The driver was alone. He looked down from the cab questioningly. Pitt motioned him out and pointed vigorously under the truck. Curious, the driver stepped to the ground and crouched down next to Pitt, who was staring intently at the drive shaft. Seeing nothing wrong, the driver turned just as Pitt chopped him on the back of the neck.
The driver went limp and Pitt caught him over a shoulder. He heaved the unconscious Cuban into the truck's cab and quickly climbed in. The engine was running and he shifted it into gear and drove toward the tree that shielded the Chevy from the air.
"Everyone climb aboard," he said, jumping down from the cab.
Jessie shrank back in disgust. "God, what's in there?"
"The polite word is manure."
"You expect me to wallow in filth?" demanded Velikov.
"Not only wallow," Pitt replied, "you're going to bury yourselves in it." He took the assault rifle from Jessie and prodded the general none too gently in the kidneys. "Up you go, General. You've probably rubbed many a KGB victim in slime. Now it's your turn."
Velikov shot Pitt a malignant look, and then climbed into the back of the truck. Jessie reluctantly followed as Pitt began stripping off the driver's clothes. They were several sizes too small and he had to leave the shirt unbuttoned and the pants fly unzipped to get into them. He quickly slipped his combat fatigues on the Cuban and dragged him up into the back with the others. He handed the rifle back to Jessie. She needed no instructions and placed the muzzle against Velikov's head. He found a shovel in a rack beside the cab and began to cover them.
Jessie gagged and fought to keep from retching. "I don't think I can take this."
"Be thankful it came from horses and cattle and not the city sewer."
"That's easy for you to say, you're driving."
When they were all invisible but could still breathe, Pitt returned to the cab and drove the truck back to the highway. He paused before turning as a flight of three military helicopters whirled overhead and a transport convoy of armed troops sped in the direction of the wrecked Zil.
Pitt waited and then turned left onto the highway. He was about to enter the city limits of Matanzas when he came to a roadblock manned by an armored car and nearly fifty soldiers, all looking very grim and purposeful.
He stopped and held out the papers he had taken off the driver. His scheme worked even better than he had imagined. The guards never came near the obnoxious-smelling truck. They waved him through, glad to see him on his way and happy to breathe fresh air again.
An hour and a half later the sun had fallen in the west and the lights of Havana twinkled to life. Pitt arrived in the city and drove up the Via Blanca. Except for the truck's aroma, he felt safely anonymous in the noisy, bustling, rush-hour traffic. He also felt more secure entering the city during the evening.
With no passport and no money his only option was to make contact with the American mission at the Swiss Embassy. They could take Jessie off his hands and keep him hidden until his passport and entry papers were sent by diplomatic courier from Washington. Once he became an official tourist, he could search for the riddle of the La Dorada treasure.
Velikov presented no problem. Alive, the general was a dangerous menace. He would go on murdering and torturing. Dead, he was only a memory. Pitt decided to kill him with one quick shot in a deserted alley. Anyone curious enough to investigate would simply chalk the blast up to a backfire from the truck.
He turned into a narrow road between a row of deserted warehouses near the dock area and stopped the truck. He left the engine running and stepped to the rear of the truck. As he climbed over the tailgate, he saw Jessie's head and arms protruding from the load of manure. Blood was seeping from a small gash in her temple and her right eye was swelling and turning purple. The only signs of Velikov and the Cuban driver were hollowed-out indentations where Pitt had buried them.
They were gone.
He eased her out of the muck and brushed it away from her cheeks. Her eyes fluttered open and focused on him, and after a moment she slowly shook her head from side to side. "I'm sorry, I messed things up."
"What happened?" he asked.
"The driver came to and attacked me. I didn't yell to you for help because I was afraid we might arouse suspicion and be stopped by police. We wrestled for the gun and it was lost over the side of the truck. Then the general grabbed my arms and the driver beat me until I passed out." Something suddenly occurred to her and she looked around wildly. "Where are they?"
"Must have jumped from the truck," he answered. "Can you remember where or how long ago it took place?"
The effort of concentration showed on her face. "I think it was about the time we were coming into the city. I recall hearing the sound of heavy traffic."
"Less than twenty minutes ago."
He helped her to the side of the truck bed and gently lowered her to the ground. "Best if we leave the truck here and catch a cab."
"I can't go anywhere smelling like this," she said in surprise. "And look at you. You look ridiculous.
Your whole front end is open."
Pitt shrugged. "Oh, well, I won't be arrested for indecent exposure. I still have my shorts on."
"We can't catch a cab," she said in exasperation. "We don't have any Cuban pesos."
"The American mission at the Swiss Embassy will take care of it. Do you know where they're located?"
"It's called the Special Interests Section. Cuba has the same setup in Washington. The building faces the water on a boulevard called the Malecon."
"We'll hide out until it gets dark. Maybe we can find a water faucet and clean you up. Velikov will launch a full-scale search of the city for us. They'll probably watch the embassy, so we'll have to figure a way to sneak in. You feel strong enough to start walking?"
"You know something," she said with a pained smile, "I'm getting awfully tired of you asking that question."
