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."