the day after tomorrow.
The operation is code-named `Rum and Cola.' It details the complete takeover of the Cuban government by Soviet agents."
The President watched the blue smoke from the Havana cigar curl toward the ceiling. "They're making their move sooner than we figured," he said thoughtfully. "How do they intend to eliminate Castro?"
"The wild part of the plan," said Brogan. "The GRU arm of the KGB intends to blitz the city along with him."
"Havana?"
"A damned good chunk of it."
"Jesus Christ, you're talking a nuclear bomb."
"I've got to be honest and say the document does not state the exact means, but it's quite clear that some kind of explosive device is being smuggled into the harbor by ship that can level four square miles."
Depression settled around the President and dampened his high spirits. "Does the document give the name of the ship?"
"It mentions three ships but none by name."
"And when is the blast supposed to be set off?"
"During an Education Day celebration. The Russians are counting on Castro making an unscheduled appearance and giving his usual two-hour harangue."
"I can't believe Antonov is a party to such horror. Why not send in a local team of hit men and gun Castro down? What's to be gained by taking a hundred thousand innocent victims with him?"
"Castro is a cult figure to the Cubans," explained Brogan. "A cartoon Communist to us maybe, but a revered god to them. A simple assassination will ignite an overwhelming ground swell of resentment against the Soviet-backed parties who replace him. But a major disaster-- that would give the new leaders a rallying cry and a cause to incite the people to close ranks behind a new government, particularly if it was proven the United States was the culprit, specifically the CIA."
"I still can't conceive of such a monstrous scheme."
"I assure you, Mr. President, everything is spelled out in black and white." Brogan paused to scan a page of the document. "Odd thing, it's vague about the details of the explosion, but very specific in listing the step-by-step propaganda campaign to blame us. It even lists the names of the Soviet cohorts and the positions they are to move into after they seize control. You may be interested to learn that Alicia Cordero is to be the new President."
"God help us. She's twice the fanatic Fidel is."
"In any case, the Soviets win and we lose."
The President laid the cigar in an ashtray and closed his eyes. The problems never end, he mused. One begets another. The triumphs of office do not last very long. The pressure and the frustrations never let up.
"Can our Navy stop those ships?" he asked.
"According to the schedule, two of them have already docked in Havana," answered Brogan. "The third should be entering the harbor any hour. I had the same idea but we're an inch early and a mile late."
"We must have the names of those ships."
"I've already got my people checking on all shipping arrivals in Havana Harbor. They should have identification within the hour."
"Of all the times for Castro to hide out," the President said in exasperation.
"We found him."
"Where?"
"At his country retreat. He's cut off all contact with the outside world. Even his closest advisers and the Soviet bigwigs can't reach him."
"Who do we have on our team who can meet him face to face?"
Brogan grunted. "No one."
"There must be somebody we can send in."
"If Castro was in a communicative mood, I can think of at least ten people on our payroll who could get through the front gate. But not as things stand now."
The President toyed with the cigar, fumbling for inspiration. "How many Cubans can you trust in Havana who work the docks and have maritime experience?"
"I'd have to check."
"Guess."
"Off the top of my head, maybe fifteen or twenty."
"All right," the President said. "Round them up. Have them get on board those ships somehow and find which one is carrying the bomb."
"Someone who knows what he's doing will have to defuse it."
"We'll cross that bridge when we learn where it's hidden."
"A day and a half isn't much time," Brogan said glumly. "Better we concentrate on sorting out the mess afterward."
"You'd better get the show moving. Keep me informed every two hours. Turn everyone you've got in the Cuban department loose on this thing."
"What about warning Castro?"
"My job. I'll handle it."
"Good luck, Mr. President."
"Same to you, Martin."
The President hung up. His cigar had gone out. He refit it, then picked up the phone again and placed a call to Ira Hagen.
<<64>>
The guard was young, no more than sixteen, eager and dedicated to Fidel Castro and committed to revolutionary vigilance. He glowed with self-importance and official arrogance as he swaggered to the car window, rifle slung tightly over one shoulder, and demanded to see identification papers.
"It had to happen," Pitt muttered under his breath.
The guards at the first three checkpoints had lazily waved Figueroa through when he flashed his taxi driver's permit. They were campesinos who chose the routine of a military career over a dead-end life of working in the fields or factories. And like soldiers in every army of the world, they found sentry duty tedious, eventually losing all suspicions except when their superiors arrived for an inspection.
Figueroa handed the youngster his permit.
"This only covers the Havana city borders. What are you doing in the country?"
"My brother-in-law died," Figueroa said patiently. "I went to his funeral."
The guard bent down and looked through the driver's open window. "Who are these others?"
"Are you blind?" Figueroa snapped. "They're military like you."
"We have orders to be on the watch for a man wearing a stolen militia uniform. He is suspected of being an imperialist spy who landed on a beach one hundred miles east of here."
"Because she is wearing a militia uniform," said Figueroa, pointing to Jessie in the backseat, "you think the Yankee imperialists are sending women to invade us?"
; "I want to see their identification papers," the guard persisted.
Jessie rolled down the rear window and leaned out. "This is Major O'Hara of the Irish Republican Army, on assignment as an adviser. I'm Corporal Lopez, his aide. Enough of this nonsense. Pass us through."
The guard kept his eyes on Pitt. "If he's a major, why isn't he showing his rank?"
For the first time it occurred to Figueroa that there was no insignia on Pitt's uniform. He stared at Pitt, a doubtful frown spreading across his face.
Pitt sat there without taking part in the exchange. Then he slowly turned and gazed into the guard's eyes and gave him a friendly smile. When he spoke his voice was soft, but it carried total authority.
"Get this man's name and rank. I wish to have him commended for his attention to duty. General Raul Castro has often said Cuba needs men of this caliber."
Jessie translated and watched with relief as the guard stood erect and smiled.
Then Pitt's tone turned glacial, and so did his eyes. "Now tell him to stand clear or I'll arrange to have him sent as a volunteer to Afghanistan."
The young guard seemed to shrink perceptibly as Jessie repeated Pitt's words in Spanish. He stood lost, undecided what to do as a long black car pulled up and stopped behind the old cab. Pitt recognized it as a Zil, a seven-seater luxury limousine built in Russia for high-ranking government and military officials.
The Zil's driver honked his horn impatiently, and the guard seemed frozen with indecision. He turned and stared pleadingly at another guard, but his partner was occupied with traffic traveling in the other direction. The limousine's driver honked again and shouted out his side window.
"Move that car aside and let us pass!"
Then Figueroa got into the act and began yelling at the Russians. "Stupid Russo, shut up and take a bath! I can smell you from here!"
The Soviet driver pushed open his door, leaped from behind the wheel, and shoved the guard aside. He was built like a bowling pin, huge, beefy body and small head. His rank indicated that he was a sergeant. He stared at Figueroa through eyes burning with malice.
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