<<65>>
Ira Hagen stepped off the aircraft and entered the terminal of Jose Marti Airport. He had prepared himself for a hassle with the immigration officials, but they simply glanced at his diplomatic passport and passed him through with a minimum of formality. As he walked to the baggage claim, a man in a seersucker suit hailed him.
"Mr. Hagen?"
"I'm Hagen."
"Tom Clark, chief of the Special Interests Section. I was alerted to your arrival by Douglas Oates himself"
Hagen measured Clark. The diplomat was an athletic thirty-five or so, with a tan face, Errol Flynn moustache, thinning red hair neatly combed forward to hide the spreading bare front, blue eyes, and a nose that had been broken more than once. He pumped Hagen's hand heartily a good seven times.
"I don't suppose you greet many Americans down here," said Hagen.
"Very few since President Reagan placed the island off limits to tourists and businessmen."
"I assume you've been apprised of the reason for my visit."
"Better we wait and discuss it in the car," said Clark, nodding toward an unobtrusive fat woman sitting nearby with a small suitcase on her lap.
Hagen didn't need a blueprint to recognize a stakeout with a disguised receiver that recorded their every word.
After close to an hour, Hagen's suitcase was finally cleared and they made for Clark's car, a Lincoln sedan with a driver. A light rain was falling, but Clark was prepared with an umbrella. The driver placed the suitcase in the trunk and they set off toward the Swiss Embassy, where the U.S. Special Interests Section was housed.
Hagen had honeymooned in Cuba several years before the revolution and he found that Havana looked much the same as he remembered it. The pastel colors of the stucco buildings gracing the palm-lined avenues seemed faded but little changed. It was a nostalgic trip. The streets were teeming with 1950s automobiles, makes that stirred old memories-- Kaisers, Studebakers, Packards, Hudsons, and even one or two Edsels. They mingled with the newer Fiats from Italy and Ladas from Russia.
The city thrived, but not with the pa
ssions of the Batista years. The beggars, prostitutes, and slums were gone, replaced with an austere shabbiness that was the hallmark of Communist countries. Marxism was a wart on the rectum of mankind, Hagen decided.
He turned to Clark. "How long have you been in the diplomatic service?"
"Never," Clark answered. "I'm with the company."
"CIA."
Clark nodded. "If you prefer."
"That line about Douglas Oates?"
"For the benefit of the airport eavesdropper. I was informed of your mission by Martin Brogan."
"Where do you stand on finding and disarming the device?"
Clark smiled darkly. "You can call it a bomb. No doubt a low-yield bomb, but having enough punch to level half of Havana and start a firestorm that will incinerate every flimsy house and but in the suburbs.
And no, we haven't found it. We've got an undercover team of twenty men probing the dock areas and the three ships in question. Nothing has turned up. They might as well be looking for a shoe in a swamp.
The celebration ceremonies and parade are less than eighteen hours away. It would take an army of two thousand searchers to find the bomb in time. And to make matters worse, our tiny force is handicapped by having to work around Cuban and Russian security measures. As things look, I'd have to say the detonation is inevitable."
"If I can get through to Castro and give him the President's warning--"
"Castro won't talk to anybody," said Clark. "Our most trusted officials in the Cuban government-- we own five who hold top-level positions-- can't make contact. I hate to say it, but your job is more hopeless than mine."
"Are you going to evacuate your people?"
There was a look of deep sadness in Clark's eyes. "No. We're all going to stay on this thing to the end."
Hagen was silent as the driver turned off the Malecon and through the entrance of what had once been the United States Embassy but was now officially occupied by the Swiss. Two guards in Swiss Army uniforms swung open the high iron gate.
Suddenly, with no warning, a taxicab whipped directly behind the limousine and followed it through the gate before the startled guards could react and push it closed. The cab was still rolling when a woman in a militia uniform and a man clad in rags jumped out. The guards quickly recovered and came running over as the stranger confronted them, crouching in a part-boxing, part judo stance. They stopped, fumbling for their holstered automatic pistols. The delay was enough for the woman to yank open a rear door to the Lincoln and climb in.
"Are you American or Swiss?" she demanded.
"American," replied Clark, as stunned by the disgusting aroma that hung on her as by her abrupt appearance. "What do you want?"
Her answer was entirely unexpected. She began to laugh hysterically. "American or Swiss. My God, I sound like I'm asking for cheese."
The chauffeur finally woke up to the intrusion, leaped from the car, and grabbed her around the waist.
"Wait!" ordered Hagen, seeing that the woman's face was badly bruised. "What's going on?"
"I'm an American," she blurted after gaining a measure of control. "My name is Jessie LeBaron. Please help me."
"Good lord," Hagen muttered. "You're not Raymond LeBaron's wife?"
"Yes. Yes, I am." She motioned wildly at the struggle that was erupting in the driveway of the embassy. "Stop them. He's Dirk Pitt, special projects director for NUMA."
"I'll handle it," said Clark. By the time he was able to intercede, Pitt had flattened one guard and was wrestling with the other. The Cuban cab driver danced about wildly waving his arms and shouting for his fare. Several plainclothes policemen also added to the confusion by appearing from nowhere on the street side of the closed gate and demanding that Pitt and Jessie be turned over to them. Clark ignored the police, stopped the fight, and paid off the driver. Then he led Pitt over to the Lincoln.
