"Who the devil are you?"
"My name is Ira Hagen, and I bear a most important message from the President of the United States." Hagen paused and nodded at his driver, who doffed her cap, allowing a mass of hair to fall to her shoulders. "May I present Mrs. Jessie LeBaron. She's endured great hardship to deliver a personal reply from the President to your brother regarding his proposed U.S.-Cuban friendship pact."
For a moment the silence in the room was so total that Hagen became conscious of the ticking of an elaborate grandfather clock standing against the far wall. Raul's dark eyes darted from Hagen to Jessie and held.
"Jessie LeBaron is dead," he said in quiet astonishment.
"I survived the crash of the blimp and torture by General Peter Velikov." Her voice was calm and commanding. "We carry documented evidence that he intends to assassinate you and Fidel tomorrow morning during the Education Day celebration."
The directness of the statement, the tone of authority behind it, made an impression on Raul.
He hesitated thoughtfully. Then he nodded. "I'll wake Fidel and ask him to listen to what you have to say."
Velikov watched as a file cabinet from his office was jostled onto a handcart and taken by elevator down to the fireproof basement of the Soviet Embassy. His second-ranking KGB officer entered the disarranged room, brushed some papers from a chair, and sat down.
"Seems a shame to burn all of this," he said tiredly.
"A new and finer building will rise from the ashes," said Velikov with a cunning smile. "Gift of a grateful Cuban government."
The phone buzzed and Velikov quickly answered. "What is it?"
The voice of his secretary replied. "Major Borchev wishes to talk to you."
"Put him on."
"General?"
"Yes, Borchev, what's your problem?"
"The captain in command of waterfront security has left his post along with his men and returned to their base outside the city."
"They left the ships unguarded?"
"Well. . . not exactly."
"Did they or did they not desert their post?"
"He claims he was relieved by a guard force under the command of a Colonel Ernesto Perez."
"I issued no such order."
"I'm aware of that, General. Because if you had, it would have most certainly come to my attention."
"Who is this Perez and what military unit is he assigned to?"
"My staff has checked Cuban military files. They find no record of him."
"I personally sent Colonel Mikoyan to inspect security measures around the ships. Make contact and ask him what in hell is happening down there."
"I've tried to raise him for the past half hour," said Borchev. "He doesn't respond."
Another line buzzed, and Velikov placed Borchev on hold.
"What is it?" he snapped.
"Juan Fernandez. General, I thought you should know that Colonel General Kolchak just arrived for a meeting with Raul Castro."
"Not possible."
"I checked him through the gate myself"
This new development added fuel to Velikov's confusion. A stunned look gripped his face and he expelled his breath in an audible hiss. He had only four hours' sleep in the last thirty-six and his mind was becoming woolly.
"You there, General?" asked Ferndandez anxiously at the silence.
"Yes, yes. Listen to me, Fernandez. Go to the lodge and find out what Castro and Kolchak are doing. Listen in to their conversation and report back to me in two hours."
He didn't wait for an acknowledgment, but punched into Borchev's line. "Major Borchev, form a detachment and go to the dock area. Lead it yourself. Check out this Perez and his relief force and report back to me as soon as you find out anything."
Then Velikov buzzed his secretary. "Get me Colonel General Kolchak's headquarters."
His deputy straightened in the chair and stared at him curiously. He had never seen Velikov in a state of nervousness before.
"Something wrong?"
"I don't know yet," Velikov muttered.
The familiar voice of Colonel General Kolchak suddenly burst from the other end of the phone line. "Velikov, how are things progressing with the GRU and KGB?"
Velikov stood stunned for several moments before recovering. "Where are you?"
"Where am I?" Kolchak repeated. "Trying to clear classified documents and equipment from my headquarters, the same as you. Where did you think I was?"
"I just received a report you were meeting with Raul Castro at the hunting lodge."
"Sorry, I haven't mastered being in two places at the same time," said Kolchak imperturbably. "Sounds to me your intelligence agents are starting to see ghosts."
"Most strange. The report came from a usually reliable source."
"Is Rum and Cola in any danger?"
"No, it is continuing as planned."
"Good. Then I take it the operation is running smoothly."
"Yes," Velikov lied with a fear tainted by uncertainty, "everything is under control."
<<70>>
The tugboat was called the Pisto after a Spanish dish of stewed red peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes. The name was appropriate, as her sides were streaked red with rust and her brass coated with verdigris. Yet, despite the neglect to her outer structure, the big 3,000-horsepower diesel engine that throbbed in her bowels was as bright and glossy as a polished bronze sculpture.
Hands gripping the big teakwood wheel, Jack stared through the moisture-streaked windows at the gigantic mass looming up in the blackness. She was as cold and dark as the other two carriers of death tied to the docks. No navigation lights indicated her presence in the bay, only the patrol boat that circled her 1,100-foot length and 160-foot beam served as a warning for other craft to stay clear.
Jack eased the Pisto abreast of the Ozero Baykai and cautiously edged toward the aft anchor chain. The patrol boat quickly spotted them and came alongside. Three men rushed from the bridge and manned a rapid-fire gun on the bow. Jack rang the engine room for All Stop, an act that was strictly for show as the tug's bow wave was already dying away to a ripple.
A young lieutenant with a beard leaned out of the wheelhouse of the patrol boat and raised a bullhorn.
"This is a restricted area. You don't belong here. Move clear."
Jack cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "I've lost all power to my generators and my diesel just died on me. Can you give me a tow?"
The lieutenant shook his head in exasperation. "This is a military boat. We do not give tows."
"Can I come aboard and use your radio to call my boss? He'll send another tug to tow us clear."
"What's wrong with your emergency battery power?"
"Worn out." Jack made a gesture of helplessness. "No parts for repair. I'm on the waiting list. You know how it is."
The boats were so close now they were almost touching. The lieutenant laid aside the bullhorn and replied in a rasping voice, "I cannot allow that."
"Then I'll have to anchor right here until morning," Jack replied nastily.
The lieutenant angrily threw up his hands in defeat. "Come aboard and make your call."
Jack dropped down a ladder to the deck and jumped across the four-foot gap between the boats. He looked around him with a slow, salty indifference, carefully noting the relaxed attitude of the three-man gun crew, the mate standing by the helm casually lighting a cigar, the tired look on the lieutenant's face. The only man who was missing, he knew, was the engineer below.