Clive Cussler - Cyclops

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.

"Idiot," he snarled. "Move this wreck."

Figueroa shook his fist in the Russian's face. "I'll go when my countryman tells me to."

"Please, please," Jessie pleaded, shaking Figueroa's shoulder "We don't want any trouble."

"Discretion isn't a Cuban virtue," Pitt murmured. He cradled the assault rifle in his arms with the muzzle pointed at the Russian and eased the door open.