"Where in hell did you come from?" Hagen asked. "The President thought you were either dead or arrested=
"Not now!" Clark interrupted. "We'd better get out of sight before the police forget the sanctity of the embassy and turn ugly."
He quickly hustled everyone inside and through a corridor to the American section of the building. Pitt was shown to a spare room where he could take a shower and shave. One of the staff who was about his size lent him some casual clothes. Jessie's uniform was burned in the trash, and she thankfully bathed off the stench of the manure. A Swiss Embassy doctor gave her a thorough examination and treated her cuts and bruises. He arranged for a hearty meal and ordered her to rest for a few hours before being interviewed by Special Interests Section officials.
Pitt was escorted to a small conference room. As he entered, Hagen and Clark rose and formally introduced themselves. They offered him a chair and everyone got comfortable around a heavy-legged table hand-carved from pine.
"We haven't time for lengthy explanations," said Clark without preamble. "Two days ago, my superiors at Langley briefed me about your planned covert raid on Cayo Santa Maria. They confided in me so I would be prepared if it failed and there was fallout here in Havana. I was not told of its success until Mr.
Hagen--"
"Ira," Hagen cut in.
"Until Ira just now showed me a top-secret document taken from the island installation. He also has a directive from Martin Brogan and the President asking me to be on the lookout for you and Mrs.
LeBaron. I was ordered to notify them immediately in the event you were caught and arrested."
"Or executed," Pitt added.
"That too," acknowledged Clark.
"Then you also know why Jessie and I cut out and came to Cuba."
"Yes. She carries an urgent message from the President to Castro."
Pitt relaxed and slouched in his chair. "Fine. My part in the affair is finished. I'd appreciate it if you could arrange to fly me back to Washington after I've had a few days to take care of some personal business."
Clark and Hagen exchanged stares, but neither could look Pitt square in the eyes.
"Sorry to screw up your plans," said Clark. "But we have a crisis on our hands, and your experience with ships might prove helpful."
"I'd be no good to you. I'm washed out."
"Can we take a few minutes and tell you what we're dealing with here?"
"I'm willing to listen."
Clark nodded, satisfied. "Okay, Ira has come direct from the President. He's better qualified to explain the situation than I am." He turned to Hagen. "You've got the floor."
Hagen took off his coat, removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket, and wiped his perspiring forehead. "The situation is this, Dirk. Do you mind if I call you Dirk?"
"It's my name."
Hagen was an expert judge of men, and he liked what he saw. This guy didn't seem the type who could be conned. There was also a look about him that suggested trust. Hagen laid the cards on the table and spelled out the Russian plot to murder the Castros and assume control of Cuba. He waded through the details in concise terms, explaining how the nuclear explosive was smuggled into the harbor and the projected time of its detonation.
When Hagen finished, Clark outlined the operation to find the bomb. There was no time to bring in a highly trained nuclear-device search team, nor would the Cubans allow them to step foot in the city. He had only twenty men with the most primitive radiation-detection equipment. He had the horrifying responsibility of leading the search, and it didn't require much imagination for him to get across the futility of his substandard efforts. Finally he paused.
"Do you follow me, Dirk?"
"Yes. . ." Pitt said slowly. "I follow. Thank you."
"Any questions?"
"Several, but one is uppermost in my mind. What happens to all of us if this thing isn't found and disarmed?"
"I think you know the answer," said Clark.
"Okay, but I want to hear it from you."
Clark's face took on the look of a mourner at a funeral. "We all die," he said simply.
"Wil
l you help us?" asked Hagen.
Pitt looked at Clark. "How much time is left?"
"Roughly sixteen hours."
Pitt rose from his chair and began pacing the floor, his instincts beginning to sift through the maze of information. After a minute of silence as Hagen and Clark watched him expectantly, he suddenly leaned across the table and said, "I need a map of the dock area."
One of Clark's staff quickly produced one.
Pitt smoothed it out on the table and peered at it. "You say you can't alert the Cubans?" he asked as he studied the docking facilities of the bay.
"No," Hagen replied. "Their government is riddled with Soviet agents. If we were to warn them, they'd ignore it and squelch our search operation."
"What about Castro?"
Penetrating his security and warning him is my job," said Hagen.
"And the United States receives the blame."
"Soviet disinformation will see to that."
"May I have a pencil, please?"
Clark obliged and sat back quietly while Pitt made a circle on the map.
"My guess is the ship with the bomb is docked in the Antares Inlet."
Clark's eyebrows raised. "How could you know that?"
"The obvious place for an explosion to cause the most damage. The inlet cuts almost into the heart of the city."
"Good thinking," said Clark. "Two of the suspected ships are docked there. The other is across the bay."
"Give me a rundown on the vessels?"
Clark examined the page of the document pertaining to the ship arrivals. "Two belong to the Soviet Union merchant fleet. The third sails under Panamanian registry and is owned by a corporation run by Cuban anti-Castro exiles."
Cyclops Page 41
