Cyclops Page 39

  Jessie was snapped back to reality as Pitt leaned into the pipe and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

  She looked away nervously. "Battered but ready to meet the day" "Sorry about not having breakfast ready," he said, his voice hollow through the pipe. "The room service leaves much to be desired hereabouts."

  "I'd sell my soul for a cup of coffee."

  "According to a road sign I spotted a few hundred yards up the road, we're ten kilometers from the next town."

  "What time is it?"

  "Twenty minutes to one."

  "The day is half gone," she said, rolling to her hands and knees, and beginning to crawl toward the light. "We have to get moving."

  "Stay where you are."

  "Why?"

  He didn't answer, but returned and sat down beside her. He gently took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth.

  Jessie's eyes widened, and then she returned his kiss hungrily. After a long moment, he pulled back.

  She waited expectantly, but he made no further move, just sat there and stared into her eyes.

  "I want you," she said.

  "Yes."

  "Now."

  He drew her to him, pressing against her body, and kissed her again. Then he broke away from her.

  "First things first."

  She gave him a hurt, curious look. "Like what things?"

  "Like why did you hijack me to Cuba?"

  "You have a strange sense of timing."

  "I don't usually conduct foreplay in a drainpipe either."

  "What do you want to know?"

  "Everything."

  "And if I don't tell you?"

  He laughed. "We shake hands and part company."

  For a few seconds she lay against the side of the pipe, considering how far she would get without him.

  Probably no farther than the next town, the first suspicious policeman or security guard. Pitt seemed an incredibly resourceful man. He had proven that several times over. There was no avoiding the hard fact that she needed him more than he needed her.

  She tried to find the right words to explain, an introduction that made some kind of sense. Finally she gave up and blurted it out. "The President sent me to meet with Fidel Castro."

  His deep green eyes examined her with honest curiosity. "That's a good start. I'd like to hear the rest."

  Jessie took a deep breath and continued.

  She revealed Fidel Castro's genuine offer of a pact and his bizarre manner of sending it past the watchful eyes of Soviet intelligence.

  She told of her secret meeting with the President after the unexpected return of the Prosperteer and his request for her to convey his reply by retracing her husband's flight in the blimp, a guise Castro would have recognized.

  She admitted the deception in recruiting Pitt, Giordino, and Gunn, and she asked Pitt's forgiveness for a plan gone wrong by the surprise attack from the Cuban helicopter.

  And last, she described General Velikov's narrowing suspicion of the true purpose behind the botched attempt to reach Castro and his demand for answers through Foss Gly's torture methods.

  Pitt listened to the whole story without comment.

  His response was the part she dreaded. She feared what he would say or do now that he had discovered how he had been used, lied to, and misled, battered bloody and nearly killed on several occasions for a mission he knew nothing about. She felt he had every right to strangle her.

  She could think of nothing further to say except "I'm sorry."

  Pitt did not strangle her. He held out his hand. She grasped it, and he pulled her toward him. "So you conned me all up and down the line," he said.

  God, those green eyes, she thought. She wanted to dive into them. "I can't blame you for being angry."

  He embraced her for several moments silently.

  "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Aren't you going to say something?" she asked timidly. "Aren't you even mad?"

  He unbuttoned the shirt of the uniform and lightly touched her breasts. "Lucky for you I'm not one to harbor a grudge."

  Then they made love as the traffic rumbled over the highway above.

  Jessie felt incredibly calm. The warm feeling had stayed with her for the last hour as they walked openly along the road's shoulder. It spread like an anesthetic, deadening her fear and sharpening her confidence. Pitt had accepted her story and agreed to help her reach Castro. And now she walked along beside him as he led her through the backcountry of Cuba as though he owned it, feeling secure and warm in the afterglow of their intimacy.

  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 clandestine 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 rep
lace 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."