Cyclops (Dirk Pitt 8)

"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."

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.