"I had to leave two men behind, buried where they'll never be found. But there are still more going out than came in. Some of you will have to double up on the water Dashers. Dirk, you carry Mrs. LeBaron.
Mr. Gunn can ride with me. Sergeant Lopez can--"
"The sergeant can ride alone," Pitt interrupted.
"Alone?"
"We left a man behind too," said Pitt.
Quintana quickly swept the narrow beam at the others. "Raymond LaBaron?"
"He won't be coming."
Quintana gave a slight shrug, bowed his head at Jessie, and said simply, "I'm sorry" Then he turned away and began assembling his men for the trip back to the mother ship.
Pitt held Jessie close to him and spoke gently. "He asked you to take care of his first wife, Hilda, who still lives."
He couldn't see the surprise on her face, but he could feel her body tense.
"How did you know?" she asked incredulously.
"I met and talked with her a few days ago."
She seemed to accept that and did not ask him how he came to be at the rest home. "Raymond and I went through the ceremony and played out our roles as man and wife, but he could never completely give up or divorce Hilda."
"A man who loved two women."
"In different, special ways. A tiger in business, a lamb on the home front, Raymond was lost when Hilda's mind and body began to deteriorate. He desperately needed a woman to lean on. He used his influence to fake her death and place her in a rest home under a former married name."
"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."
"The
y 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?"
THE AMY BIGALOW
November 6, 1989
North Coast of Cuba
>
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.
The water felt comfortably warm and the waves remained low. An early morning quarter-moon slipped over the horizon two hours ahead of the sun. With the added light Pitt could easily keep Jessie in view. She coughed as if she had taken in some water but appeared to be treading without effort.
"How's your backstroke?" he asked.
"Good." She sputtered and spit for a moment and said, "I took third in an all-state high school meet."
"What state?"
"Wyoming."
"I didn't know Wyoming had a swimming pool."
"Funny man."
"The tide is running in our favor, so let's get moving before it turns."
"It'll be light soon," she said.
"All the more reason to make shore and find cover."
"What about sharks?"
"They never breakfast before six o'clock," he said impatiently. "Now come on, no more talk."
They set off with the elementary backstroke, arms thrown back, legs thrusting in a whip kick. The incoming tide pushed them along at close to a knot, and they made good time. Jessie was a strong swimmer. She matched Pitt stroke for stroke, staying right alongside him. He marveled at her endurance after all she had been through the past six days and felt pity for the aches and exhaustion he knew she was suffering. But he could not allow her to slack off now, not until they reached shore and found a small measure of safety.
She had not offered a reason for forcing him to turn for Cuba, and Pitt had not asked. He didn't have to be clairvoyant to know she had a definite purpose in mind that went beyond mere insanity. This lady had very definite ideas and the stubbornness to back them up. He could have disarmed her by capsizing the Dasher during a fast turn on the down slope of a wave, and he was also reasonably certain she wouldn't have pulled the trigger if he had refused.
But it was business as usual for Pitt. "In for a penny, in for a pound It's love that makes the world go round." Only he wasn't in love-- attracted, yes, but not swept away. Curiosity overrode any passionate urge. He could never resist sticking his foot through a door to the unknown. And then there was the lure of the La Dorada treasure. LeBaron's clue was meager, but the statue had to be somewhere in Cuba.p>
The only snag was that he could easily get killed.
Pitt stopped and dove straight down, touching bottom at what he reckoned was ten feet. He reached out and accidentally brushed one of Jessie's legs as he surfaced. She shrieked, thinking she was being attacked by something big with a triangular fin, unseeing eyes, and a mouth that only a dentist could appreciate.
"Quiet!" he rasped. "You'll alert every guard patrol for miles."
"Oh, God, it was you!" she groaned in dazed fright.
"Keep it low," he murmured close to her ear. "Sound carries over water. We'll rest awhile and watch for signs of activity."
There was no answer from her, simply a light touch of her hand on his shoulder in agreement. They treaded water for several minutes, peering into the darkness. The dim moonlight softly illuminated the coastline of Cuba, the narrow strip of white sand and the dark shadows of the growth behind. About two miles to their right they could see lights from cars passing on a road that cut close to the shore. Five miles beyond an incandescent glow revealed a small port city.
Pitt could not detect any indication of movement. He gestured forward and began swimming again, using a breaststroke this time so he could keep his eyes trained ahead. Heights and shapes, angles and contours became nebulous silhouettes as they moved closer. After fifty yards he extended his feet downward and touched sand. He stood and the water came up to his chest.
"You can stand," he said softly.
There was a momentary pause, then she whispered tiredly, "Thank heavens, my arms feel like lead."
"As soon as we reach the shallows you lie still and take it easy. I'm going to scout around."
"Please be careful."
"Not to worry," he said, breaking into a wide grin. "I'm getting the hang of it. This is the second enemy beach I've landed on tonight."
