"Your cue to walk on the scene." He did not like being cold, but he was not sorry.
"I was already part of his life," she said without hurt. "I was one of the senior editors of the Prosperteer. Raymond and I had carried on an affair for years. We felt comfortable together. His proposal bordered on a business proposition, a staged marriage of convenience, but it soon grew into more, much more. Do you believe that?"
"I've no talent for rendering verdicts," Pitt replied quietly.
Quintana detached himself from the shadows and touched Pitt's arm. "We're moving out. I'll take the radio receiver and lead off." He moved close to Jessie and his voice softened. "Another hour and you'll be safe. Do you think you can hold on a little longer?"
"I'll be fine. Thank you for your concern."
The Dashers were dragged across the beach and set in the water. At Quintana's command everyone mounted and set off across the black water. This time Pitt brought up the rear as Quintana, headset in place, homed in on the SPUT from headings transmitted by Colonel Kleist.
They left an island of dead in their wake. The huge compound was reduced to great broken slabs of concrete that crumbled inward. The vast array of electronic equipment and the ornate furnishings smoldered like the dying core of a volcano deep beneath the sunbleached coral sand. The giant antenna lay in a thousand twisted pieces, shattered beyond any possible repair. Within hours hundreds of Russian soldiers, led by agents of the GRU, would be crawling over the ruins, searching and sifting the sands for incriminating evidence of the forces responsible for the destruction. But the only bits and pieces their probing investigation would turn up pointed directly to the cunning mind of Fidel Castro and not the CIA.
Pitt kept his eyes locked on the shaded blue light of the Dasher straight in front of him. They were going against the tide now and the tiny craft nosed into the wave troughs and bounced over the crests like a roller coaster. Jessie's added weight slowed their speed, and he kept the accelerator pressed against its stop to keep from falling behind.
They had only traveled about a mile when Pitt felt one of Jessie's hands loosen from his waist.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
His answer was the feel of a cold gun muzzle against his chest just beneath the armpit. He dipped his head very slowly and looked down under his arm. There was indeed the black outline of an automatic pistol pressed into his rib cage, a 9-millimeter Makarov, and the hand that held it was rock steady.
"If I'm not being too forward," he said in genuine surprise, "may I ask what's on your mind?"
"A change in plan," she replied, her voice low and tense. "Our job is only half done."
Kleist paced the deck of the SPUT as Quintana's team of raiders were lifted on board and the Dashers quickly stowed through a large hatch and down a ramp to the cavernous cargo bay. Quintana circled the ship, riding herd until there was no one left in the water. Only then did he climb onto the low deck.
"How did it go?" Kleist asked anxiously.
"As they say on Broadway, a smash hit. The destruction was complete. You can tell Langley the GRU is off the air."
"Nice work," said Kleist. "You'll receive a fat bonus and long vacation. Courtesy of Martin Brogan."
"Pitt deserves a major share of the credit. He led us straight into the parlor before the Russians woke up. He also went on the radio and warned off the space shuttle."
"Unfortunately, there are no brass bands for part-time help," said Kleist vaguely. Then he asked, "And what of General Velikov?"
"Presumed dead and buried in the rubble."
"Any casualties?"
"I lost two men." He paused. "We also lost Raymond LeBaron."
"The President won't be happy when he hears that news."
"More of an accident really. He made a very brave but foolhardy attempt to save Pitt's life and was shot for his effort."
"So the old bastard went out a hero." Kleist stepped to the edge of the deck and peered into the darkness. "And what of Pitt?"
"A slight wound, nothing serious."
"And Mrs. LeBaron?"
"A few days' rest and some cosmetics to cover the bruises, and she'll look as good as new"
Kleist turned briskly. "When did you see them last?"
"When we left the beach. Pitt was carrying her on his Dasher. I kept the speed low so they could keep up."
Quintana couldn't see it, but Kleist's eyes turned fearful, fearful with the sudden realization that something was terribly amiss. "Pitt and Mrs. LeBaron have not come on board."
"They must have," Quintana said uneasily. "I'm the last one in."
"Neither has been accounted for," said Kleist. "They're still out there somewhere. And since Pitt didn't carry the radio receiver on the return trip, we can't guide them home."
Quintana put a hand to his forehead. "My fault. I was responsible."
"Maybe, maybe not. If something went wrong, if his Dasher broke down, Pitt would have called out, and you would have surely heard him."
"We might pick them up on radar," Quintana offered hopefully.
Kleist doubled his fists and rapped them together. "We'd better hurry. It's suicide to drift around here much longer."
He and Quintana hurried down the ramp to the control room. The radar operator was sitting in front of a blank scope. He looked up as the two officers flanked his sides, their faces strained.
"Raise the antenna," ordered Kleist.
"We'll be targeted by every radar unit on the Cuban coast," the operator protested.
"Raise it!" Kleist demanded sharply.
Topside, a section of the deck parted and a directional antenna unfolded and rose on the top of a mast that telescoped nearly fifty feet into the sky. Below, six pairs of eyes watched as the screen glowed into life.
"What are we looking for?" asked the operator.
"Two of our people are missing," answered Quintana.
"They're too small to show on the screen."
"What about computer enhancement?"
"We can try"
"Go for it."
After half a minute, the operator shook his head. "Nothing within two miles."
"Increase the range to five."
"Still nothing."
"Go to ten."
The operator ignored the radar screen and stared intently at the enhanced computer display. "Okay, I have a tiny object that's a possible. Nine miles southwest, bearing two-two-two degrees."
"They must be lost," muttered Kleist.
The radar operator shook his head. "Not unless they're blind or plain stupid. The skies are clear as crystal. Any tenderfoot Boy Scout knows where the North Star lies."
Quintana and Kleist straightened and stared at each other in mute astonishment, unable to fully comprehend what they knew to be true. Kleist was the first to ask the inescapable question.
"Why?" he asked dumbly. "Why would they deliberately go to Cuba?"
<5>THE AMY BIGALOW
November 6, 1989
North Coast of Cuba
<<60>>
Pitt and Jessie evaded a prowling Cuban patrol boat and were within a thousand yards of the Cuban shoreline when the battery on the Dasher died. He pulled the drain plugs, and they swam away as the little sport craft slipped under the sea and sank to the bottom. His combat boots were a tight fit and allowed little water to seep inside, so he left them on, well aware they would be essential once he stepped on shore.