Jessie's jaw dropped and she stared at Pitt with a classic expression of distaste. He knew that in her mind she was calling him a cocky bastard.
"Your bad luck is my good luck," said Figueroa, happy at the prospect of picking up a few extra pesos.
Figueroa spun gravel on the shoulder as he quickly moved onto the asphalt, shifting through the gears until the Chevy was spinning along at a respectable seventy miles an hour. The engine sounded smooth, but the body rattled in a dozen places and the exhaust fumes leaked through the rusted floorboards.
Pitt stared at Jessie's face in the rearview mirror. She seemed uncomfortable and out of her element. A limousine was more to her liking. Pitt positively enjoyed himself. For the moment, his love of old cars overcame any thoughts of danger.
"How many miles do you have on her?" he asked.
"Over six hundred and eighty thousand kilometers," Figueroa answered.
"She's still got good power."
"If the Yankees ever dropped their trade embargo, I might be able to buy new parts and keep her going. But she can't last forever."
"Do you have any trouble at the checkpoints?"
"I'm always waved on through."
"You must have influence. What do you do in Havana?"
Figueroa laughed. "I'm a cabdriver."
Pitt did not try to suppress a smile. This was even better than he had hoped. He sat back and relaxed, enjoying the scenery like a tourist. He tried to apply his mind to LeBaron's cryptic direction to the treasure of La Dorada, but his thinking was clouded with remorse.
He knew that at some time, somewhere along the road he might have to take what little money Figueroa carried and steal his cab. Pitt hoped he would not have to kill the friendly little man in the bargain.
<<63>>
The President returned to the White House from the Kennedy Space Center late in the evening and went directly to the Oval Office. After secretly meeting with Steinmetz and the moon colonists and hearing the enthusiastic reports of their explorations, he felt exhilarated. Sleep was forgotten as he walked into his office alone, inspired to plan a new range of space goals.
He sat down behind the big desk and opened a lower drawer. He lifted out a walnut humidor and removed a large cigar. He peeled off the cellophane, stared a moment at the dark brown, tightly wrapped leafy cover, and inhaled the heady aroma. It was a Montecristo, the finest cigar Cuba made, and banned from American import by the trade embargo on Cuban goods.
The President relied on an old trusted school pal to smuggle him a box every two months from Canada. Even his wife and closest aides were unaware of his cache. He clipped one end and exactingly lit the other, wondering as he always did what kind of uproar the public would raise if they discovered his clandestine and slightly illegal indulgence.
Tonight he did not give a damn. He was riding high. The economy was holding, and Congress had finally got around to passing tough budget cuts and a flat-tax law. The international scene had entered a cooling-off period, however temporary, and his popularity polls showed him up five percentage points. And now he was about to make a political profit on his predecessors' foresight, just as Nixon did after the success of the Apollo program. The stunning success of the moon colony would be the high-water mark of his administration.
His next goal was to enhance his image on Latin American affairs. Castro had cracked open the door with his offer of a treaty. Now, if the President could slip his foot over the threshold before it slammed shut again, he might have a fighting chance to neutralize Marxist influence in the Americas.
The prospects appeared gloomy at the moment. It was most likely that Pitt and Jessie LeBaron had been either shot or arrested. If they had not, then it was only a matter of hours before the inevitable happened. The only course of action was to slip someone else into Cuba to make contact with Castro.
His intercom buzzed. "Yes?"
"Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. President," said a White House operator, "but Mr. Brogan is calling and he says it is urgent he speak with you."
"It's quite all right. Please put him on."
There was a slight click and Martin Brogan said, "Did I catch you in bed?"
"No, I'm still up. What's on your mind that couldn't wait until tomorrow's briefing?"
"I'm still at Andrews Field. My deputy was waiting for me with a translated document that was taken from Cayo Santa Maria. It contains some pretty hot material."
"Can you fill me in?"
"The Russians are going to knock off Castro the day after tomorrow.
The operation is code-named `Rum and Cola.' It details the complete takeover of the Cuban government by Soviet agents."
The President watched the blue smoke from the Havana cigar curl toward the ceiling. "They're making their move sooner than we figured," he said thoughtfully. "How do they intend to eliminate Castro?"
"The wild part of the plan," said Brogan. "The GRU arm of the KGB intends to blitz the city along with him."
"Havana?"
"A damned good chunk of it."
"Jesus Christ, you're talking a nuclear bomb."
"I've got to be honest and say the document does not state the exact means, but it's quite clear that some kind of explosive device is being smuggled into the harbor by ship that can level four square miles."
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."