"Are you ever serious?"
"When the occasion demands. Like now, for instance. Give me the gun."
She hesitated. "I think I lost it."
"You think?"
"When we went in the water--"
"You dropped it."
"I dropped it," she repeated in innocent regret.
"You don't know what a joy it's been working with you," Pitt said in abject exasperation.
They swam the remaining distance in silence until the low surf diminished and it was only a few inches deep. He motioned for Jessie to stay put. For the next minute Pitt lay rigid and unmoving, then abruptly, without a word, he leaped to his feet, ran across the sand, and vanished into the shadows.
Jessie fought to keep from nodding off. Her whole body was going numb from exhaustion, and she gratefully became aware that the pain from the bruises caused by Foss Gly's hands were fading away.
The soothing lap of the water against her lightly clad body relaxed her like a sedative.
And then she froze, fingers digging into the wet sand, her heart catching in her throat.
One of the bushes had moved. Ten, maybe twelve yards away, a dark mass detached itself from the surrounding shadows and advanced along the beach just above the tideline.
It was not Pitt.
The pale light from the moon revealed a figure in a uniform carrying a rifle. She lay paralyzed, acutely aware of her naked helplessness. She pressed her body into the sand and slid backward slowly into deeper water, an inch at a time.
Jessie shrank in a vain attempt to make herself smaller as the beam from a flashlight suddenly speared the dark and played on the beach above the waterline. The Cuban sentry swept the light back and forth as he walked toward her, intently examining the ground. With a fearful certainty Jessie realized that he was following footprints. She felt a sudden anger at Pitt for leaving her alone, and for leaving a trail that led straight to her.
The Cuban approached within ten yards and would have seen the upper outline of her shape if he had only turned a fraction in her direction. The beam stopped its sweep and held steady, probing at the impressions left by Pitt on his dash across the beach. The guard swung to his right and crouched, aiming the flashlight into the bordering undergrowth. Then, inexplicably, he spun around to his left and the beam caught Jessie full in its glare. The light blinded her.
For a second the Cuban stood startled, then his free hand lifted the barrel of the automatic rifle that was slung over his shoulder and he pointed the muzzle directly at Jessie. Too terrified to speak, she clamped her eyes closed as if the mere act would shut out the horror and impact of the bullets.
She heard a faint thud, followed by a convulsive grunt. The bullets never came. There was only a strange silence, and then she sensed the light had gone out. She opened her eyes and stared vaguely at a pair of legs that stood ankle deep in the water, straddling her head, and through them she saw the inert body of the Cuban sentry stretched out on the sand.
Pitt le
aned down and gently hoisted Jessie to her feet. He smoothed back her dripping hair and said,
"It seems I can't turn my back for a minute without you getting into trouble."
"I thought I was dead," she said, as her heartbeat gradually slowed.
"You must have thought the same thing at least a dozen times since we left Key West."
"Fear of death takes a while to get used to."
Pitt picked up the Cuban's flashlight, hooded it in his hand, and began stripping off the uniform.
"Fortunately he's a short little rascal, about your size. Your feet will probably swim in his boots, but better too large than too small."
"Is he dead?"
"Just a small dent in the skull from a rock. He'll come around in a few hours."
She wrinkled her nose as she caught the thrown fatigue uniform. "I don't think he ever bathed."
"Launder it in the sea and put it on wet," he said briskly. "And be quick about it. This is no time to play fashionable rich bitch. The sentry at the next post will wonder why he hasn't shown up. His relief and sergeant of the guard are bound to come along pretty soon."
Five minutes later Jessie stood dripping in the uniform of a Cuban armed forces patrol guard. Pitt was right, the boots were two sizes too big. She lifted her damp hair and neatly tucked it under the cap. She turned and stared at Pitt as he emerged from the trees and bushes carrying the Cuban's rifle and a palm frond.
"What did you do with him?" she asked.
"Stashed him a ways inland under a bush." Pitt's voice betrayed a sense of urgency. He pointed at a tiny beam of light about a quarter of mile down the beach. "They're coming. No time for a volleyball game. Get a move on."
He roughly pushed her toward the trees and followed, walking backward brushing away their footprints with the palm frond. After nearly seventy yards, he dropped the frond and they hurried through the jungle growth, putting as much distance between them and the beach as possible before daylight.
They had covered five miles when the eastern sky began to brighten from black to orange. A sugarcane field rose up out of the fading darkness, and they skirted its border until it ended beside a paved two-lane highway. No headlights played on the asphalt in either direction. They walked along the shoulder, ducking into the brush whenever a car or truck approached. Pitt noticed that Jessie's steps were beginning to falter and her breathing was coming in rapid gasps. He halted, placed his handkerchief over the lens of the flashlight, and shone it in her face. He didn't require the credentials of a sports physician to see that she was done in. He put his arm around her waist and pushed on until they reached the steep sides of a small ravine.