"Same to you, Martin."
The President hung up. His cigar had gone out. He refit it, then picked up the phone again and placed a call to Ira Hagen.
The guard was young, no more than sixteen, eager and dedicated to Fidel Castro and committed to revolutionary vigilance. He glowed with self-importance and official arrogance as he swaggered to the car window, rifle slung tightly over one shoulder, and demanded to see identification papers.
"It had to happen," Pitt muttered under his breath.
The guards at the first three checkpoints had lazily waved Figueroa through when he flashed his taxi driver's permit. They were campesinos who chose the routine of a military career over a dead-end life of working in the fields or factories. And like soldiers in every army of the world, they found sentry duty tedious, eventually losing all suspicions except when their superiors arrived for an inspection.
Figueroa handed the youngster his permit.
"This only covers the Havana city borders. What are you doing in the country?"
"My brother-in-law died," Figueroa said patiently. "I went to his funeral."
The guard bent down and looked through the driver's open window. "Who are these others?"
"Are you blind?" Figueroa snapped. "They're military like you."
"We have orders to be on the watch for a man wearing a stolen militia uniform. He is suspected of being an imperialist spy who landed on a beach one hundred miles east of here."
"Because she is wearing a militia uniform," said Figueroa, pointing to Jessie in the backseat, "you think the Yankee imperialists are sending women to invade us?"
"I want to see their identification papers," the guard persisted.
Jessie rolled down the rear window and leaned out. "This is Major O'Hara of the Irish Republican Army, on assignment as an adviser. I'm Corporal Lopez, his aide. Enough of this nonsense. Pass us through."
The guard kept his eyes on Pitt. "If he's a major, why isn't he showing his rank?"
For the first time it occurred to Figueroa that there was no insignia on Pitt's uniform. He stared at Pitt, a doubtful frown spreading across his face.
Pitt sat there without taking part in the exchange. Then he slowly turned and gazed into the guard's eyes and gave him a friendly smile. When he spoke his voice was soft, but it carried total authority.
"Get this man's name and rank. I wish to have him commended for his attention to duty. General Raul Castro has often said Cuba needs men of this caliber."
Jessie translated and watched with relief as the guard stood erect and smiled.
Then Pitt's tone turned glacial, and so did his eyes. "Now tell him to stand clear or I'll arrange to have him sent as a volunteer to Afghanistan."
The young guard seemed to shrink perceptibly as Jessie repeated Pitt's words in Spanish. He stood lost, undecided what to do as a long black car pulled up and stopped behind the old cab. Pitt recognized it as a Zil, a seven-seater luxury limousine built in Russia for high-ranking government and military officials.
The Zil's driver honked his horn impatiently, and the guard seemed frozen with indecision. He turned and stared pleadingly at another guard, but his partner was occupied with traffic traveling in the other direction. The limousine's driver honked again and shouted out his side window.
"Move that car aside and let us pass!"
Then Figueroa got into the act and began yelling at the Russians. "Stupid Russo, shut up and take a bath! I can smell you from here!"
The Soviet driver pushed open his door, leaped from behind the wheel, and shoved the guard aside.
He was built like a bowling pin, huge, beefy body and small head. His rank indicated that he was a sergeant. He stared at Figueroa through eyes burning with malice.
"Idiot," he snarled. "Move this wreck."
Figueroa shook his fist in the Russian's face. "I'll go when my countryman tells me to."
"Please, please," Jessie pleaded, shaking Figueroa's shoulder "We don't want any trouble."